A small hand over his mouth wakes Faramir from a troubled sleep. If there was danger, it is already past, and Faramir lies still and waits.

Chill air under the blankets for a moment; then a warm, lithe little body settles against his side. An arm slides across his chest, tangling a hand in his hair, seeking comfort or giving it. There is a soft sigh against his shoulder.

Wondering, Faramir turns and wraps his arms around the hobbit, who murmurs gratefully and nestles closer.

Frodo's breathing deepens almost immediately, but it is a long time before Faramir can sleep.

The courtyard rings with the sound of men and horses; and Faramir, glimpsing a flash of white as he tallies what remains of his men, turns to see –

– sea-green eyes under a tousled mop of cinnamon hair, fixed wide and wondering on Faramir's face; bare feet tucked against the horse's flanks, and the small body between incongruously clad in Gondor's livery. Two of them were my kin, he remembers Frodo saying, and Faramir wonders what has become of the other one.

They are a fair folk, these periannath, he thinks, and it is a long time before he looks away.

Faramir wakes thinking that the land of the Halflings must be an interesting place indeed if they are all in the habit of climbing into strange beds in the middle of the night.

Pippin curls up against him and nuzzles against his neck, whispering about Boromir's valor and the long arrows of orcs until his voice shatters in keening tears that wrack his body like a fever. Small soldier of Gondor that he is, he mourns not his captain but his friend.

Faramir holds him and talks of Boromir, bravery and laughter and love, and in time they both sleep.