This is a not for profit work of fan fiction based upon the works of J.R.R. Tolkien
Inspired by 'Footsteps' by Chris De Burgh
Dedicated to Pipkin Sweetgrass, a lady who made a fledgling writer feel so very welcome in this fandom as far back as 2003
Best wishes, Evendim.
Rivendell, the night before the Council of Elrond
Boromir of the House of Hurin, heir of the Steward of Gondor, stepped down from the saddle of his horse, a seventeen hands chestnut by the name of Menelvagor, (the swordsman of the skies) and entrusted the weary mount into the care of a groom. Or, so the dejected mortal assumed. With the ease of one born to privilege Boromir then walked away, headed towards the terraces of The Last Homely House. The ellon into whose hands Boromir had handed the caparisoned reins stood with his mouth agape. How could the elf possibly know that Boromir took it for granted that whilst in the Citadel there would always be a servant on hand? Boromir sat to dine each night in the Merethrond, and never once did he look back to check was there a chair beneath him.
"You are catching flies," said Glorfindel as he pushed Erestor's jaw closed with an audible snap.
"He gave me his reins," Erestor gasped.
"Likely he has more than one set, Snookums. I should just accept them in the way they were offered, graciously," said Glorfindel, finding this entire state of affairs hilarious.
"Me," Erestor gasped, "he gave me his reins, I, who am Seneschal to the Lord of Imladris!"
"Ye-es, one can see where you are coming from, but do not overlook the fact that he is the elder son of the Lord of Gondor," said Glorfindel.
"You are enjoying this, you…great blond streak of aggravation!" Erestor was as discomfited as a cat trapped in a rain barrel.
"…and an honoured guest of Elrond," said Glorfindel as he mentally nailed the barrel shut. Oh, one of his lives little pleasures was tormenting the haughty Noldo by his side. One minor glitch in the flow of protocol, and Erestor Egnor-ion festered up like a hammered thumb.
"Do I look even remotely like a groom?" Erestor demanded as he passed the animal's reins to an ellon genuinely employed in that capacity, and now he was shaking out his burgundy velvet robes, and settling the belt about his narrow waist upon which hung the keys to the Last Homely House, and the symbol of Erestor's rank.
"I doubt if he would know you again if he were to fall on top of you, snooks," said Glorfindel, using the pet name he had given to Erestor many, many, moons ago, upon comparing him to then kitchen mouser.
"What a repugnant notion," said Erestor, and then he performed an all over body shimmy that simply oozed distaste, and there it was, Snookums, the kitchen mouser parodied to perfection!
Boromir, blissfully unaware that he had offered insult to an elf lord, strode up the broad sweep of steps to arrive upon a long covered walkway under the sloping eves of the house. The man ached in every pore, and his posterior had given up the ghost forty miles out from Imladris. He had left his city on July fourth, and now it was 24th October. If only Erestor had known the perilous journey the mortal had endured just to be here tonight, he might have excused the trail dirt besmirching Boromir's regal clothing.
"Erm…are you meant to be here?"
Boromir spun around, expecting to see a member of Elrond's household. Imagine his surprise to find him self face to face with a statue bearing a stone harp. Elves, augh, they so made one's nerves jangle with their ethereal ways!
"Oi…! Down here!"
"What are you, precisely?" Boromir asked, amply displaying why he was the soldier of the family, and his father was the diplomat.
"I am the voice of the statue; provoke me at your own peril! I'm a hobbit, what else would I be with feet like these?"
"I must admit, you have a good grip upon Arda with those, my friend," Boromir chuckled, as he scrutinized the outsized hairy feet.
"You take in more than your fair share of her air with that nose, mortal," the hobbit retorted.
Boromir fell silent, and his brows knit together as he thought this through, and just as the hobbit clasped the ridiculous elven dagger at his side, no doubt doing service as a sword, the man doubled over, slapped his thigh, and rocked with mirth. Instantly the threat was removed, and the cheeky-faced hobbit, with the red curly hair, and jolly green eyes, joined in with the man's raucous laughter.
"Oh," Boromir gasped, "I needed that. I have gone almost mad journeying in the wilds alone. I thought I might never get here on more than one occasion; Boromir."
"Actually, I am Peregrin Took of the Shire, Pippin to my friends," said the half-ling.
"No, I meant…I am Boromir, a lord of Gondor, my friends call me 'my lord'," deadpanned the broad-set, handsome blond man, with the most amazing green eyes.
"Och, you, you are nowhere near as fierce as you like to pretend. I admit that upon first seeing you, I thought you might be quite dangerous," the hobbit opined.
"I am dangerous!" Boromir pouted, offended, "I am one of the most dangerous men you could hope to meet…or not!"
"Na," said Pippin, "we came here in that man's company, now, this Strider is seriously dangerous, I should not like to tread upon his toes!"
"I should not like you to tread upon mine," said Boromir, "given the advantage you have over most of Arda in the foot department!"
"I like you," Pippin said with open sincerity, he took Boromir's broad, gauntleted paw, within his own smaller one, and led the man as though this was the most natural way to progress around the Last Homely House. At the first this intimacy made Boromir uncomfortable, but the innocence in the lively hobbit's eyes reassured him that no-one would assume that Boromir was behaving inappropriately towards this smaller guest of Elrond.
"Yes, but you could not eat all of me?" Boromir replied.
"Ha! You don't know hobbits at all, do you, big man?" Pippin chuckled.
Big man, oh, that had just caught in Boromir's throat on the way down, no-one, save Faramir, dared to use such familiarity towards the Captain-General of Gondor. It was not done. But somehow this rather absurd little creature cared not a fig for convention. It was refreshing, endearing, and Boromir exhaled the breath he had held upon having his hand… Took…heh…and just savoured the contact after so long with just a set of hairy equine ears into which to converse.
"No, Master Took, I do not know hobbits, but I suspect I should like to," Boromir said sincerely.