Obligatory Disclaimer: The characters are not mine, they belong to Tolkien, New Line and whoever else has a legal claim. I receive no money from this and get only reviews and the pleasure of the company of my fictional friends.

Summary: The author and her husband are visited by Boromir, Merry and Pippin, who try to help her choose which story to send to Marigold. I had to alter the time-line by some three years or so, so those parts are only slightly AU. This insanity is all my fault. I assure you I am on no mood altering substances; I just have a very vivid imagination and utter adoration of Tolkien's words and characters.

You've all been warned.

Assume, Confuse, Consume, Amuse

"Pipkin?"

Not expecting to hear anyone, I screech like a banshee and nearly fall over backwards in my computer chair: my legs automatically stiffen with such force I'm propelled backwards. I feel myself bump against something; I hear a deep 'Umph!' and a higher and lighter 'Och!' I turn slightly in my chair to see what has happened. There they are, looking over my shoulder.

"Oh, my Lord!" I gasp. I'm sure I can't conceal my expression of pique. On the one hand, I'm glad they're here. On the other, they can be very distracting.

"Don't look at us like that!" Pippin says. He has crossed his arms on his chest and is glaring at me like the falcon whose name is so similar to his own: a peregrine. "You know you've been thinking of us for the last two days, and you know what happens when you do that!"

"Do you protest, Pippin?" Boromir says with a smiling glance at his small companion. "If you don't want to visit we can always go back to sleep."

I watch my favorite Hobbit stare at his feet for a while. When he looks at me once more, he gives me a mischievous smile. "No, we can visit a little while, I suppose."

'Well, you irrepressible little cussed rascal, you were teasing again,' I think. However, aloud I say, returning his smile, "Thank you, Pippin, I would welcome the company." I never can stay angry with any of the three of them: Boromir, Merry and Pippin but most especially this little green-eyed imp, whose face I now closely inspect for the first time since this particular arrival. "Goodness, I only just noticed how young you look!"

"That is just because you've had your eyes only on Boromir!" Pippin gives me a slow wink, tapping the side of his nose.

"Now, now, young Hobbit," Boromir reprimands gently. "No need to be rude!"

"Rude? Rude?" You say that only because you like it when a lady looks at you!" Pippin says, then watches Boromir open and shut his mouth several times. "Don't you deny it! And Pipkin married and all!"

I can see Pippin is getting a kick out of making Boromir squirm. I don't try to stop him, though. I so seldom get to see Boromir squirm.

"And as for you, Pipkin… whatever would Beornomir say?" says my irrepressible Took.

I decide not to rise to the bait. "Why don't you just go ask him, you little rascal?"

"Well, I could," Pippin answers, "but I think I'll let you off the hook, just this once."

Hmmm... Now, why does he sound just a wee bit too nonchalant? "Pippin," I say suspiciously. "Where is Merry?"

"Oh, he's in the kitchen with Beornomir," he replies, just a little too quickly to suit me. "They're... they're in the kitchen, umm... eating! Yes, they're eating... something."

"Eating what?" I ask, keeping my demeanor carefully neutral.

"Umm… beets!" he replies. "That's what they're doing. Eating. Beets."

"Well, then, all right."

"Pipkin," Boromir says. "You obviously need our help with a story, or am I remiss?"

"No, no, you couldn't be more right," I reply. "I want to write a story for Marigold's Challenge, and I'm having trouble settling on one."

Pippin hops up and down on the balls of his furry little feet. Lord, but he was so young during the quest. "I know one!" Pippin cries, the eagerness apparent on his youthful face. "I know one, I know one!"

I can't stop myself from smiling at his enthusiasm. "Very well, then," I say. "What tale have you plucked from my imagination, Pipster?"

"Well, do you remember the time..."

The spare bedroom I use for a quiet place to write fades into the background. Suddenly we are all in Hollin. I sit back to watch this little vignette unfold.

Assume

In which we remember that humor is a rough sport: always wear a cup.

The afternoon was a golden one, the weather fair and unseasonably warm. In a while the time would come for the Nine Walkers to move on. Aragorn was restless, as though almost eager to begin the nightly march. Being a Ranger, he walked very quietly, or he might never have heard the goings-on.

"Closer, Pippin. Don't be shy, now!" This was Boromir. Aragorn knew Pippin must be with the big Man, but Boromir's back was to the Ranger, so that Aragorn couldn't actually see Pippin since the Hobbit must (obviously) be in front of the warrior. "Come on, now, lad," Boromir continued, "a little closer!"

"Are you sure this is at all proper?" Aragorn heard Pippin reply. "I mean… that is… it just does not seem very honorable."

"That which is honorable concerns me but little where you are concerned, Pippin." Boromir said. "Come on then, lad! Come closer!"

"But…"

"None of that, now, come on, come closer! You can't even touch it from that far away!"

"I am not very comfortable with this at all!" Pippin said softly. "This is just not decent behavior. Furthermore, I am surprised a Man of your position would indulge in such an act! And it is very… embarrassing!"

"Then you should make an effort to do away with such concerns, Pippin," Boromir replied patiently. There was an unbearably long stretch of silence before Boromir spoke again, this time with much less patience. "Come on then, lad! Oh, for goodness sake! It's just right here between my legs, Pippin!"

Aragorn felt blood rush to his cheeks. Not in his wildest and most worrisome imaginings would he have thought Boromir capable of such a dishonorable, disgusting and downright wrong act as this! "Boromir!" he cried out sharply. Aragorn grasped Boromir's shoulder and drew back his hand as if to strike the Captain-General. Boromir turned swiftly and gracefully, blocking the blow, a shocked expression on his face.

"What has come over you, Aragorn?" Boromir asked, his face full of confusion and even a small measure of sorrow. "Why do you wish to strike me? What could I possibly have done to provoke such an attack?"

"You deny it, then?" Aragorn hissed, "You deny what I heard with my own ears?"

"Deny? I am uncertain as to the nature of the… accusation you believe I deny."

"Do you continue to deny, then, that you were about to… that you were going to… that you intended to, um… defile this innocent young Hobbit?"

"Aragorn, I admit it is not exactly honorable, but I cannot see how I would be defiling Pippin in any way! The young one had best learn to survive in whatever way he can, even if it means behaving dishonorably! After all, he is very young and quite small. I have taught many a young soldier to survive in this way!"

"Dog!" Aragorn spat the word. "Only the lowest and most beastly Man would stoop to such a …"

"Strider!" Pippin cried out, and stepped between the two Men. "Of what do you accuse my friend? Begging your pardon, (This in a tone of voice which begged nothing of the kind.) I demand an explanation, and it had better be a good one!"

Aragorn knelt before Pippin and grasped his shoulders gently. "Pippin," Aragorn said gently, "you are very innocent and quite young. I cannot allow anyone to corrupt you so, especially above your protestations."

"I am not so young as to be stupid, and I am not as innocent as you seem to think, if you think innocent is the same thing as ignorant! If you are accusing Boromir of what I think you are accusing him of I shall have to call you out!"

"Call me out? But Pippin," protested the Ranger, "he was trying to get you to, to, to…. touch him!"

"Touch him? Just as I thought. I'll show you how he wanted me to touch him! Just like this!" Pippin stepped forward boldly; pushing aside Aragorn's hands with surprisingly swift and strong little forearms, he suddenly gave Aragorn an extremely accurate and very palpable kick to the groin. The Ranger gave a deep grunt. His hands cupped the injured area, and as he toppled, his body curled with pain, he saw for the first time the heavily padded codpiece Boromir had donned for protection.

"I am not telling that story," I say, sure that my occasional glare has now gone full-tilt into an expression of utter disapproval.

"Yes, you are," says Pippin, arms once more crossed, but with that mischievous grin accompanied by a wicked sparkle in his bright eyes.

"No, I will not!"

"Yes, you will!"

"No, I won't! I refuse!"

I glance at Boromir, hoping he'll take my side, but he has doubled over with laughter.

"Stop that, you're only encouraging him!" I scold.

"I beg your pardon," he replies dryly, "But he did not get that story from my imagination!"

I struggle for a snappy retort. I have none. I feel my shoulders slump. He does have a point, after all.

"By the way," Boromir continues, "where do you get your ideas from?"

"Why are you asking a fool like me a question like that for?" I shoot back.

"Because, as you people say, I can," he replies, "and mind your grammar. You are supposed to be a writer."

"All right, all right! What are you, the grammar police?" I say sulkily, adding, "You always were a smart-ass."

"You are most welcome," he retorts with a wicked grin.

"Do you enjoy tormenting me like this?"

"Aye," Pippin says. "He does! He told me so."

"Well, then, Mister Gondor-Needs-No-King," I say. "Why don't you tell me your idea for a story? Because I am not going to tell that other one."

"Too late, you already did," Boromir grins. He has yet another point. But he also has another tale…

Confuse

In which we are reminded that a treasure by any name is still a treasure.

When one kicks another in a most (ahem) tender place, one may have to pay a price. Said price had been set by Gandalf, who was not at all amused that Pippin had kicked Aragorn there of all places, nor was he pleased with Boromir's amusement with (and defense of) Pippin's rash behavior. The pair would take watch on this day, leaving the remaining seven of the Nine Walkers free to rest until such time as they must move on once more.

When one must attend a tedious task such as watch, the time passes more pleasantly if one has something to think about besides how much one would rather be sleeping. Or eating. Or doing any number of other things. Boromir was quite used to the discipline required in such matters, but Pippin, he knew, would not be so used to such things.

For one thing, Pippin was young for a Hobbit. After all, he was only what was the word they used? Ah, yes… a 'tween. For another, he was very inquisitive and easily distracted. If the behavior of the others of his kind was any indication, Pippin was perhaps not quite a typical Hobbit. In most respects, he was much like the other Hobbits, given to laughter and song, food and drink, family and home, and of course… stories. Listening to the small talk between the four Hobbits, Boromir had learned that the clan from which Pippin sprang was known to produce Hobbits that were somewhat… what would be the best way to describe it? Un-hobbit… ish? Was there even such a word? Perhaps not, nevertheless it would have to do. At any rate, Pippin was a typical enough Hobbit that Boromir was learning a good deal about the Little People, and one thing he knew for certain: Hobbits love stories, hearing them as well as telling them.

With this in mind, Boromir decided to draw Pippin into telling a story. The young Took could, after all, speak for almost unbearable spans of time without drawing a breath even once. Given the opportunity, Pippin would talk about his family and the history of the Tooks at great length and breadth. Thus armed, Boromir broached the subject.

"Tell me, Pippin," Boromir began, "about your name, if you would be so kind; I was wondering if 'Peregrin' might be an old family name. I am Boromir II, you know. The first Boromir was stabbed by a Morgul blade, just as Frodo was. He lived but a dozen years after, drawn with great pain and aged beyond the reckoning of his years. Only let me not digress… has another of your family ever been graced with such a lyrical name?"

Boromir noted with satisfaction that Pippin's eyes glittered like green jewels as he latched onto the opportunity to speak on family history. "You are very kind to take an interest in my family, Boromir. From one such as yourself, I am quite honored, I'm sure. But to answer your question, no: I am the only Peregrin I know of, and not only in my own clan, but in all of Hobbitry." Pippin paused, then with a small smile and a sideways glance he continued, "I used to find my name a bit silly to tell the truth, given the meaning of the word peregrin. Some few Tooks have been known to run off and have adventures, after all. But I might have been quite content to have stayed in the Shire my entire life, were it not that Frodo was going to leave and quite obviously needed us to stick with him."

"For my part," said Boromir, "I'm very glad you did. Loyalty is a virtue, one I greatly admire. And I am glad Merry and you came along. I have grown fond of the company of you and your cousin, so for my sake if no other, I am glad the pair of you were chosen to become a part of the Nine Walkers." At this the 'tween smiled brightly.

"How very nice of you to say so, though I do feel sometimes more like baggage than an actual member of the Fellowship." Pippin's eyes flicked in the direction of Merry's bedroll. "Merry feels that way, too. After all, everyone else seems to have a purpose, while Merry and I feel rather like we just fill out the Fellowship so that it numbers nine members and not seven."

"I am sure you both are more important than that," Boromir said. "I do not think Gandalf would have insisted on including Merry and you without reason. But we have strayed from my question! I wanted to know about your name. Among my people, names have meaning, and I would like to know if your own name has a meaning."

"It means," said a voice off to the right of the two on watch, "'nattering fool of a Took'!" Merry, a blanket wrapped about his shoulders, plopped down on the other side of Boromir, so that he had a Hobbit on either side of him, like bookends. "I'm a bit restless tonight, and I thought I would keep you company, Boromir. I thought you might appreciate a little intelligent conversation."

"In which case," Pippin countered, "you should just go back to bed, since you have none to offer."

"You are most welcome to keep us company, Merry," said Boromir. "I was only just about to learn the meaning of Pippin's name."

"Well, you might be better off learning more about Brandybucks," said Merry, "but do carry on."

"Very well," said Pippin, ready once more to elaborate. "My name is spelled differently than that of the falcon. That has an e on the end of it, whereas my name, Peregrin, does not. My name means traveler in strange countries. That is what I meant when I said I used to think it a silly name. I never dreamed it might foretell my leaving the Shire." Here Pippin sighed.

A sigh on Boromir's other side told him everything he needed to know in regards to what the pair of Hobbits were thinking just now: they were homesick. Without warning, the memory of his parting with Faramir came to him, and he found to his amusement that a sigh of his own now echoed that of his companions. A glance to his left and right showed him the pair now regarded him with sympathetic eyes.

"Home!" Boromir said, "Few things under the sun are more dear, I suppose." The three of them sighed once more, this time as one.

"Aye," said a voice behind them. "That's right enough, Mr. Boromir, sir, if you'll pardon my interuptin' you."

"Sam! Frodo!" Boromir couldn't help but chuckle. It seemed that this day it was his lot to keep company with all the Hobbits. "I take it there's no rest for the two of you, either. Join us, then, and welcome!"

"I take it the discussion concerns our homes, and how we all should like to be there?" Frodo settled in beside Sam, the pair of them facing Boromir, Merry and Pippin. The pair leaned back on a rather large log as if they were settling themselves in comfy chairs before a homey hearth.

"Actually, we were talking about names, and their meanings," Pippin corrected. "Boromir was saying how in Gondor, names have meanings. There was another Boromir, did you know? A splendid name, by the way. What does it mean?"

"That would depend on how one translates it," Boromir replied. "Our language is Númenórean, but since time beyond my reckoning, our tongue has changed not a little. Moreover many of our words are more or less a kind of Elvish, or at least have felt the influence of that language, and so there can be some confusion as to the meaning of our names. Take my brother's name, for instance."

"Are you goin' to tell us the story, Mr. Boromir?" Sam asked. "Beggin' your pardon for interuptin' and all, but a story would be right nice, and just the thing for when folks is havin' a little trouble droppin' off and all."

"I agree, Sam," Boromir said, "When we were small, we––my brother and myself, that is––we had a nurse named Ioreth. We believed she must have had a library of sorts in her wise old head. ۥTwas no more than a month ere our mother had died when she told us the tale of how my brother was named. She became a nurse in the Houses of Healing after we grew to such an age that her services were no longer required, but at this time we still needed her, most especially because our mother was gone. We used to listen to our mother tell stories at bed-time, so yes, I do agree with you Master Samwise, a story told oft brings rest to the restless. This particular story was one of my favorites. Some years before I was even born, a great soldier named Thorongil came to Minas Tirith, from whence I know not. He was a Man who apparently grew to regard me with some affection me when I was no more than a babe…

>

Ioreth and Finduilas watched as Boromir toddled around on unsteady legs. A fine, fair day like this was perfect for allowing the little one to enjoy the fresh breeze and green grass in the little courtyard just outside the Council chambers. Large, opalescent green eyes wide with wonder and red-gold curls bouncing, the little one eagerly toddled about the courtyard, filled with wonder for the wide world in the way that only the very young could enjoy.

"Have you ever known a babe his age to walk, Ioreth?" Finduilas asked, her smile plainly showing her pride in her first offspring.

"In truth, Milady, I have, but none quite so well as this little one." Ioreth beamed at the child, whose chubby legs were carrying him in pursuit of a blue and black butterfly with wings the size of a man's hand. "But never have I seen a babe as fair and sweet as this one walk at his age. Why, not for a fortnight shall he be ten months old, and already he has strength and will! Mark my words, he shall be a man to be reckoned with!"

"Indeed!" The voice was a masculine one, and Finduilas turned to see Thorongil approach. The meeting must be done with and he obviously had stepped into the courtyard to enjoy a smoke. He first bowed courteously for Finduilas, then knelt and blew an enormous smoke-ring for the baby, who squealed with delight and reached out as if to capture it with his dimpled hands. "And who is this fine young man, Lady? I do not think I have had the pleasure of making his acquaintance."

"He is our son, Boromir," Finduilas said, "and you haven't met. Now that the weather is fine, he can leave his nursery so I expect you'll be seeing more of him."

Ioreth watched the babe toddle towards Thorongil, chubby arms outstretched. Thorongil held out his hands and the baby leapt into his arms. Thorongil lifted the child, smiling broadly. "Well, young man," said Thorongil, "I'm happy to make your acquaintance! So your name is Boromir?"

"Bo-mew?" answered the little one.

"He is trying to say his name!" Thorongil said, a look of amazement on his rugged features. "Can you say your name? Say, 'Bor-o-mir'."

"Bo-mew?" replied the little one, tugging at a red-gold forelock. His brow drew down, as if in some deeply important thought. "Bo-mew. Bo-mew, Bo-mew, Bo-MEW!" The last effort said with no small force, almost argumentative.

"Yes," replied Thorongil, "your name is 'Boromir'. Can you say 'Thor-on-gil?"

"Faw-mew. Fawmew, Fawmew."

"That's good!" laughed Thorongil, "You've nearly got it! Thor-on-gil."

"Fawmew? FAW-mew!" little Boromir said, then laughed as though Thorongil had shared a humorous remark with the child.

"Yes, I suppose I am a funny fellow," Thorongil smiled, "I hope you may always find laughter so easily, Little Soldier. Lady, he is a fine little fellow, I must say. Not yet ten months old, is he? For look at how well grown the child is. He will be, I think, a big, strapping lad, and very bright, too."

Thorongil put the little one back down on his feet so the child could enjoy his playtime on the green, soft grass, and the toddler took off running, searching for another butterfly.

"Let the ladies of Minas Tirith beware," Thorongil said, "for he shall break a heart or two before he settles down. Seldom have I seen so fair a child, Lady. I'm sure he is the apple of Lord Denethor's eye."

"I fear you are all too right, good sir," Finduilas agreed. "His father is sure the sun rises to shine only on his firstborn!"

"Quite understandable." Thorongil smiled once more and bowed "Forgive me, Lady, I must take leave of you now. My men await my arrival, for we have a patrol to prepare for, and I must not keep them waiting. Farewell, Little Soldier!"

The little one watched Thorongil leave. The grin on the child's face vanished and he whimpered, a chubby arm reaching out as though to summon Thorongil back. Finduilas picked up her child to reassure him that all was well. "Fawmew!" Boromir cried, then laid his cheek on his mother's bosom.

"Don't fret, sweetheart," Finduilas said, rubbing her baby's back gently. "Mother is sure you will see him again."

Later that evening after supper, Denethor held his son in his lap and kissing the baby's dimpled cheek asked "And what did you do today, my beautiful boy?"

"Oh, he had a splendid day," Finduilas said. "He loved playing in the courtyard, and chased butterflies. Oh, and he is trying to say his name!"

"Can you say your name?" Denethor smiled. "Can you say 'Boromir'?"

"Bomew!" answered the child. Then the baby turned to his mother and said "Fawmew?"

"Why, he is trying to say his name!" Denethor grinned proudly. "But the other word he's trying to say, what is that?"

Finduilas, knowing little love was lost between Denethor and Thorongil, only replied, "I'm not certain. Perhaps only he knows."

"Well, he will tell us soon enough," Denethor said, "He is a very bright boy, is my son! I hope we have many such children, my dear."

"I'm sure we shall. Now give Father a kiss goodnight, Boromir, and Ioreth shall tuck you in."

As the months passed, Thorongil saw Boromir from time to time, and each time the little one would run to the soldier, arms outstretched, shouting, "Fawmew! Fawmew!" Thorongil always enjoyed the child's attention and always took the time to play with him a little. After a year or so the greeting changed a little. Now it was "Fawmew! Pay wif me, Fawmew!" Gradually it changed to 'Fawomew'. Denethor continued to wonder what his son could possibly be trying to say, and Finduilas continued to say nothing about it.

Then one day Thorongil met Boromir again in the little courtyard. Ioreth noticed straight away the look of thinly veiled sorrow in his eyes. Boromir wrapped his arms around the soldier's neck and planted a very wet little kiss on the rough cheek. Daylight was fading swiftly as it was now late fall and the first few stars twinkled in the sky. Thorongil reached inside his surcote, pulled out a little wooden soldier and gave it to the child. Boromir examined the toy, his face quite studious. Then with a broad grin, the child hugged the toy.

"You are in a somber mood this evening, Thorongil," Ioreth commented. "Are you troubled?"

"Alas, good Ioreth, I must soon leave Minas Tirith. The pirates have grown too bold, I fear, and we must see to this problem as soon as may be. We depart at dawn. I had hoped to bid your mistress farewell. Will she be joining her son here soon, do you think?"

"Nay, she is in her rooms, she is not feeling at all well. More pale and wan she has grown of late, nor does she have stomach for nourishment."

"Then give her my regards, and tell her I said farewell, for I fear I shall not return."

"You are a fine soldier and a good leader, sir, I am quite sure you shall return victorious."

"You misunderstand me, good Ioreth, I mean not that I fear I shall die, I mean that I shall not return. Lord Denethor has grown too weary of me, I think, and does not love me overmuch, unlike this little one." Thorongil took the wooden soldier and showed little Boromir the White Tree carefully painted on the armor. "This I carved myself, so the little one does not forget me." Thorongil pointed to a star and said to the child, "See that star, Boromir? I will think of you when I look at it, and I would like it very much if when you look at it, you would remember Thorongil."

Boromir pointed to the star. "Fawomew?"

"Yes, that's right. Do think of me when you see it." Thorongil held the child close and kissed his red-gold locks. "Thorongil will miss you, Little Soldier. Perhaps some day we shall once more meet."

Thorongil handed Boromir to Ioreth and with one last look at the child walked away. "Fawomew?" called the little one. Then he looked once more at the wooden soldier, and Ioreth examined it as the child explored the features on the wooden soldier's face with soft little fingers. Neither the nurse nor Boromir failed to notice the wooden soldier bore a strong resemblance to Thorongil. The toy soldier gripped a tiny shield, and on the shield was carved an eagle and a star. Boromir pointed to the wooden soldier. "Fawomew?"

"Yes, my boy, that is Thorongil." Ioreth said with a sad smile.

Boromir pointed to the star in the sky. "Fawomew?"

"Bright is the star of Thorongil, my dear. Almost as bright as your mind."

Months passed. Boromir didn't forget, and in the evening he would point to a star and say "Fawomew!" Sometimes, when playing with the wooden soldier he would whimper a little and say, "Fawomew. Faromew come back?" But Finduilas and Ioreth knew Thorongil wasn't going to come back. Month after month this continued. One evening as Denethor held his son Boromir pointed to a star and said sadly, "Fawomew."

"I wish I knew what he is trying to say!" Denethor laughed. "It sounds almost as if he's trying to say someone's name."

"Perhaps he is," Finduilas said.

The months stretched into years. Little by little, the memory of Thorongil faded for Boromir until finally it seemed he could no longer remember either the name or the man who had befriended him. Then when he was four years old, Boromir was told he was going to have a brother or sister very soon.

As it turned out, Boromir had a baby brother. Denethor and Finduilas discussed names at length, but couldn't decide on one. Then Denethor recalled how as a baby, Boromir had tried to say something that sounded like a name.

"The 'mew' I have figured out," he said. "Plainly, he was saying 'mir', just as he used to say it when he tried to say his own name. But the first part! I cannot for the life of me figure it out, so I will have to guess. I was thinking 'Pharazmir' would do quite well, meaning golden treasure."

"A splendid choice, my dear," Finduilas smiled. "A Golden Treasure to go with our Faithful Jewel!"

The day after, Denethor sent for a scribe to record the name of the latest addition to the Steward's line. The scribe set about his task with quill and ink while Boromir played at his feet. Denethor stood nearby. As the scribe worked, the Steward watched Boromir and looked closer at the toy that occupied Boromir. It was a wooden soldier. Denethor looked more closely. He took the little wooden soldier and looked at it carefully.

Finduilas had always kept the toy in Boromir's nursery out of Denethor's sight, for she knew Denethor would know straight away exactly whom the soldier resembled. Even without the resemblance, Denethor now knew whom the toy represented, for his son reached for the toy in his father's hand and said, "That's Fawomew." Denethor understood too well now what name his child had tried to say for so long. The look he gave Finduilas was scathing, but he said not a word. No one could have said what conclusions he may have come to, but the expression of betrayal on his face was plain to read. Perhaps he might have thought that Finduilas, like his father Ecthelion, much preferred Thorongil to himself. In a rage, he tossed the toy into the fire that burned in the fireplace. Little Boromir began to cry, his wide eyes plainly filled with hurt and confusion. The little one cried out for the last time "Fawomew!" and pointed to the burning toy. The scribe watched this scene pale with shock, and then disgust, but he swiftly schooled his face so as to not betray his emotions.

Weak from illness and her recent childbirth, Finduilas lifted her weeping son in her arms, glaring wordlessly at Denethor. Boromir sobbed, watching his beloved toy as the flames consumed it. The reproach on her face was as plain as the betrayal and rage on her husband's face. Boromir, from that moment on, became consumed by a desire to please his father and win his approval. And Finduilas never forgave her husband for the inner wound, born of jealousy and false conclusion, that he had so carelessly given her firstborn.

As for the scribe, he said nothing, but was so rattled by the scene that he recorded the name not as 'Pharazmir' but as 'Faramir'. The ink hadn't even dried on the parchment when he scurried from the chamber as quickly as he could to report the naming of the new baby to all of Gondor and the lesser kingdoms and fiefdoms. By the time the error was caught, it was too late. To re-name the child would have been publicly humiliating to Denethor. The name 'Faramir' would have to do. The scribe was subsequently flogged and demoted to cleaning the soldier's privies.

>

"…and that's how Faramir got his name." Boromir finished.

"But what does his name mean?" asked Merry.

"It means 'Adequate Jewel'," said Boromir, "but he has always been a golden treasure to me. I have taken great pains to have him understand his worth to me, though our father seems to have forgotten he started out as a golden treasure. Sadly, our father now regards Faramir as an adequate jewel only."

"That hardly seems fair," Pippin said. "What do you think of it, Frodo? Frodo? Oh, Sam and my cousin fell asleep before they found out your brother's name! How rude!"

"Try not to begrudge them a little rest, Pippin. It is you and I who are supposed to be on watch."

"Yes, and I shall now leave the two of you to your task," Merry yawned. He rose and spread a blanket over Frodo and Sam, and with a "Good night, or rather, good day, Boromir and Pippin! That was a wonderful tale, though I agree with Pippin that it's a very sad tale. Please tell us more stories, whenever you can," Merry settled down next to Frodo and leaned back against the log.

"Well, I have to admit," I say, "that's a very suitable tale. I'm sure that one will do quite well."

"Aye, I agree," says Pippin. "It is rather a good tale, though to me it's very sad for Boromir and Faramir."

"Yes, it is, Pippin," I say, giving him a pat on the shoulder. He was always tenderhearted. It was one of many aspects of his character I adored about him, right along with his cheekiness and curiosity. "Try not to feel too badly about it, though. Faramir had a very happy life later on, and he did have Boromir in his early years. And we all know he was a Man of quality, truly a golden treasure. My people have a saying for just this sort of thing, you know: 'a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet'."

"That's a very good saying, Pipkin," Pippin answers, nodding his head sagely.

"We also have another saying: 'honesty is the best policy'."

He shifts on his feet a little, turning bright red. "I'm sure I don't know what you could possibly mean by that," he says, looking like the proverbial cat that ate the canary.

Boromir started laughing again. "Let me explain it to you, Pippin," says Boromir, "as if you do not truly know what she means. The time has come for you to explain where Merry really is and what he is really doing."

Pippin hangs his head in shame. He is, after all, an honest fellow at heart. "I'm sorry, Pipkin. I just didn't want to get anyone in trouble was all." Then his Tookish nature comes to the fore and he asks me "How did you know?"

"I know, young Hobbit, because Beornomir hates beets."

"He does?"

"'Fraid so, Pipster."

Although I caught him telling me a fib, when he looks at me with those big, sad eyes, I just can't stay upset with him. I give him a peck on his curly head. "I'm not mad at you, don't worry. In fact, it's really pretty funny, when you think about it." (Here he looks at me and grins, and once more his eyes have that sparkle) "One thing, though…" I continue, "Where is Merry?"

"Well, he really is with Beornomir, only they aren't eating anything. They're looking at girls on the other computer."

"They're doing what?" He flinches, and I immediately feel guilty for not schooling my voice. "Good Lord! I'm sorry, Pippin, I didn't mean to raise my voice. Let me check this out."

I walk as quietly as I can out of the spare bedroom and sneak up behind Merry and Beornomir. "Well, well, well," I say, "would you just look at this!"

"Uh-oh," says my husband.

"Drat!" Merry exclaims. "Pippin! Did you tell her?"

"Not on purpose, Merry," I say, "He told me you and my dear husband here were eating beets. Beornomir hates beets."

Boromir and Pippin have followed me into my living room. They stand behind Beornomir and Merry. Boromir whistles.

"Pippin, would you look at the size of her…"

"Boromir!" I scold.

He glares at me balefully. "Eyes," he says. "She has enormous eyes."

I roll my own eyes. "Great! Just great!" I glare at my husband. "And you! What have you got to say for yourself, showing them stuff on the computer like that?"

"Hey," replies my husband, "they aren't children, you know, they're all adult men. Um, Man and Hobbits. People, or whatever!"

"That's hardly the point," I say, "I'm not objecting to the subject matter, I'm objecting that it's a computer! They aren't supposed to know about computers."

"Look," he says, sounding very reasonable. "It can't possibly hurt them! They're all in your imagination, Pipkin!"

I sigh. He has a point. "Oh, all right!" I concede. Boromir and the Hobbits all cheer and thump Beornomir on the back. Great. Now he's their champion and an advocate for their right to look at girls on the Internet. "Well, if all y'all are going to look at girly pictures on the Internet, I'm going to go write. So go ahead, blow your eyes out."

"Tell you what, darlin'," Beornomir says. "Why don't you run up to Jimbo's and pick up some shrimp fried rice and mushrooms? When you get back, we'll all go to the other computer and have another story while we pig out."

"Deal," I say. "Y'all go ahead and look at all the big eyes you want while I'm gone." This with a wink at Boromir, who childishly sticks out his tongue at me. "And while I'm gone, here's a little something to chew on for an appetizer: don't think for one second that females don't like to look at and think of males in the same way you look at and think of females. Because we do. Some of us like men quite a lot, in fact. Some of us even take to fancying Hobbits. Some," and here I look pointedly at Pippin, "more than others."

My favorite Hobbit claps his hands over his mouth and blushes a bright pink, all the way to his pointy little ears. He looks at Beornomir with trepidation, but Beornomir only laughs.

"Don't worry, Pippin," Beornomir says, "this isn't news to me. I really don't mind, it isn't as though she doesn't love me, you know. She's a healthy woman who happens to like a good-looking fellow to look at, that's all. It's really harmless, so don't feel uncomfortable around me." Then my darling gives me a reproachful glance at having embarrassed Pippin, followed by an amused and good-natured wink and says, "You better get going or Jimbo's will be closed before you get there. Be sure you get enough for everyone. Who wants mushrooms?"

I hear the two Hobbits shouting to be heard over each other, "I do, I do!" Before I walk out of the front door, I glance back. It's not a coincidence that Beornomir and Boromir regard me with the same warm expression on their faces. They are, after all, quite linked in my mind.

Just before I close the door behind me, I hear Pippin say, "Is Jimbo a Hobbit? I thought this place didn't have Hobbits, but Jimbo sounds very hobbit-like."

As I close the door, I can hear Beornomir attempting to explain a name like Jimbo to a Hobbit. Good luck with that! I think, shaking my head and grinning to myself.

When I get back there are lots of offers to help carry the packages in. Understanding I have myself, two large Men and two Hobbits to feed, I had ordered enough shrimp fried rice for a small army and enough mushrooms for two small armies. It isn't just the Hobbits who are crazy about them. We file into the spare bedroom for a story while we eat. Unfortunately, there's only one chair in here, so I take the chair while Beornomir and our guests use the floor for an impromptu picnic area.

"Now, let's talk stories, shall we?" I say, sprinkling soy sauce on my shrimp fried rice and passing it around. "I'd like to hear one from Merry this time."

"Can't we wait until we finish?" says Merry around a mouthful of mushroom.

"I suppose we could," I reply, "but you know as well as I do that good food goes well with a good tale."

"Since we Hobbits have always known this, you are, of course, right." Merry says, chewing thoughtfully. I suppose he was mulling over which story to choose. Which is of course very like him, as he was always a very reflective Hobbit. I'm reminded that this is one of the things I admire about him. He chews slowly, then, seemingly having decided on a tale, he swallows, dabs the corners of his mouth (being the proper Gentlehobbit he is) and begins to speak.

"While you were gone, Boromir and Pippin explained which stories they chose," he says, "so I should very much like to continue with a related story, and it goes like this…"

Consume

Men weep not, and Hobbits are never melancholy.

"Pippin, are you ill?" Merry asked. "You haven't half eaten, and you don't look as though you're resting, either."

"Oh, you worry too much, Merry," said Pippin, "I'm just not very hungry today, and I was up late last night, thinking." Pippin shrugged. He sounded far too glib to suit Merry.

"Peregrin Took, you are the worst liar in all the wide world." Merry took Pippin by the shoulders. "Now tell me, cousin, what is bothering you?"

"Merry, nothing is wrong," answered Pippin. He sounded just a little too cheerful to Merry.

"Pippin, Lothlorien may be beautiful, and it may be a place of healing, but I know you better than that. Ever since we got here, you have not been yourself. Do you miss Gandalf?" Merry watched Pippin closely for any telltale signs. Pippin tried to look him in the eye, but couldn't keep it up. The false smile fell as Pippin dropped his eyes.

"Aye, I do," he answered, "but it's more than that, Merry. We all miss him, but Merry… I'm the one."

"The one what, Pip?"

"That… that killed him, Merry. Everyone knows it. It was my fault."

"Pippin, no! Of course you didn't kill him!" Merry gave Pippin a little shake.

"I did so!" Pippin snapped, batting Merry's hand from his shoulder. "I'm the one that drew the Goblin's attention at the well, as you well know, and no one else. If you cannot understand that, I certainly can. He was right. I am a fool!"

Merry opened his mouth to offer some argument to the contrary, but before he could speak, Pippin said, "I'm going for a walk. I need to be alone." With that he left the table and walked off. Helplessly, Merry watched him walk away.

"Oh, Pip," Merry said to himself, "how am I ever going to make you understand?" He sighed and laid his head on the table. How long he sat there like that, he had no idea, so lost in thought was he.

It must have been quite some time, because the next thing he heard was Aragorn saying "Either you have developed a taste for strange sleeping arrangements, or you have something on your mind, Merry. I have been sitting here for well nigh half an hour and you haven't even noticed."

"Hullo, Strider," Merry said glumly, "I didn't mean to be rude, I was just lost in thought."

"So it seems. Would you like to share these thoughts? If they are burdensome, I could help to bear the weight."

Merry sighed. "It's Pippin, Strider. He thinks it's his fault that Gandalf is dead."

"And he won't listen to reason? Even from you?"

"He won't even talk to me about it," Merry said, the sadness and frustration plain in his voice.

"Give him a little time, Merry. He is young, and he will recover his Hobbit sense soon enough. Then he will listen, and I am sure take what you have to heart. Let him have a little time to himself."

"I suppose you're right, it's just that it's so hard. He loved Gandalf so, you know. Gandalf has been close to the Tooks forever. There has never been a time that Pippin didn't know Gandalf."

"Yes, I know. Gandalf often spoke of the Tooks. Try to understand, Merry, this thing is weighing heavily on your cousin right now. You must also try to understand that the pain Pippin feels may never fade completely, as is only natural when someone dear has passed on, but it will become easier to bear. In the meantime, give him room to deal with his sorrow. When the shadow of grief has faded a little, then you can talk to him about the blame he lays so unjustly upon himself."

"There is wisdom in what you say," Merry said, "yet it is still a hard thing to bear. Maybe I could spend some time with Boromir today, whilst Pippin sorts himself out a bit. Do you know where he may be found?"

"I fear you are stuck with me, Merry, for Boromir is of like mind with your cousin. He is in a mood most grim, and is even now walking about the Golden Wood alone."

"Oh dear," Merry said, "I'm sorry to hear that he, too has a sadness in his heart. I was hoping to ask him to tell me another tale. Do you know what is bothering him?"

"I do not doubt it is the main that he fears for his people and believes his father's ability to rule has been sorely tested by the growing shadow that falls upon the White City. And I do understand this; it is a fair city indeed, and I, too, fear for her safety. Long years has it been since last I saw her gleaming white and silver in the sun. Hastily would Boromir have me come to her aid, yet I am forsworn to safe-guard the passage of Frodo. And I am still eager to come to the aid of Gondor, as I promised Boromir I would." Aragorn sighed now as if his heart, too, was no stranger to sorrow. "I am little pleased that Boromir sorrows in his heart. He would not suffer to know his sorrows are so plain to see. Proud is Boromir son of Denethor, and in measure not a little. It pains me to see him so beset. My years are long, nearly numbering twice the years since he was born. With memories so much longer than his, I cannot help but regard him as a youth. And accomplished as he may be, he has had sorrow enough, for one his age. I know it is a strange notion for you to think of him as a youngster, yet we all start out the same, whether Man, Hobbit, Dwarf or Elf."

"Oh, but it isn't hard for me to understand that at all," said Merry, "not since he told Pippin and me the story of Thorongil, and how Faramir got his name."

"He knows of Thorongil?" Aragorn said, quite surprised. "Would you share now with me this tale? For I desire in no small measure to know more of the heart of Boromir, for should the return of the King come to be, Boromir would be at the right hand of him who sits upon the throne."

"Oh, I should very much like to tell you the story!" said Merry, glad to have something to do that would take his mind off worrying about Pippin. "It all started when Boromir was just a baby. One fine spring day his mother Finduilas and Ioreth his nurse decided to take Boromir outside to a little courtyard…"

As the tale unfolded, Aragorn, desiring something to do with his hands as he listened, picked up a piece of wood from a mallorn tree and began to shave off bits of it with his knife.

In the meantime, Pippin walked down a narrow and winding footpath, following the clear sound of water from a trickling little spring, which fell into a small, shallow pool. There, sitting beside the pool deep in thought, Pippin saw a figure sitting, dangling its feet in the cool water. The red-gold locks revealed to the Hobbit who this figure was. Pippin had hoped to find some solitude, but his surprise at finding Boromir all alone betrayed him, and he called out.

"Boromir! Fancy meeting you here!" said Pippin, settling himself in the soft golden leaves by his friend, "Do you wish to be alone, too?"

"I did come here to be alone a while, but you are most welcome, Master Took," Boromir smiled, "We may be alone together. I suppose I am not fit company for myself: I grow weary of me, and would enjoy a visit with my friend not a little."

Pippin studied the face of his friend. Boromir, he knew, did his best to conceal his worries and woes, being the proud man he was, but he was not so unreadable as he thought. Pippin laid his hand on Boromir's shoulder.

"I cannot help but notice, if you will forgive my saying so, that you seem to have something on your mind, my friend. Would you like to speak with me about it?" Pippin said.

Boromir regarded Pippin for some time before speaking. "Were you anyone other than a Hobbit, I would say that I have nothing to weigh heavily upon my heart," he answered softly. "Were you Man or Elf or Dwarf, I would tell you not to concern yourself in the least. I would say that I have not a care but to return home to fight. But you are a Hobbit, and your people do not measure a Man by the same scales as other races do. And even so, you are my friend Pippin Took, who understands me more than most on this journey. Remarkable, really, that it should be thus: that a Hobbit, Peregrin Took, I may share my burdens with, where I cannot with others. For I feel that you recognize in me something you understand, as few can."

"Aye, I do," Pippin said warmly. "I understand you are known to be the best Man in Gondor. I have an ancestor who was the best Hobbit in all of Hobbitry. His name was Bandobras, and he was called The Bull-Roarer. He was a mighty warrior, like yourself, so yes; I feel I know something of the map of your heart, my friend. Shall we take this map and walk a while as friends on the paths we may find there?"

Boromir looked long at his companion. "Very well, then, Pippin. Firstly, I miss my brother, and I fear for his very life. The Enemy grows ever stronger, and while Faramir fights, his life may well be forfeit. I fear for my city, for if Aragorn fails to come to her aid I know too well what our fate may be. I have come to believe he does indeed bring the sinews of the kings of old along with The-Sword-That-Was-Broken. But this will avail us little should he tarry. And I fear for my father, beset as he is. Our people look to him to save us, but he has grown old, and darkness seems to have roosted upon his heart like a carrion crow. All these things, Pippin, they eat of my soul sorrow-crammed, and it is as if a stranger has come to dwell in my mind, and… and…"

Pippin watched as Boromir struggled to master himself. The Hobbit stood and placed his other hand on Boromir's head and stroked his hair soothingly. This silent testimony to the love that Pippin bore his friend was too much for Boromir, and he blinked hard, yet one traitorous tear coursed down his cheek. The big Man roughly wiped it away with the back of his hand as quickly as he could, but he knew Pippin had seen it.

"I beg your forgiveness, my friend," he choked, "for Men weep not."

"Then they are bigger fools than I am," said Pippin, his high, light voice soft and soothing. "What nonsense! Men weep not indeed! If this is true, then Men have a thing or two to learn from Hobbits."

"But we are not Hobbits," replied Boromir. "We buy our strength dearly in this regard, I fear, for we must not show weakness, ever."

"You may not believe this Boromir, but I do understand all too well, for we Hobbits have a similar challenge. They say we can be tough as old roots, but I do sometimes wonder, for some seem to think Hobbits should never be melancholy, yet as I stand here with you, I tell you I am most melancholy. Some would have you believe we Hobbits are never full of woe for long, yet I think I shall be for a long, long time."

"Why Pippin, whatever has come to thus plague such an excellent and unquenchably cheerful companion as yourself?" Now Boromir studied Pippin's face. The warrior saw the Hobbit's usually cheerful countenance vanish, and the young one hung his head, lips pressed together, eyes tightly shut, as if he felt that he, too, must weep not. Pippin now held his arms rigidly by his side, small fists tightly clenched. Boromir took one of Pippin's hands between his own hands. He gently pried open Pippin's fingers, noting the calluses and small scars he found there. It was the hand of a budding warrior coming into his own. And though Boromir felt pride in no small measure for the Hobbits he had grown to think of as his young charges, he became aware also of no small amount of sorrow. When he had first met Pippin in Imladris, the youngster had borne few such marks, and those only no more than any gentle Hobbit farmer would bear. His youthful face was the face of one who had known little to nothing of worry or dread. Now this young, innocent creature all too quickly had grown to know perils and hardships he had only heard of in tales. Boromir took a deep breath. The time had come to make the same offer to share the burden of the heart that Pippin had offered to his friend.

"My dear Hobbit," he said, "My heart is lighter for having shared my worries and woes with you. Will you accept my offer to return the favor now to you?"

"I–––I killed him!" Pippin said, the words so forcefully spoken with such heart-breaking sincerity that Boromir was alarmed.

"I feared it was nothing else but this, Pippin, but you are wrong." He continued to hold Pippin's hand, but the Hobbit snatched it away.

"How can you say that?" Pippin hissed. "I did, I killed him! It was no one other than I who woke the Goblins and the Balrog! And I know he must have blamed me even as he fell. He called me a fool, and I was!"

"Oh, dear," Boromir said, wondering what to do, what to say. "Dear Pippin," he said, now kneeling before the young one. He pulled Pippin into an embrace, just as he had Faramir when his brother was no more than seven summers old, and had voiced his belief that his birth had weakened their mother and hastened her death. And suddenly he knew what to say, what to do. For the very same words he had used to comfort his younger brother came to him, as surely as the love he felt for Faramir was mirrored so well in his love for this small but worthy little brother, though Pippin be Halfling and Boromir be Man. "No, you mustn't think such things! You are without blame. Life and death can be cruel masters, for no reason at all that we who yet live can see. It is as it was by fate alone, and not by any fault of your own."

"But…" Pippin said, again struggling with his sorrow and grief.

Boromir held him at arm's length. "What nonsense, as you said! If you think that your actions, careless as they might have been, caused Gandalf to fall then you really are a fool of a Took! The Goblins, Pippin, knew we were there from the instant we set foot in Moria, mayhap even before. Forget not the beast in the water! Did it not tear down the very doors of Moria? Do you not recall the noise and dust the breaking of that stone raised? I tell you now, they knew! They knew every errant current of the air they breathed; they knew the smells and sounds of that dark place. 'Twas Gandalf himself chose the way. He knew the perils, and he chose to face them. Do you think the falling of one small stone brought about the falling of that great Wizard? I tell you now you could not be more mistaken. 'Twas the falling of one small stone. And what is that, compared to the thunder of the great stone doors that were the gates of Moria?"

At last, Pippin raised his head. He looked at Boromir for a long while, seeming to weigh the wisdom of the Man's words. Suddenly the smallest of smiles broke the sad face of the Hobbit and replaced it with something else: a dawning realization. "I have been a fool, have I not?" said the Hobbit. "I didn't consider all of the events. I shall miss him terribly. I am quite sure I always will. But I thank you for your words, friend Boromir. I do feel much better, now."

"I am glad you happened upon me, here, Pippin. I feel better, myself. And I thank you for sharing my burden with me. You may be small, but you can bear the weight of the worries of a friend, even a brother, if you don't mind my naming you thus."

"Mind?" Pippin grinned. "I would mind if you did not!"

"Good!" Boromir grinned, reminded that this particular Hobbit always cheered him, no matter how beset he may be. "Then, brother, shall we return to our friends for a bite and a sup? I do not doubt that they fall into great despair and confusion without us."

"I fear you are too right, brother," Pippin agreed, "and I feel we should return to them so they don't suffer the pains of our absence."

"Then let us leave this quiet goodly place, and return for the salvation of all," Boromir laughed, pulling his boots on his feet. Then he rose, and side by side, the pair walked back up the little footpath, sharing a joke and a song or two.

When Boromir woke early the next day Merry and Pippin urged him to make haste to the table to break their fast. The pair wanted to see if they might enjoy a bit of boating and fishing, and Boromir found the idea most tempting. He rose and washed his face, and then asked the Hobbits to secure for him a place at the table while he put on his boots. Even so, the cousins stood by, as if waiting patiently for Boromir to say something or rise to join them, and he wondered if they had been up to some mischief or other. As he pulled on his second boot, his foot brushed against something inside it. He took the boot and looked inside. He pulled out something wrapped carefully in mallorn leaves, and unwrapped the item. Inside the leaves he found a small wooden soldier holding a tiny shield, on which was carved in relief an eagle and a star. And with it a note which read: Fear not, youngster, your friend shall return, and that very soon. And below this simple message written in Aragorn's hand was a single name, Thorongil.

Amuse

In which we conclude.

"Oh. Merry!" I say, "That was a wonderful choice! I just love it!"

"I agree," says Beornomir.

"I take it, then, that our little visit is soon to end?" says Pippin a little sadly.

"'Fraid so, Pipster, but don't worry. You know you'll all be back soon. In the meantime, I have to finish this story. It has grown as wild as a 'coon, and I have to…"

"Whatever is a 'coon?" he asks. I should have known.

"I'll show you on the computer in the living room, Pippin," offers Beornomir, adding, "It's faster."

We file into the living room and Beornomir types "raccoon" into a search engine and a link is provided. He clicks on it. Our guests are huddling around him as the picture loads.

"Oh, look!" Boromir says.

"Only why is this animal wearing a mask?" Merry asks.

"He isn't," explains Beornomir, "that's just the markings. They all have a mask like that."

Suddenly there's a knock on the door. Hard. In fact, it sounds positively demanding. I go to the door and open it.

"Oh, no!" I moan. It's no other than Book Boromir. He steps in, looking very irate.

"Just what do you mean by Mister Gondor-Needs-No-King?" he demands. "I never said that! Not even once!"

Suddenly the door flies open once more. Great. Just great. It's Movie Boromir.

"It may well be you didn't say it, but you thought it!" he says, pointing an accusing finger at Book Boromir.

"And what would you know of what I may or may not have thought?" Book Boromir fires back. "Anyway, everyone knows I have dark hair and grey eyes–––blondie!"

"Hold on there for one blasted minute!" says my Boromir, the one who has been here all night. "I was here first, so you two just bugger off!"

"Such language!" I hear a voice behind me. No! Not another one! It's my Bee Charmer Boromir.

"Who asked you?" says Movie Boromir.

"Verily!" adds Book Boromir.

"Butt out, you, you, you Gondorian Gandhi! " says my original visiting Boromir. "The last person any of us want to hear from right now is the Dr. Phil of the Shire!"

"Now, now, no need to be so harsh," says yet another voice.

"Somebody help me," I moan. It's Dead Angel Boromir, complete with wings and halo, though the halo is rather askew.

"Shut up," shouts my first Boromir, "Anyway, you're dead!"

"So are you!" the other Boromirs say as one.

"So what?" he says, "All of us are dead!"

"Speak for yourself, Sonny Jim!" says Bee Charmer Boromir.

"Enough!" I shout. They continue to argue, ignoring me completely, their voices blending until I can't tell one from the other. "Just one cotton pickin' minute! I will not be talked over in my own house!" I grab my broom, which, oddly enough, is what my spell-check is constantly telling me is Boromir's name, and I give each one a sound whack.

"You!" I point to Book Boromir, then point to my bookshelf. "Go! It's not your turn to visit. Go on, go!" Crestfallen, he ambles off towards the bookshelf and vanishes with a sound like shuffling paper.

"And you!" I point to Angel Boromir, then point to the ceiling. "Off you go. I'll see you later at the Welcome to Middle Earth forum."

"Well, Zebbo at least will be glad to see me!" he pouts. He sighs and with a rustle of feathers, is gone.

"And you!" I say to Movie Boromir, pointing to my DVD player. The drawer opens and shuts, and he's suddenly gone.

"Now you, dear," I'm gentler with my Bee Charmer Boromir. After all, he really is a sweet Boromir. "Give Lin my regards, will you, dear?" He nods sweetly, gives me a brotherly peck on the cheek and a friendly pat to Beornomir's shoulder and dives into the computer screen as if it was a pool.

I look around our living room. It's empty except for my husband and me. "Oh, no! They're gone!" I wail. "Guess they didn't like all the ruckus."

"Don't be sad, darlin'" Beornomir gives me a warm hug and a kiss. "They'll be back soon. You know they will. Now if you're going to write that story, you need to get to bed and have yourself a good sleep."

Of course, he's right. We go to the bedroom and put on our nightclothes. After kisses and cuddles, we doze off. My dream was a strange dream, a rather unpleasant one, I must say. It must have been, because Beornomir wakes me.

"You must have been having a nightmare," he says, giving me a comforting hug. "Want to talk about it?"

"It was horrible! Just horrible!" I tremble in his arms, weeping. "Oh, God, I couldn't bear it if it ever came true!"

'Tell me about it, baby," he says. His arms are warm and strong.

At last, my sobs subside, and I'm able to speak. "It was awful! I dreamed I was on trial. Marigold was the Judge, and Pearl and Pippinfan and all my fan fic buddies were on the jury, and they found me guilty!"

"Guilty?" Beornomir says, "What could you possibly have done that would be so terrible?"

"I wrote the story, all of it, from last night," I start sobbing again, "they said I was guilty of writing utter insanity, and the sentence… oh I can hardly stand to think of it!" I weep.

"Tell me all about it, honey," soothes Beornomir.

The memory was so horrific I could barely force myself to speak this obscenity. "I was condemned to… to… write Mary Sue Legomance for an entire month!"

The End

Lord, I apologize…