Pippin missed the freezing winds blowing down from the walls of Minas Tirith.  He sometimes sat at his richly laid table in the dining hall of Tuckborough and remembered how a few handfuls of dried fruit, a hunk of dried meat and a cup of water to wash it all down were once the best things he had ever tasted.  He longed to wear again the heavy weight of chain mail coupled with leather, stiff now from idleness, embossed with the white tree—symbols of an entire city that had thought of him as more than a silly little hobbit. 

Merry caught himself listening for the thunder of hooves, and the half-forgotten sounds of songs he never truly understood.  He often fingered his clothes; they seemed strangely soft and drab after days of rough leather and shining mail.  Summers he would stare into the Old Forest, wondering if Tom was gathering water lilies again for Goldberry.  He woke nights in winter, thinking Éowyn called his name--it was time to ride now, ride to Gondor and either glory or death or both…the realization that he already had done so brought him no relief, only a strange longing in his heart.

The sight of a road, stretching into the distance, never failed to make him think of the Black Riders.   He dreamed of fiery Mount Doom and foul, wretched Mordor-- how the taste of its’ spoiled, oily waters had been better than miruvor.  The touch of spider-silk made him shudder. Sam could never forget how the Watchers shrieked in fury as he half-dragged Frodo away from the orc tower.   He even missed arguing with Gollum. Sometimes, in the autumn, touching the mallorn tree and closing his eyes, Sam could swear he heard the mournful singing of the elves in Lothlorién.

Furry feet buried in white sand…all he could think of was the thick, brown clay banks of the Brandywine.  Frodo sipped wines considered sweeter and fuller than any other… he missed the coarser, mortal taste of the Old Winyards.  All the melodiously moving songs of the elven kind could not replace the laughing voices of his cousins raised in joy.  His scars had long faded and took the pain with them, but Frodo thought he would have it all back to sit a day with Sam or Merry or Pippin again.  Sometimes he wondered if he had left too soon.

He could stand, if he wished, dry and warm, and watch the rain or snow.  No more rough clothing worn ragged with months of travel—he was a king now, dressed in velvets and silks.  But, still he missed the seasons stirring around him.  Aragorn wished for a task that needed no diplomatic thought.  He wanted action, battle, a challenge.  He longed for the quiet days of a Ranger, spent alone. Now servants and nobles alike eyed his every move, eagerly following to see if they would be granted favor or spurned.  His son wanted adventure and so did he

Rebuilding Ithilien and lending his aid occupied him, for a while.  But, he was a warrior firstly, not a lord in need of sumptuous halls.  He needed neither golden harps nor, the silver gleam of mithril horns.  The grateful song of recovered trees, grass and earth were better than fingers and strings to him.  Legolas dearly missed his mortal friends to the west—dwarf, man and hobbit.  Time, it seemed, flew faster than Thorondor’s children and his dearest friends soon were greyed and stooped. The Gift of Man; they would find new quests—he could do naught but remember them.

 Starlight and the sea—he never thought he could love them so easily.  Gimli found his dwarvish heart was moved no more by gold or wealth since he left her wood; Galadriel’s words were proven true.  Calling his kin, they soon no longer slept in dark, drab mountains…he had discovered colors no dwarf could name hidden in Rohan.    Despite fame and fortune, he wanted more.  Things of subtle and clever craft were no substitute for discussing the merits of ale with hobbits or teaching a stubborn elf the proper way to hold an axe.  Gimli only wished for more time.