Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all its characters and settings are the property of the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinemas, and their licensees. These works were produced with admiration and respect, as fan fiction for entertainment purposes only, not for sale or profit. This story and all my others may be found on my website, http://budgielover/com.  My thanks to my dear Marigold for the beta.  

Peregrins and Pendulums

An Unexpected Visit 

“It’s awfully quiet in here,” observed Meriadoc Brandybuck thoughtfully, watching the dust dance in the sunbeams streaming in through the study window of Bag End.

Frodo looked up from the book he was reading, keeping his place with an ink-stained forefinger.  A look of apprehension crossed his fine-boned face and the big blue eyes, made even larger by the contraction of his pupils in the bright afternoon sun, darted about the peaceful corners of his study.  Bees buzzed lazily outside the open window, weighted down with pollen, and a gentle breeze drifted in and stirred the dust on Bilbo’s desk.

Sitting at the desk and writing a letter to Tuckborough, Merry sneezed.  He sniffed and flicked off a small family of dust bunnies that were breeding on the blotter and watched them drift down a sunbeam to the floor.  In the month since Frodo and Cousin Bilbo’s Birthday Party and the old hobbit’s departure, Frodo’s housekeeping had deteriorated noticeably.  Merry wasn’t one to criticize another’s tidiness, usually, but he had noticed the increasing clutter of books and accumulation of dust and it had struck him as the first warning sign. 

Frodo jumped at the sneeze.  “Hush, Merry!” he hissed.  Frodo glanced over his shoulder worriedly and both of them froze into immobility, their eyes wide, listening.  When the silence continued uninterrupted the hobbits relaxed, heaving stifled sighs of relief.

Ever since he had assisted Frodo in the disposition of Bilbo’s little gifts and jokes, Merry had worried about his sensitive cousin.  Frodo possessed a melancholy streak and Merry knew that were he left alone, Frodo would sink into depression, thinking himself deserted by the most important person in his life.  Frodo had known how the Road called to his uncle, knew how much Bilbo had desired to travel one last time, but all the reasons in the world did not lessen the pain of being left behind.

Therefore Merry had a quiet word with his parents, and with Saradoc and Esmeralda’s permission, had arrived at the round door of Bag End one afternoon a fortnight after the party and moved in on his cousin with the intention of camping there indefinitely.  Or at least until he was certain that Frodo would be all right.  Frodo had been surprised but accepting, gladder than he realized at the company.  Aided and abetted by Samwise Gamgee, Merry had kept a steady parade of Frodo’s friends tromping through Bag End, keeping Frodo too busy to mourn Bilbo’s absence. 

Merry wouldn’t have worried quite so much if Gandalf had stayed longer.  But the old wizard had departed the same night as the Party, off on some inexplicable errand of his own, abandoning Frodo just as Bilbo had.  That night when Merry had come up the Hill, intent on tracking down both of his elder cousins, he had seen Frodo standing in the doorway of Bag End,staring out into the night.  He had looked so lost and forlorn that Merry’s loving heart almost broke.

Even at nineteen, not yet a tweenager, Merry had decided that taking care of Frodo was his responsibility.  He loved and respected his elder cousin but privately, he thought that Frodo had received too much of the Baggins dreaminess and not enough Brandybuck practicality.  So Merry made sure that Frodo slept, ate, and dragged him out of Bag End for a sniff of fresh air at intervals.

But it hadn’t been enough.  Even with all the love and care he and Sam could lavish on Frodo, over the past two weeks his cousin had been growing quieter and thinner.  Desperate measures were called for.  So Merry had sent off a letter and yesterday afternoon, Frodo had innocently opened the door to greet the elder Chubb lass with the laundry and instead been knocked down by a small hurtling missile that sat on his chest, hugging him and crowing excitedly all the while.  Merry had pried Peregrin off Frodo and been subjected to a hug that had almost strangled him and a constant stream of questions, including, “Am I really to stay with you and Cousin Frodo, Merry?  May I stay up late at night?  Will you take me on walking parties?  When is supper?  May I have some biscuits now, please?  I didn’t have any tea, you know.  Da wouldn’t stop at an inn.  Frodo, I’m starving!”  The last was delivered in a rising wail, with all the sincerity that a deprived eleven-year old hobbit-child could put into it.

“Huh - Hullo – Hullo, Pal,” Frodo managed, struggling to sit up.  “Hullo, Pippin.”  He rubbed his midsection and stifled a cough.  “Coming for a visit, are you?”        

Paladin II, the Thain of the Shire, extended a hand and pulled Frodo to his feet and into his embrace while his son and heir danced around them and chattered with exuberance.  Frodo tried to brush off his clothes while Merry went out to the road and unlashed Pippin’s pack from Paladin’s pony.  Paladin thanked him with a squeeze on the arm then turned back to their kin.  “Frodo, are you sure you want to do this?  My lad’s a handful, as you well know.  And ever since Merry’s letter arrived saying you’d like him to come for a visit, he’s driven us near to distraction.”

Merry had to admire his cousin; Frodo recovered beautifully.  “I’d like -?  I’d – um,” there was a brief silence.  “Not at all, Pal.  I’m sure – Pippin, don’t pull on my waistcoat, please – that we shall – if you’re that hungry, lad, you know where the larder is – get along beautifully.”  Pippin’s eyes lit up and he was gone in a flurry of furry little feet.  Merry bit his lip and stared after him anxiously – an unsupervised Pippin was a worrisome thing but he was unwilling to chase after Pip until his father left. 

Paladin laughed, those green-gold eyes that he had bequeathed to his son sparkling.  “I must say your invitation was perfectly timed, Frodo.  My lady and I have been wanting some time to ourselves.  We’ve shipped the lasses off to visit Merry’s parents at Brandy Hall, but after the … er… little incident the last time Pippin visited … well … I think Esmie would prefer that Pippin amuse himself elsewhere for a few months.  As Merry is here with you, it's the perfect solution.”

Seeing Frodo’s dark brows rise, Merry hastened to contribute to the conversation.   “Oh, it was nothing really, Uncle.   After Mum got the mess cleaned up and the repairs made, she hardly thought about it.” 

“Won’t you stay the night, or at least come in and have a bite, Pal?” Frodo asked.  “Sam can run your pony down to the stable.”  As if on cue, Sam appeared and greeted the Thain with a short bow.

Paladin shook his bronze head.  “Thank you, Cousin, but I’ve plans to enjoy an ale at The Ivy Bushand ride toward home – as far as old Toby Bunce's place. He'll put me up tonight, and I'll be that much closer to home in the morning.  Home without a child in sight… peace and quiet.”  The Thain smiled and his gaze went wistful.  “I mean to take advantage of every minute of it.”  He turned back to the patiently waiting pony and swung himself up in a smooth, practiced motion.  “Merry, my regards to your parents when you see them.  Tell Esmie I’ll reimburse her for the damages.  Frodo … good luck to you, lad.”  The Thain shook his head at them.  “You’re going to need it.”

Crash!! came from the direction of Bag End’s kitchen.

“Well, must be off,” said Paladin hastily.  “Sun sets early in October.  Frodo, one word of caution … keep him away from sweets, if you can.  They tend to make him a bit too energetic.”  Without pausing for breath, the Thain rushed on.  “Merry, you're used to caring for the lad.  Frodo is going to need your help, yes?  Good lad!”  With that the Thain waved hurriedly and put his heels to the pony, urging it into a trot down the Hill.

After a moment of contemplative silence, Frodo turned to face Merry.  Sam stiffened and looked between the cousins anxiously.  “I’d best see what that noise was, sir,” he said to Frodo.  “The little lad might’ve hurt himself.”

His eyes still on Merry, Frodo nodded absently.  “That’s all right, Sam.  Leave planting the rest of the bulbs for tomorrow, please.  Would you be kind enough to run down to the market and pick up a few things?  We need some fresh bread, eggs … um … milk, porridge, mushrooms…”

"Sausage rolls, bacon, cheese, pickled onions, tomatoes, crumpets and a bottle of port,” added Merry, never one to miss an opportunity.  “The port is for us, Frodo.  Thank you, Sam.  That should get us through tomorrow morning, until I can do some real stocking up.”

“No trouble at all, sirs,” Sam assured them.  “I’ll just get me cloak and be back in a shake.  But don’t you want me ‘ta check on Master Pippin first?”

Frodo took a step forward and looped his arm through Merry’s with deceptive casualness.  “No, that’s all right, Sam.  Merry and I will take care of it.  We have a few things to discuss.”  Merry gulped and followed the gentle but inexorable grip on his arm.

* * * * *

That had been yesterday.  After listening to a long discourse consisting of “Merry, as much as I truly appreciate your company, I am perfectly capable of caring for myself,” and “May I remind you, I am of age,” Merry had nodded and agreed and never wavered in his resolve to look after his older cousin.  Believing his point made, Frodo had finally wound down.  The two had then found and solemnly regarded the broken biscuit jar, the many pieces piled carefully into a little heap on the floor.  Then they followed the trail of crumbs that started in the pantry, wove through the kitchen, into the second best parlor, the study, two of the cellars, several bedrooms, and finally returned them to the little miscreant’s starting point.

Pippin looked up from his inventory of the pantry shelves, his mouth full and face and hands covered with an amalgamation of biscuit crumbs, jam, bread and butter and the last piece of blackberry pie.  The small mouth split into a wide (and sticky) grin and the child launched himself into Merry’s arms.  Pippin then proceeded to kiss both his cousins soundly, which necessitated wash-ups for all of them.

The child’s little snack did not seem to affect his appetite for supper.  They relaxed in the parlor afterward, watching the fire snap and crackle while Frodo and Merry took turns spinning tales for the lad.  Pippin curled contentedly in Frodo’s lap, yawning, as they filled up the corners with nuts and savories, Merry and Frodo sipping their glasses of port. The next crisis had not arisen until bedtime.  The two tucked Pippin in, gave him a song and a last story and a good-night kiss, and then discovered that Pippin’s beloved stuffed bear was not in his pack.  The bear had been a gift from Bilbo when Peregrin was just a baby, and Pippin declared he could not go to sleep without it.

“What are we going to do, Frodo?” hissed Merry from the foot of Pippin’s bed.  “You know how he is about that ridiculous toy.”

“I’m working on it, Merry,” Frodo had hissed back out of the corner of his mouth.  He turned back to the hobbit-child regarding him anxiously from the too-large bed and pasted a bright smile on his face.  “Pippin-lad, wouldn’t you like to sleep with a nice, soft quilt?  Sam’s mother made it.”

Pippin stroked the comfortable coverlet and considered it.  “No,” he said firmly.  “I want my bear.”

Merry tried reason.  “Pippin dear, your bear is back at the Great Smials.  We couldn’t possibly send for it until tomorrow.  You're a big, grown-up lad now, you know.  Couldn’t you go without it for just one night?”

Pippin’s sharp face scrunched up and the big, grown-up lad's huge green eyes filled with tears.  “Or,” Frodo said hastily, “Merry or I could be your bear for tonight.”  Frodo ignored Merry grimacing at him over Pippin’s head and kept a comforting smile on his face. 

Some moments passed while the child thought about it.  Then, “All right,” he said in his clear, high voice.  “I want Frodo.”

Now it was Frodo’s turn to grimace.  “Wouldn’t you rather have Merry, dear?  You always sleep with him at Brandy Hall.”  He had obviously been banking on Pippin choosing his favorite cousin.  Merry kicked Frodo’s ankle shamelessly.

“That’s at Brandy Hall,” Pippin said reasonably.  “We’re at Bag End.  I want you.”

So Merry slept the sleep of the reprieved, Pippin slept like an innocent babe, and Frodo barely slept at all.  Every time he started to drift off, a sharp little elbow or kicking little foot would jolt him awake again.  He knew from previous visits that Pippin was as restless asleep as he was awake, tossing and turning, and as the moon rose and traveled across the star-washed sky, Frodo decided that he rather pitied the child’s stuffed bear.

This morning had been slightly better.  Gone was any hope of Merry and Frodo sleeping late, however, and gone too their first leisurely pot of tea, shared over the finest mushroom omelets in the Shire.  Frodo disengaged himself from a soundly sleeping Pippin and dragged himself into the kitchen to make breakfast, dark circles under his drooping eyes.  Some time later, Sam peered in from the hallway to see Merry sitting at the kitchen table, a cup of tea before him, hands cradling his chin with his elbows on the table.  Sam looked cautiously about and edged in carefully, clearly expecting a small hobbit-child to attack him with a hug at any moment.  “Mornin’, Master,” he said to Frodo.  “Mr. Merry.  Will you be wanting me ‘ta make omelets?”

Frodo shook his dark head absently, a disturbing number of bowls and whisks and ingredients before him.  “Thank you, Sam, but I’m making sweetcakes this morning.  Do we have any more berries?”  Sam rummaged in the cold room and handed the fruit to him.  “Oh, thank you.  You'll join us for breakfast, won't you?”

Sam shook his head, his eyes on the growing pile of dirty dishes.  The mess trailed over the kitchen table, counters, and spilled ontothestove.  “Begging your pardon, sir, I’ve had breakfast and I want to get those flower bulbs in the ground.”  Merry followed his gaze pensively, wondering who was going to clean all that up.  Sam was evidently thinking along the same lines, for he said briskly, “Very good, sir.  As you have everything in hand, I’ll just get started in the garden, then.”  Frodo nodded and absentmindedly waved a whisk in reply, splattering batter on the cabinets. 

Merry took another sip of his tea.  Their youngest cousin would be out looking for his first meal of the day any minute now.  As near as Merry could tell from the shrieks and giggles emanating from the room next to his, his little cousin was wide awake and bouncing on the fine feather bed, which Pippin knew very well he was not supposed to do.  Oh, thought Merry, I’m going to owe Frodo for this…

After breakfast, Pippin followed Sam about the garden while Frodo washed the dishes and Merry dried them.  The gardener joined them for second breakfast, bringing in a filthy little hobbit who looked as if he had tried to help by using his small self as a shovel.  Pippin had been most indignant about having to take a bath but Frodo was adamant.  The child maintained his sulk all the way to luncheon, when Frodo could bear it no longer.  Caving like a popped puffball, Frodo prepared Pippin’s favorite dishes in apology.  And then showered the lad with sugared biscuits and sweets.  Munching on a biscuit, Merry watched his younger cousin expertly and effortlessly manipulate his elder cousin and just shook his head.

Which returned Merry’s thoughts back to the present.  He laid down his quill and waved the paper to complete the drying process.  Pippin would be waking up soon.  He had been tremendously insulted when Frodo suggested he take a nap; naps were for babies.  Only Frodo’s promise that Pippin could stay up late had convinced the child to comply. 

Frodo carefully marked his place in the book and set it aside.  “I’ve been thinking of ways to keep Pippin amused,” he said meditatively.  “Shall we build him a swing?”

“A swing?” Merry echoed blankly.

“Hang it off the roof tree,” Frodo replied, enthusiasm warming his voice.  He sat up straighter and glanced out the window.  “Wouldn’t he love that!  It might keep him occupied for hours.  And relatively clean.  It will be a couple of days before his parents receive your letter … perhaps a swing might tire him out enough that he’ll go to sleep without either of us having to fill in for his bear tonight.” 

* * * * *

“Frodo, be careful!” Merry called, alarmed.  High above him, Frodo mumbled something under his breath that he probably assumed his cousin couldn’t hear, then resumed inching along the chosen branch of the enormous old tree.  “And I heard that!” Merry shouted up to him.  He closed his eyes for a moment, wishing that branch were closer to the ground.  It must be almost five feet up the old tree’s massive trunk. 

Merry had asserted that he was the wiser choice to climb the tree, as he was the lighter of the two and Frodo was ‘getting on in years.’  But they both knew he had no head for heights, and as Frodo had climbed the tree (and fallen out of it, to Bilbo’s horror) more than once, it was he who made the ascent.  Merry watched as Frodo tightened his one-handed grip on the branch and heaved himself forward another few inches.  Burdened with a plank with a rope through it for a seat, Frodo was stretched flat out on his belly, legs locked around the branch.  To Merry’s worried eyes, he looked none too steady up there.

The rope and the plank with a handy knothole came from Sam, who stockpiled all sorts of oddments in the gardening shed.  The stocky hobbit had greeted his master’s idea of a swing with a dubious expression.  “No offense, sir,” Sam had said carefully, “but I’d feel better if’n you let me tie that knot.”  Frodo had spent a moment comparing his knot-tying skills to Sam’s, then agreed.

A few heart-stopping slips and splinters later, Frodo sat up warily on the thick branch.  “Back up now,” he called down to them.  “A little more.  Pippin, you too, please.  Are you sure you are out of the way?  Right, then.  Here it comes!”  Dropping the plank, they watched as it spiraled down.  Pippin caught it with a shriek of joy and tried to swarm up it, pipe-stem arms quivering with the strain.

Merry plucked him off and sat him on the ground.  “Just you wait a moment while we make sure it’s safe.”  Pippin wiggled but obeyed.  Frodo remained in the tree watching his knot while Merry subjected the swing to rigorous testing, launching himself onto it from a running leap and kicking high into the air.  Rather to his surprise, it held.  He surrendered the swing to Pippin somewhat regretfully.  “Be careful, Pippin,” he cautioned the eager child, “I don’t want you getting rope-burns on your hands.  And don’t swing so high up you slide off.  And -”

“Merry,” Frodo called down from his perch in the tree, “would you let the poor lad have a go?” 

Pippin did indeed love the swing.  Attached by a single rope, it did not swing so much as twirl, which delighted the child.  While Frodo struggled down the tree (in the process collecting more splinters), Merry wound the rope tightly and held it for his little cousin.  Pippin clambered abroad, grinning from ear to ear.  “Now hold on tightly,” Merry admonished him. 

Pippin clamped his hands around the rope and squealed, “Let go!  Let go, Merry!”  As Merry released the rope, the accumulated tension spun the plank and its passenger rapidly.  Pippin leaned back to increase the speed of the spin, shrieking incoherently and giggling. 

Unfortunately, the single flaw in this plan had escaped both Frodo and Merry.  Pippin’s loud “Wheeee!  Wheeeee!” gradually subsided but Frodo and Merry did not realize their error until the lad’s face abruptly went green, he fell off the slowly twisting swing and was miserably sick.

Frodo fell on his knees beside the retching child.  “Oh, Pippin!  I’m so sorry, lad!”  Merry rubbed the small back while Frodo apologized, both of them far more upset than Pippin.  “No more twirling,” declared Frodo contritely.  “We’ll make a regular swing.  Just back and forth, Pippin-lad.  Will that suit?”

Still coughing, Pippin nodded hesitantly.  While Merry took Pippin inside to wash him off and swish out his mouth, Frodo kicked earth over the small mess then went back to Sam for more rope and a plank with two holes.  This time, Sam put aside his work and trailed after him.  They stood at the base of the tree and stared upwards at the branch.

“I’ll carry the swing up,” Frodo said resignedly, “and drop it down again.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Sam said, “but wouldn’t it be easier just ‘ta leave the plank here and me toss the rope up to you?”

Frodo looked at the heavy plank in his hands.  “Oh.”  There was a moment of silence.  “I suppose it would.  I’ve never made a swing before, you know.”

“You’re doing fine, Mr. Frodo,” said Sam comfortingly if not quite truthfully.

Without the plank and trailing ropes, Frodo had a much easier time climbing the tree.  Merry returned with Pippin just in time to hold the plank while Sam tossed the two ropes up to Frodo. “Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Frodo,” Sam called up, exchanging a grin with Merry.  “But the rope’s got to go on the same side o’ the tree.  Won’t swing, else.”

“Oh, bother,” muttered Frodo.  Pippin giggled.

Merry again refused to let Pippin try the swing until Sam had examined the contraption and pronounced it safe.  After it had passed their rigorous inspection, Pippin leaped on it and kicked his heels.  “Look at me!” Pippin yowled, rapidly picking up speed and height.  “Look at me!  Look how high I can go!”

Frodo sat down on the ground and pulled a splinter out of his palm.  Merry dropped next to him and after a moment, Sam joined them.  The three of them settled into the warm grass and watched the ecstatic child, beaming at the pure joy Pippin radiated.  Glancing over at his cousin, Merry saw that Frodo was laughing, his eyes sparkling with delight.  Tension he didn’t know he had been feeling drained out of him.  His self-imposed task had been accomplished and he could relax, at least for the time being.  Merry draped an arm around Frodo’s shoulders and the other over Sam’s, and pulled them in for a hug.  “Lovely day today, isn’t it?” he murmured happily.

* TBC *

A Perilous Path

Frodo brushed grass off his breeches and picked a bramble out of his foot hair, peering up at the darkening sky anxiously. "I don't like the look of those clouds, lads.  We'd best go inside before the rain starts." 

Pippin stopped his joyful shrieking long enough to shout down to his cousin, “I don’t want to go in yet, Frodo!”  The eleven-year old hobbit-child drew back his legs and delivered another mighty kick, forcing the swing even higher into the late afternoon sky.  The leaves of the great roof tree above Bag End quivered with the child’s energetic efforts.

Merry yawned and affixed his cousin with a lazy eye.  The last patch of sun was warm on his face as he lay on his back beside Frodo, knees comfortably drawn up and hands crossed over his midsection.  The branches above him sheltered his eyes from the increasing glare of sun through clouds, but those clouds rolling in were increasingly dark and ominous.  Well, it was nearly time for tea anyway.

Frodo sat watching Pippin play, his arms looped around his knees and a light breeze ruffling his hair.  Merry smiled to himself – his plan to invite their little cousin to keep Frodo occupied and too busy to mourn Bilbo’s absence was brilliant.  Even if he did say so himself.  Frodo was looking better, he observed critically, not so thin and drawn, and satisfying Pip’s constant demand for sweets had even resulted in his elder cousin gaining a few pounds.  Merry silently congratulated himself for his own cleverness and yawned again.

Frodo caught the movement from the corner of his eye, turning to nudge him and point at the roiling clouds overhead.  Just then, a fat raindrop splashed discourteously on Merry’s nose.  With a resigned sigh, Merry sat up.

“Merry, it’s going to rain.”  Frodo was already on his feet, hand shading his eyes as he watched the last patch of blue swallowed by grey.  “Would you get Pip off that swing, please?  I’ll go ahead and start tea.”  Frodo made it two steps before a hand clamped about his ankle.

“You are not leaving me to get Pippin off,” stated Merry flatly. 

“You shouldn’t have tried to catch the swing yesterday.”  Frodo tried to kick his ankle free without hurting his cousin.  Failing at that, he declared, “You are the older cousin, Merry.  Make him obey you.”

“He bit me!”

Frodo winced and sat down again.  “I suppose we have a few more minutes.  Maybe he’ll get tired.”

Merry rolled over and idly propped his chin up on bent elbows.  “Look, there’s the post hobbit. Oh, he seems to have a package.  Are you expecting anything, Frodo?”

Frodo leaned forward and glanced down the Hill, then climbed back to his feet to get a better look.  “Pippin!  Your stuffed bear is here!”

With a whoop, Pippin launched himself off the swing and down the Hill at a run, leaving his older cousins to follow more slowly.  By the time they arrived in the parlor, Pippin had torn the paper and string off the package and was hugging his very disreputable toy, cooing to it while he babbled on about his visit to Frodo’s home.  The bear sported one button eye (Pippin had eaten the other when he was a baby) and large bald patches where the rabbit fur had fallen out.  Pippin didn’t care.  He loved the ugly thing with a child’s love, unselfconscious and indiscriminate, not the least because his adored Uncle Bilbo had given it to him.

“Well, thank the stars for that,” Frodo sighed.  He pushed a pile of blocks out of a chair and sat down to distastefully investigate a cup of cold tea left on a side table.  “Now neither of us will have to sleep with him tonight.   I don’t think all of my bruises have faded yet.” 

Frodo and Merry had solved the problem of substituting for Pippin’s cherished toy by allowing the child to stay up as late as he wished.  When Pippin finally gave out and curled up in one of their laps, that one would scoop him up and carry him to bed.  Frodo was rather proud of that solution – tucking an already soundly-sleeping hobbit-child into bed resolved the “Just five more minutes, please, Cousin?” and  “May I have a drink of water?” and innumerable other delaying tactics. 

To Frodo’s bewilderment, meals seemed to be going the same way as Pippin’s proper bedtime.   Somehow his nutritious breakfasts, carefully planned for a growing hobbit-lad, had given way to sweetcakes every morning, piled high with berries and dripping with honey.  Or pie.  Or strawberry shortcake.  Frodo salvaged his conscience by telling himself the berries were fruit, and whipped cream was almost milk, and shortcake was just another sort of bread, wasn’t it?

Frodo was jolted from his guilty thoughts by Merry rooting around in the debris.  “Pippin, you have got to pick up your toys.  I thought I saw…  Here it is.  Look, Frodo, there’s a letter.  It’s from Mum.”   Merry edged carefully past the overturned divan and sought a vacant chair.  The two had been teaching Pippin to build a smial, and the parlor sofa, chairs, and every available table had been commandeered for the structure. 

“What does it say?”

Merry broke the seal and pulled the letter out of the envelope.  “Um … say hullo to your cousins for me … your da and I are well …the pigs got into the kitchen garden again … oh.”

Something in Merry’s tone alerted his cousin.  “Oh?  Oh, what?”

Merry was rapidly scanning the rest of the letter, not meeting his cousin’s eyes.  “Um, Frodo … Mum and Dad are coming for a visit.  They want to see how the new Master of Bag End is doing.”

Frodo stretched out a foot and braced it against a wobbling sofa cushion that comprised one of the tunnel’s “walls.”  Pippin had disappeared with his bear, his progress through the smial marked by a shrill little voice busily providing the toy a tour.  “Oh, good.  When?”  Frodo looked over when his cousin did not immediately answer.  “Merry?”

“Tomorrow.”

“What?”

Merry swallowed. “Tomorrow.  Aunt Eggie and Uncle Pal asked them to check on Pippin.  They’re worried we might be having trouble with the lad.”

Their gazes met, then slowly traveled in horrified unison about the parlor.  A spider web was draped between two beams, its occupant quite evident and comfortably at home. Teacups, mugs, and a plate of what might once have been cheese and pickled onions perched precariously atop a stack of books.  From the jam smears on the hem, one of the curtains at the round window had obviously been used as a hand-towel.  The largest sofa had been turned on its side and draped with a bedspread to form the rear of Pippin’s smial.  Chairs marched out from it on both sides like wings of a building, blankets and quilts draped over all.  Absently, Merry noted that the tile floor had not been swept in quite some time.  Sometime during the construction, Sam had given the lad two small potted geraniums, and Pippin had happily placed these on each side of the “door.”  Both had since been knocked over, dirt spilling out onto the rug, and were looking quite sad.

Merry’s gaze traveled to the hallway, which was lined with an astonishing assortment of toys.  Frodo could not seem to visit the market without bringing back some new plaything for the lad.  Merry could just see the edge of the kitchen table, cluttered with the boiled bones of a dead bird, carefully cleaned and in the process of being wired together.  The table also contained a half-finished kite, an abandoned wasps’ nest, interesting rocks, pussy-willows and cattails, and the unwashed dishes of the last several meals.  Frodo had started piling those on the table when the counters and cabinets overflowed.  Paper scraps and kite string littered the floor.

“I shouldn’t worry about that,” Frodo murmured dismally.  “Pippin seems to have things well in hand.”

“Look, we mustn’t panic,” said Merry firmly, aware his own voice was quavering.

“Why not?” returned Frodo somewhat wildly, coming to his feet and staring about him.  “Merry, I love your mother … but you know how she is about housekeeping.  I swear she has the clouds trained not to rain on her windows.”

Merry frowned. “Frodo, you are exaggerating.  Mum isn’t about to descend on you like the bringer of doom.  She knows you’re on your own now.  Not that Bilbo was any better,” he added disapprovingly, surveying the papers piled in every corner and books stacked on the floor.

Frodo was picking up things and putting them down again, obviously overwhelmed by the evidence of their dissolute lifestyle.  Merry gently took a pile of scrolls from him and returned them to a map case, collecting a fair amount of dust on his hands as he did so.  “What we need is a little help,” he said thoughtfully.

“Sam,” said Frodo immediately.

“And Marigold and Hal and Ham and any other available siblings, and Mistress Gamgee and the Gaffer if they will.  Really, Frodo, I don’t know how you let the old hole get in such a mess.”

“I had help,” replied Frodo darkly, catching up an emptied port bottle that lay half under a footstool.

Merry flushed slightly.  Not yet a tweenager, he’d been quick to add his own order to Frodo’s indulgent market list.  Port wouldn’t have been allowed him at Brandy Hall.  “Ah, yes.  Well, the kitchen is clean enough at any rate.”  He reconsidered.  It had been before the sweetcake incident.  A morning spent mopping really hadn’t taken care of the batter that had flowed under the cabinets and into the cracks.  “Or not.”

* * * * *

“That’s about the lot, Mr. Frodo.”  Sam leaned against the doorjamb and sighed tiredly.  It was late, very late.  The rain had left the star-lit sky clean and the smell of night-blooming flowers created a perfume that drifted in the open windows, battling with the smell of cleaning solutions and soap.  The rest of Sam’s family had gone home hours ago, with Frodo’s thanks and a small but heavy purse of coins and a bottle of Bilbo’s treasured Old Wineyards for the Gaffer.  The old hobbit hadn’t wanted to take it, but Frodo had pressed it upon him, his thanks shining in his eyes.

Merry’s entire body ached.  He’d spent days mucking out the stables that had left him less tired than this.  Frodo looked no better, his fine-boned face drawn with fatigue.  As Merry relaxed in a soft, overstuffed chair, Frodo struggled to his feet and crossed to Sam, placing a hand on the gardener’s arm.  “Sam, I owe you for this.  Anything of mine is yours.  In fact, I have two younger cousins I’d like to gift you with.”

Sam grinned, his own weariness evident.  “Thank you, sir, but I’ve enough o’ me own.  Shall I come by early and help with breakfast?”

Frodo shook his head.  “No, Sam.  Sleep in.  If you’d keep an eye on the road, though, and watch for the Brandybucks’ trap.  I expect they’ll be here between second breakfast and elevenses.”

Pippin had thought the cleaning was wonderful fun, the idea of a neat and tidy Bag End being a whole new concept.  He had watched sadly as his smial was dismantled but Frodo and Merry promised to rebuild it even bigger, so the hobbit-lad was content.  The sofa had been turned upright, the cushions fluffed and replaced, and the blankets neatly folded and returned to the presses.  Pippin had darted from housecleaner to housecleaner, thin chest puffed up with the importance of carrying messages and delivering cleaning supplies.  At long last he had finally given out in spite of himself and curled up in front of the fire.  Merry had carried him to bed and tucked him in, wrapping his arms around the ridiculous stuffed bear.

While Frodo escorted Sam to the door and bade him goodnight, Merry looked proudly around the parlor.  The old hole had never looked so good.  The tile floor gleamed.  The carpets had been beaten and aired, the sweet scent of rain-washed grass lingering in the fibers.  The books had been dusted and returned to the shelves (for the first time in years, Merry thought).  Bilbo’s cherished map of his Adventure had been carefully rehung on the wall, Merry not missing the sorrow in Frodo’s face as he adjusted it on its nail.  Merry wondered where the dear old hobbit was, and if he knew how much his leaving had hurt Frodo.

Frodo returned, rubbing his eyes.  “I need a bath.  So do you, Merry-lad.”

Merry smiled at him.  “I remember when you used to say that to me when I was younger than Pip.  It seemed you were always ducking me in the tub.”

“You always seemed to need it,” his cousin returned.  “Filthy little beggar you were – into every unwatched vegetable garden and dusty, unguarded pantry.”

Merry laughed softly, his blue eyes lit with good memories.  “I was introduced to a life of crime by a certain, unnamed older cousin.  I was a virtuous child, merely led astray by bad influences.”

Frodo grinned at him.  “Come along, off to the baths with you.  I’ll blow out the candles.”

* * * * * 

Merry’s next awareness was of voices.  Not unusual, that.  Pippin was usually the first one up, and it seemed the child either sang or talked to himself (loudly) until either he or Frodo dragged themselves up.  He had almost managed to drift back to sleep when a sharp finger plunged into his shoulder and an excited little voice yipped, “Get up, Merry!  Frodo needs you!”

Merry forced his eyes open.  A pointed little face hung inches from his, one hand holding up his nightshirt to climb onto Merry’s bed.  Wide green-gold eyes stared eagerly into his.  “There’s a squirrel in the grate!” Pippin exclaimed breathlessly.  “It fell down the chimney.  Frodo wants you to help him get it out.”

Pippin continued to chatter happily while Merry splashed water on his face and struggled into his clothes.  Following his little cousin, he came upon the soles of Frodo’s feet projecting from the mouth of the fireplace, framed by his bony backside.  Frodo was crouching on his hands and knees, peering into the parlor grate.  A tiny pair of beady black eyes peered back.

Merry sank down beside his cousin and looked in.  The squirrel chattered at them, fluffing its tail.

“Roast it,” he suggested, not in any good mood.

Frodo gave him a reproachful look.  “Merry.  The poor thing must be terrified.  At least it doesn’t seem to be hurt.”  Merry sighed.  His cousin’s compassionate heart would take him on a perilous path one of these days, he thought darkly.

Frodo inched forward, hands extended to encircle the quivering animal.  The squirrel glanced from approaching hand to approaching hand, its tiny blunt head turning rapidly and its huge, fluffy tail curled about its hindquarters.   

“Here, lad,” Frodo crooned.  “Poor little fellow.  I’m not going to hurt you.  Just you let me pick you up now, and take you outside to all your little friends…”  Babbling idiotic nonsense, Frodo cradled his hands carefully around the soft little body and lifted it gently.

The little beast froze for a moment, then twisted and with remarkable agility, rotated in its skin and sank its sharp little teeth into Frodo’s thumb.  Frodo loosed a yowl worthy of Pippin on his best day and shook his hand frantically.  The squirrel held on, flapping like a furry muff. 

Frodo stumbled back, his initial scream of pain and astonishment drowned by the shattering of crockery as he fell against the side table.  Delicate recently-dusted ornaments crashed to the tiles.  Still shaking his hand, Frodo rocked up and came down on his knees directly on a sharp edge, its crunch lost in his howl.

Frodo surged to his feet, hopping on one leg as more knick-knacks crunched under the tough soles of his feet.  Merry stared up at him, stunned, then snatched up one sharp shard and lunged at the wild rodent.  “Merry!” Frodo yelped, “Don’t hurt it!  Don’t hurt it!”

 Merry dropped the broken crockery and stared at his cousin.  Frodo gave up on shaking his hand and started windmilling his arms, hoping the force would fling the little beast off.  One flying arm smashed into a cabinet, sending its contents flying.  Merry ducked and fell back, shielding his head from the debris.  Dimly, he registered that Pippin was shrieking in excitement even as Frodo fought to master himself to avoid frightening the wide-eyed child.

Yowling, Pippin darted forward and tried to snatch the little beast off his cousin.  That broke Merry’s dumbfounded paralysis.  “No, Pippin!  Get back!”

“It’s trying to eat Frodo!” Pippin shrieked, jumping up to pry off the squirrel, his thin arms battering his cousin.  Afraid that it might turn and attack the lad, Frodo was holding it above Pippin’s head, his arm stretched at full length and supported at the elbow by the other.

“Merry!  Get him off!”  It took Merry a moment to understand Frodo meant the child, not the squirrel.  He darted forward and caught Pippin around the waist as his little cousin tried to climb Frodo like a tree, hand outstretched.  Pippin shamelessly cow-kicked and Merry dropped him, sinking to his knees, both hands curled agonizingly between his legs.  Before Frodo’s horrified eyes, he fell over onto his side with a wheezing whimper.

Unaware of what he had just done to his beloved cousin, Pippin scooted over to the hearth and snatched up a thick stick from the goblin breastplate that Bilbo kept the firewood in.  Merry wrenched open tear-filled eyes just in time to see Pippin leap at Frodo, stick raised, shrieking incoherent battle cries at the top of his lungs.

Frodo sensibly jumped backwards.  “Pippin, no!” he shouted.  “Pippin!”  Pippin closed on him, totally intent on ridding his adored elder cousin of his furry attacker.  The squirrel watched him, black eyes gleaming, as it sank its teeth deeper into Frodo’s hand.

Frodo stumbled back against the side table, and the crystal vase filled with flowers slid to the floor and shattered.  Water splattered everywhere, but worse was the sharp glass, a danger to even tough hobbit-feet.  “Pippin, watch out!  Pippin-lad!”  Ignoring the broken glass, Pippin jumped and swung.  The squirrel leaped free, landing on the mantle.  The stick landed on Frodo’s shin with a muffled thud that resulted in a bellow of astonishing volume from their normally quiet cousin.  Frodo went down in a ball, clutching his leg to his chest, rocking frantically as he gritted his teeth against anguished exclamations unfit for a child’s ears.

Pippin, meanwhile, was in hot pursuit of the squirrel.  He took aim with the stick and let fly but it bounced harmlessly off the mantle to the floor, taking the portrait of Bilbo’s mother that hung over the fireplace with it.  No less agile than the little beast, he scrambled up to the top of the wood piled in the breastplate and pulled himself up onto the mantle.  The squirrel whirled to face him, chattering, sharp white teeth gleaming amidst its blood-stained muzzle.  Its tail plumped out alarmingly.

The lad scrambled over the mantle, sending the candlesticks, Frodo’s pipe and all his cousin’s correspondence crashing to the floor.  But the squirrel was amazingly quick.  In one prodigious leap, it launched its furry body from the mantle to the top of the nearest bookshelf.  Pippin followed.  He, however, was not small enough to perch upon the shelf.  Small hands scrabbled desperately for purchase, then he was sliding down the face of the bookshelf, pulling its contents after him.  The lad disappeared under an avalanche of books and scrolls and such.  The squirrel chattered at the pile triumphantly.

“Pippin!  Pippin!”  Frodo threw himself on the mound and began to dig, flinging books in every direction.  He unearthed the dazed child and pulled him into a hug, unintentionally smearing blood on the back of the lad’s nightshirt.  “Are you all right, dear heart?”

Pippin nodded blankly, then Frodo found himself hugging empty air.  The child duckedunder his arms andwas off the floor in a flash.  He snatched up the nearest projectile – a book - and threw it at the animal.  The squirrel froze for the briefest second, then it ducked and the book (a torrid romance novel, Merry noted with the small part of his mind that was not wholly involved in his misery) bounced harmlessly off the wall.  The squirrel voiced a chitter that sounded remarkably like a sneer, then it was running for its life as Pippin snatched up book after book and threw them at the little beast.  Books smashed into lamps, into bowls, into fragile items.  One knocked off a candy dish filled with sweets that Frodo had just set out that morning, the better to safeguard it from Pippin’s rapacious sweet tooth.

“Pippin!  My books!” cried Frodo in anguish.  He lunged for the child and managed to intercept a book in mid-air.  Unfortunately, he tripped over an overturned chair and he went down with a howl, still cradling the precious book.

“I’ll save you, Frodo!” Pippin cried, misunderstanding the reason for his elder cousin’s pain.  Hobbits are renowned for their aim but little Pippin could perhaps be excused by all the excitement and stress of defending his helpless cousins.  The child snatched up another vase, pulling out the flowers and throwing them on Frodo, and dashed the water at his quarry.  The dirty water drenched the squirrel and its tail went flat in surprise.  It leaped off another bookcase and dropped to the floor.  With a whoop, Pippin was after it.

The squirrel skittered under a chair and Pippin followed, bucking the furniture off him in a scramble of pipe-stem arms and legs.  The little creature shot towards the wall then along it.  Pippin thrust out the vase and flung himself ahead of it.  Beady eyes on the lad, the squirrel ran right into the vase and Pippin clapped a book over the top, and then weighted it down with several more.

Silence reigned, marred only by three panting sets of lungs.  Then Pippin leapt to his feet and ran to his eldest cousin. “Frodo!  Frodo – are you all right?”  Frodo clamped his hand on his bleeding thumb and staggered back against the chair.

“Perfectly, yes, thank you, Pippin,” Frodo replied through clenched teeth.  “Merry, will you throw that miserable creature outside?”

Merry tried an experimental uncurl.  A twinge made him gasp, but he found he could sit up.  “Roasted squirrel –“

“Tempting, but I couldn’t bring myself to eat it.  Let it go, Merry.”  Pippin wavered between them, torn between comforting his bleeding cousin and witnessing the spectacle of the creature’s return to the Wild.  His eyes wide with excitement, he dashed off outside.  Merry lurched after him, walking in a strange, hunched over fashion.

“I would have eaten you,” Merry informed the squirrel.  With Pippin supervising, he placed the vase on the ground outside of the smial, cautiously edged back from it and pulled the books away from the top.  The evil little beast didn’t move.  Pippin knelt in the mud in his nightshirt and tapped the container.  The creature shot from it as if catapulted from a sling.  It raced up the nearest tree and chattered at them insultingly from a branch.

Merry sighed and straightened, wincing.  “Well, that’s that.  Oh, Pip, you’re a mess.  Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.  Then we’ll start on the parlor.”

Pippin, however, was not listening.  The little lad was staring down the Hill, where a small pony trap had paused at the entrance to No. 3, Bagshot Row.  Its occupants were leaning over the side, talking to Samwise.  “Oh, no,” murmured Merry.

“Uncle Sara and Auntie Esmie!”  Pippin gulped a great breath to hail them, then Merry’s hand whipped around the lad’s mouth and lifted him off his feet, carrying the surprised child back into the smial.

“Frodo!” Merry roared, “Mum and Da are coming up the road!”  Merry set Pippin down and the child dashed into the parlor, where Frodo was just wrapping a bandage around his hand.  Without a hint of panic, Frodo tied off the bandage.  He straightened his collar, then dusted off his breeches as he checked the buttoning of his waistcoat.  Assured that he was properly and neatly attired, he ran a hand through his hair, slicking down the unruly curls.  Then he turned to Merry.  Merry readied himself to leap into action, knowing he could trust his elder cousin’s handling of any crisis.

“Right.  We never got their letter … remember that, lads.  Both of you - out the back door.  We’re hiding at the Gamgees until they leave.”

* TBC *

Steak and Mushrooms (written for the LiveJournal Shire_Kitchen Recipe Challenge)

The three hobbits stared at the smoldering ruins of their dinner distastefully. Smoke curled from the crisped remains and black flecks of charcoal continued to fleck off and smudge the crisp white linens Frodo had laid so carefully on the table. The smell of burned chicken lingered unappetizingly in the usually cozy kitchen of Bag End, and made their eyes water.

"I’m not eating that," Pippin declared resolutely.

"Possibly the first time those words have ever been uttered," Merry muttered. He picked up the carving knife and prodded the carcass, hoping to discover an edible bit. A drumstick clunked off and lay rocking on the table.

"I was only in the study for a few minutes," Frodo said wretchedly. "Supper was coming along well, and I was trying to track down a book that had a reference-"

"Yes, yes," Merry interrupted. "Well, that doesn’t help us now." He opened one of the round windows and began flapping a dishtowel. Smoke began slowly to clear out into the cold night air.

"I’m starving," Pippin whined with all the conviction of an eleven-year old hobbit who hasn’t eaten since tea.

Merry sighed. This was his fault, really. Frodo insisted on doing all the cooking for his and Pippin’s visit, despite his cousin’s rather limited skills in the kitchen. Merry knew it was unwise for Frodo to be distracted whilst he was cooking. Odd and unpleasant things could result, like the pickle wrapped in a meat roll. Or Frodo’s attempt at Mistress Gamgee’s famous whipped potatoes. Though to be fair, horseradish did look quite a bit like sour cream. Merry hadn’t quite recovered from that one. But this evening he had been involved in supervising Pippin’s bath, and with the resultant splashing and shouts, he hadn’t dared leave the child to check on Frodo.

"Never let it be said that I can’t cook," Frodo declared determinedly. "You tell me what you want, Pippin-lad, and I’ll make it for you."

"Truly?" asked the child, delighted.

"Truly," Frodo confirmed, grinning at him affectionately.

"I … um…" Pippin stammered, unused to being handed such power.

Merry, more practical, had been quietly examining the larder. "There isn’t much here, Cousin. Time for a trip to the market."

Frodo joined him and stood looking mournfully at the bare shelves. "Well, bringing up young hobbits takes a lot of provender. All right, lads, put your cloaks on. We’re going out."

"To mooch off the Gamgees?" Merry asked hopefully.

"No," Frodo said. "I hear The Green Dragon has a new cook, and he makes an excellent steak and mushrooms."

"Steak and mushrooms! Steak and mushrooms!" Pippin crowed, capering about the dinner table gleefully.

"And I hear the new cook has two very pretty daughters working as serving maids," Merry called after Frodo as he headed toward his room to change his shirt, which smelled strongly of burnt chicken.

Frodo paused in the doorway and tried to look severe, but his sparkling eyes gave him away. "That has nothing to do with it."

"Of course it doesn’t," Merry agreed, looking down at himself and attempting to brush drying soap off his shirt. "Maybe I will just change my clothes, too…"

Frodo reappeared sometime after Merry did, both of them fresh-washed and brushed. "How do I look?" the older hobbit asked. "Not that it matters, of course. We are just going out for dinner."

"I suppose you are wearing your best Party waistcoat because it’s cold?" Merry asked consideringly. "And your new embroidered shirt. You look quite dashing."

Frodo bowed. "I am merely trying to keep up with my cousin. You are wearing your new suit, I note, and isn’t that a splash of cologne I smell? Very nice."

"All right, all right," Merry grumbled.

"What’s taking so long?" Pippin wanted to know, his stuffed bear tucked under an arm.

* * *

It was a quiet night at Frodo’s favorite inn. Frodo looked about but except for a few scattered hobbits quietly eating or involved in conversations, the three had the common room to themselves. "Good," Frodo said smugly. "Less competition for the lovely young ladies’ attention."

Frodo chose a table near the fire and dropped onto the bench, sniffing the delicious aromas that were drifting through the stuffy room. Merry sat next to him and Pippin took the seat across, eyes wide at being in a new place. "May I have an ale?" he asked Frodo hopefully.

"Ginger beer for you," Frodo returned, "and tea for Merry. I’ll have an ale."

"Da lets me have a sip of his at home," Pippin said hopefully at the same time Merry said, "Frodo! I’m old enough for a drink!"

"Shush," Frodo ordered, spying movement behind the bar. "I want to meet the lasses!"

The two lasses who emerged were indeed beauteous. One had brown hair and black eyes and the other black hair and brown eyes. Both of them were curvy and soft, and their deep-cut bodices displayed other delightful contours. Frodo sat up straighter and adjusted his shirt collar, and Merry licked his palm and ran a quick hand through his hair. Both of them flashed smiles at the approaching young ladies, prepared to be charming.

The brown-haired one stopped before them and curtsied. "Good evening, sirs. What may I bring—" Then she caught sight of Pippin. "Oh, isn’t he adorable?" the lass cooed. "What a handsome little lad!" Pippin smiled up at her, basking in the attention.

"And what a sweet little bear," the other murmured. "May I hold him?" Pippin held up the dirty, disreputable, one-eyed toy and the lass took it from him, gently hugging it to her ample bosom. Merry rolled his eyes.

"We hear you and your father are new to Hobbiton?" Frodo tried politely. "How do you like-"

"Just a moment, master," the lass replied, returning the stuffed toy. "Let me get the little one some milk, and a bite to tide him over until supper comes." She tapped the end of Pippin’s sharp little nose and smiled fatuously at him.

"Thank you," Pippin called after her, then looked at the remaining lass with enormous eyes.

"Such a dear little boy," the black-haired one crooned. "Aren’t you the most precious little fellow?" She ruffled his hair, then when he beamed, leaned down to kiss a chubby cheek.

"Our dinner-" Frodo ventured.

"Would you like some supper, little one?" the first lass cooed. "I’m Peony, and that was my sister Daffodil. Just call her Daffy. I’m sure we have something a darling little lad like you would like."

"Steak and mushrooms?" asked Pippin, green-gold eyes wide.

"Three," interjected Frodo.

"Right away, sir. What’s your name, sweetheart?" Frodo jerked slightly at being addressed so, then realized the lass was speaking to Pippin.

"Pippin," the child said shyly, hugging his bear. At her smile, he held up the dirty thing. "Would you like to see my bear too?"

"Peregrin Took," Frodo interjected smoothly. "And I am Frodo Baggins and this is our cousin Merry-"

"Meriadoc Brandybuck," Merry interrupted. The lass smiled at him absently. "Of Buckland," he continued. "The Master of Buckland’s son and heir," he added shamelessly. "My cousin Frodo is the Master of Bag End."

"That’s nice," Peony said. "How old are you, Pippin dear?" She made a great show of giving the bear a kiss on the nose and returned it to its owner.

"Bag End," Merry insisted. "On The Hill."

Pippin cradled his arms around the toy and smiled shyly. The lass tickled him under the chin and he giggled.

"Peregrin," Merry interrupted, unused to being ignored, "is eleven. Peregrin Took, heir to the Thain. He’s eleven. I’m nineteen," he added hopefully. "We’re visiting Frodo," he added.

"Aren’t you the sweetest little lad?" the lass asked. Pippin beamed at her. "Do you miss your mummy, sweetheart?"

Pippin nodded, suddenly pensive, reminded he was far from home. His pointed little face took on a sad expression. Seeing this, Peony babbled, "Oh, you poor little darling. Of course you miss your mummy. May I give you a great big hug?" She sat down and Pippin climbed eagerly into her lap. The lass wrapped her arms around him and squeezed, then began to ask him riddles. She tickled him each time he got one right, and Pippin giggled and snuggled happily in her arms.

"This is disgusting," Merry fumed into Frodo’s ear. "They haven’t even looked at us! And I never got my tea!"

Leaving Pippin with the lass, Frodo signaled her sister. "Miss Daffodil, my cousin and I would be most grateful if—"

"Three steak and mushrooms," Daffy laughed, "Oh, I forgot you and the young master, sir. Half a moment! I’ll turn in your order right now!"

Their dinner seemed to arrive after an indeterminable wait. The lasses kept Pippin amused by darting back every few moments to chat with him, hug him, and present him with sweets and little treats. Pippin responded with every ounce of charm in his amiable nature. Frodo and Merry hunched down on their side of the bench and glowered.

Their dinners, when they came, were magnificent. A thick slab of rare steak was set before each of them, with ‘taters and mixed vegetables, broiled tomatoes and a loaf of bread. But only Pippin’s meal had mushrooms. The caps and stems had been separated and the caps had been carved into little smiling faces. Merry stifled the urge to gag.

"We ran out of mushrooms, sirs," Peony informed him. "There was only enough for the sweet little lad’s. We knew you wouldn’t mind if we gave them all ‘ta him."

"No," Frodo said sadly. "Merry and I will survive, I expect. And perhaps Pippin will share?" he added hopefully, looking across at the child. Pippin immediately started to push some to the side, but Daffy shook her head.

"Now, sir," Daffy said, "a fine little lad like this needs those mushrooms. Full o’ good things to make him grow," she added fondly, ruffling Pippin’s hair. "Pitch in, sweetling," she told him, "and we’ll see if we can’t find just one more piece of me old Da’s special blackberry pie for you."

Ignored and forgotten, the Master of Bag End and the future Master of Buckland sighed and attended to their dinners.

* * *

"Well, that was a humiliating experience," Merry growled as they trudged back to Bag End. Pippin had fallen asleep shortly after they had departed the inn and Frodo was carrying him, the child’s arm draped over his shoulders. Merry had been relegated to carry the bear, which did not improve his mood.

"I swear this lad’s gained a stone, at least," Frodo panted.

"Very likely, with those two lasses stuffing him full of sweets every time they passed," Merry mumbled.

Frodo made a noncommittal sound, obviously casting about for something pleasant to say. "Well, I did get the recipe. And I’m almost sure I can make it, after I scrape the last of the chicken out of the oven…"

Steak and Mushrooms

1 pound top sirloin steak

½ teaspoon salt

½ teaspoon freshly ground pepper

2 tablespoons vegetable oil

½ pound fresh, sliced mushrooms

1 teaspoon dried thyme or 1 tablespoon fresh rosemary

1 can (10 to 16 ounces) reduced-sodium beef broth

Heat oven to 300 degrees.

Sprinkle steak with salt and pepper. Heat vegetable oil in a wide skillet over medium-high heat until very hot. Add steak. Cook about three minutes per side. It should be very brown outside but rare inside. Put on baking sheet or ovenproof platter and place in oven to keep warm.

Add mushrooms to skillet. Increase heat to high and cook, stirring occasionally, until mushrooms are somewhat brown. Add herb and broth. Allow mixture to boil rapidly until the broth has nearly disappeared. Remove beef from oven and drain and save any accumulated juices from skillet.

Slice steak thinly on the diagonal and serve with mushrooms and sauce. Serves 4.

(Written for the 2006 LiveJournal Shire_Kitchen Spring Challenge)

“I’ve a superb idea,” Merry announced.

Frodo considered his options. The rain drumming on the roof was possibly loud enough to say that he hadn’t heard Merry’s remark. Or he could claim involvement in his book. Perhaps he could invent a sudden, urgent errand to take him from the room. Pippin should be getting up from his nap any time now … perhaps he should go check on the lad before Pippin signalled his rising in his usual manner—with a loud crash of something breaking. Merry might believe that.

“Frodo,” Merry insisted.

It wasn’t going to work. Merry was now gazing at him with that look of narrow-eyed speculation that meant he knew full well Frodo was planning flight.

“Remember those lovely young serving lasses at The Green Dragon?” Merry began thoughtfully.

Frodo reflected he would not soon forget the beauteous and well-endowed sisters that had spent the entire night cooing over Pippin and ignoring him and Merry. “I remember we didn’t get any mushrooms with our dinner,” Frodo replied cautiously, trying to anticipate the direction of this conversation.

Merry nodded as if Frodo had at once delved to the heart of the matter. “Yes! But why didn’t we get any mushrooms?”

“Because the cook gave them all to Pippin?”

“But why?” Merry pushed, obviously feeling that Frodo was being obtuse.

“Because there weren’t enough for all of us?” Frodo tried hopefully.

“Such a dear little lad,” Merry mimicked in Peony’s high voice. “What a sweet little precious bit…”

“What is your point, Merry?”

“I suggest we take our dear little precious bit to the Dragon for tea, and see if the lovely young lasses will pay attention to us this time.”

“Merry,” Frodo said slowly, “I think you are a bit young to be thinking of lasses. You haven’t been reading those elvish translations of Bilbo’s I told you to leave alone, have you?”

“Don’t be stodgy, Frodo,” Merry replied cheerfully, not answering his cousin’s question. “That an eleven-year old should monopolize those lasses’ attention instead of two handsome, well-off and infinitely more charming hobbits-about-town bodes ill for your future courting status, my lad.” Frodo looked at him, frowning.

“You need some practice with the ladies,” Merry clarified bluntly. 

Frodo snapped the book shut. “I hardly think my nineteen-year old cousin should be giving me advice in that area, Meriadoc.”

Merry rolled his eyes. “Frodo,” he said carefully, as if speaking to a somewhat slow child, “you are of age and Master of Bag End now. The lasses have held off out of respect for Bilbo’s departure, but I have no doubt the battle plans are being laid. All over the Shire, lasses and their mothers are meeting to discuss what ribbons or lace flipperies or plunging necklines might catch the young master’s eye.” Merry paused and regarded his cousin in fond disgust. “Not to mention the young master’s considerable fortune and considerably handsome self.”

Frodo’s expression began at indignity, veered into argumentative, progressed to embarrassment, and settled on terror. His face paling, he glanced out of the round window as if he already heard the belling of the hounds upon on his trail.

“Perhaps an extended visit to Buckland?” Frodo asked, smoothing the cover of the book nervously.

Merry nodded. “Excellent thinking. I know for a fact that Mum already has a list of eligible young ladies drawn up, and has ventured a few queries on dowries. She’s just been itching to start on finding you a wife. I believe I heard her mention how nice it would be to have a Spring wedding. I shouldn’t be surprised if that’s why she and my father made that unexpected trip to see you last week. Checking to see if Pippin was still alive in our care was just an excuse, of course.”

Frodo’s look of horror was comical. 

Merry laced his fingers comfortably over his stomach and leaned back in his chair. “Frodo,” he began in a lecturing tone, “you had to know this was coming. Bilbo let you go your merry way, but you are an adult now. And unless you want Mum and Aunt Eggie and every one of our female relations to start planning your marriage, I suggest you hie yourself out of this hole and meet some lasses.”

“It’s raining,” Frodo protested weakly.

Merry smiled complacently. “It will stop before tea. What do you say?” Seeing his cousin’s indecision, Merry continued, “Look at it this way, my dear Frodo. If you don’t meet some lovely young ladies on your own … you won’t have a choice. You need some practice. Shall we venture forth?”

Frodo looked at his cousin suspiciously. “What do you mean, we—”

Crash! came from the direction of the pantry.

* * *

Freshly washed from his unfortunate encounter with the biscuit jar (unfortunate for the jar, that is; Pippin made out quite well) the young hobbit danced around his elder cousins excitedly. “Will we see Peony and Daffodil at the Dragon, Frodo?”

“I have every intention of it,” Frodo told him as they drew near to the inn. The Green Dragon during the day bore little resemblance to the crowded public house of later hours. They paused in the doorway, sniffing hopefully. The only aroma was the smell of rising bread, proclaiming that none was yet baked. Frodo looked around and eased himself onto a bench with a frown.

“I don’t think anyone is here,” he began, but just then Daffodil breezed through the kitchen door and stopped in surprise at the sight of them.

“Your pardon, masters!” she said, hurrying forward. “I didn’t know you were here.” She caught sight of Pippin, wedged between Frodo and Merry. “It’s the dear little lad! Hullo, Pippin sweetling!”

Pippin stood up on the bench and bowed, then held out his arms to be hugged. “Hullo, Miss Daffy. Your steak and mushrooms were so good, we’ve come back for more.”

Daffodil released Pippin and looked at Frodo and Merry. “I’m sorry, sirs, there’s no food! Not much happening till dusk, and the rain’s kept everyone’s away.”

“Oh,” Frodo said, crestfallen, regretfully reaching for his cloak.

“Oh, please sir, don’t go. I wouldn’t want this little darling to go hungry. I do have some bits me mum made. They’re quite good, really. If you’ll bide a moment, I’ll see if there’s any left.”

“She remembered his name,” Merry grumbled to Frodo as they enjoyed watching the lass sway back through the kitchen door.

The lady that entered the room was the very picture of well-fed, affluent hobbitry. Greying, curly hair pulled back from her face, her lined features broadcast good humour and appreciation of the comforts of life. Her generously rounded figure forecast what her daughters would look like in forty years’ time, given good cooking and prosperous living. She sat a tray down before them and curtsied gracefully before retreating to the bar to straighten a row of mugs.

The three hobbits looked at the tray. Arranged across it were several rows of very odd-looking … tidbits? Frodo wondered. Appetizers? Hors d’oeuvres? There seemed to be a vaguely meatish mixture nestled in a star-shaped basket of thin dough, brown and steaming from the oven. Though they smelled enticing, they did not look like something he was very eager to put into his mouth.

Pippin’s quick little hand reached out and fastened on one of the things. They watched apprehensively as he bit down. That Pippin would eat something without hesitation did not recommend it—some of the things the child had readily devoured had nearly poisoned him more than once. Then Pippin’s eyes lit up and he snatched up two more, one in each hand.

Frodo bit into one of the odd-looking things and an expression of ecstasy spread across his face. Merry reached out to catch up one of the things himself.  It was still hot from the oven and he bit down carefully.

“I think I love her,” Merry muttered blissfully.

“I saw her first,” Frodo replied, piling one atop another and biting into both.

“Mum will be delighted,” Merry continued. “She and Father won’t let me marry yet, but perhaps the good Mistress will wait?”

“I’m of age now,” Frodo reminded him firmly. “And I’m asking her to marry me.”

“Hoy! Where’s Pippin?”

The lady looked down at a tug on her apron. Pippin stood before her, crumbs smeared across his face. He took her large hand in both of his small ones and knelt carefully on one knee. “I think you’re awfully pretty,” he told the lady sincerely. “And you cook so very well. Would you marry me, when I’m older?”

The lady’s surprised face split into a beaming smile and suspicious moisture welled in her eyes. “What a dear little lad,” she murmured. Bending over, she cupped Pippin’s chubby cheek. “I’d be right honoured, young master, were I not already wed.”

“I’m to be Thain someday,” Pippin told her seriously.

The matron smiled at him. “Will you, now? What a grand thing!”

Pippin nodded. “I know Mamma would like you,” he said. “And Peony and Daffodil could come live with us. They could teach my sisters how to work in a tavern. Mamma would be ever so pleased.”

The lady laughed and patted the solemn little head. “But I couldn’t leave my husband, dear. He’d take on so. He’d probably starve ‘ta death and the inn would go downhill.”

Pippin’s little face screwed up. “I shouldn’t want that,” he said slowly. He looked downcast, then said sadly, “All right, then. But I’m sorry you can’t marry me.”

She tickled his chin and Pippin giggled. Frodo and Merry were startled to hear the matron echo him, a delightful duet joined by her daughters as the lasses returned from the kitchen. The matron smiled down at Pippin. “If you like my sausage stars enough to marry me for them, young sir, I’ll fix you up a basket ‘ta take home. And you come straight to me when you want more— I’ll make them special for you, no matter how busy we are in the kitchen.”

“That is very kind of you,” Merry interjected, standing up. She glanced at him. “We’re staying with our cousin Frodo. Frodo Baggins. The Master of Bag End. Bag End. On The Hill.” The lasses smiled at him absently, not really listening.

“Go on,” Frodo whispered at him as Merry sank back on the bench. “Tell them your grandda is the Master of Buckland. See if that makes more impression than it did last time.” Merry scowled at him.

“Off you go, girls,” their mother told the lasses. Frodo and Merry’s faces fell as the beauteous young lasses were shooed back to work so that their mother could sit down and gather Pippin into her lap.

“Thank you,” Pippin said happily as she fed him the star Merry had been reaching for.

* * *

The clouds had cleared enough for the moon to illuminate the lane up The Hill, allowing two heavily burdened hobbits to pause for a moment’s breather outside the gate of Bag End. The taller one tucked his cloak around the small face snoring against his shoulder. The other seized the moment to sit a huge basket down on the still-damp ground and stretch ruefully.

“He did it again,” Merry said in disbelief. “How did he do it again? I was right there and he did it again anyway.”

“At least we got a basket this time,” Frodo reminded him, shifting the sleeping child on his shoulder. Pippin burped slightly as he was resettled, a small smile on his face. “And there’s enough for breakfast and second breakfast.”

“There is that,” Merry agreed, brightening slightly. “But I swear I don’t know how that ‘precious little bit’ does it. We’re leaving him with Sam the next time we try to make the acquaintance of a lass.”

“I think we do better with him along, actually,” Frodo replied, swinging open the gate.

Sausage Stars

1 lb Hot Jimmy Dean Sausage            1 cup Ranch dressing

1 green pepper                                  1 can chopped pitted black olives

2 cups shredded cheddar or Monterey cheese

¼ onion                                            1 package Won Ton wraps

Brown sausage. Dice pepper and onion. Combine with sausage, add cheese and dressing. Spray muffin pans with non-stick cooking spray. Gently fold one won-ton wrapper into muffin tin and lay a second won-ton wrapper across it so that the two wrappers form an eight-pointed star in the muffin tin. Press carefully down so the wrappers form a nest. Spray lightly with non-stick spray. Bake in a 350 degree oven until lightly brown. Remove from oven and spoon in generous amounts of sausage and vegetable mixture. Return to oven to bake until cheese melts, around five minutes. Remove from oven and let sit one minute, then remove from muffin pan while still warm. Makes 30 sausage stars.