Setting: Hobbiton; 1423, by Shire-Reckoning. 

Arwen (4 years old) birth date, said to be October 24, 1419;

Elanor (2 years old) March 25, 1421;

Frodo-lad (5 months) 1423

A/N:  The opening scene in this chapter may sound familiar, and should.  I’ve taken the opening scenes of LOTR and messed with them a little bit.

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything in this story, it all belongs to Tolkien, brilliant man.  Really, I mean, who else do you know who can create different languages, cultures and thousands of years of history with them?  The only thing I might possibly own is Arwen Baggins (no relation to me, lol).  I own the girl, but not the name- that’s straight from Tolkien.  Confusing, I know.  Enjoy.

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Title: His Little Evenstar

Chapter One: Many Meetings 

            Gandalf the White smoked his pipe, not bothering to care about getting his white robes dirty, as they were covered in a long, grey tunic.  He had thought it better to appear as unchanged as possible while visiting the Shire.  In fact, he’d had a pointy-grey hat fashioned in Gondor just for the occasion, much to the King’s amusement.  As he approached Bagshot Row (or New Row as it was now called) he began singing one of the last stanzas of a very ridiculous song.

“With a ping and a pong the fiddle-strings broke

the cow jumped over the moon,

and the little dog laughed, to see such fun…”

            Gandalf smoked his pipe as he sang the song that had given a certain Frodo Baggins an infamous reputation in Bree some five years prior.  He was lost in thought over the story that his friend Barliman Butterbur had related over a good cup of ale a few days back.  Even after all of those years, he still didn’t know that Frodo had in fact disappeared that fateful night.  He was brought back to reality by a young voice finishing up the song for him.

“ ‘And  the Saturday dish went off at a run

with the silver Sunday spoon

The round Moon rolled behind the hill

As the Sun raised her head.

She hardly believed her fiery eyes;

For though it was day, to her surprise

They all went back to bed.’  You’re late!”

            Gandalf looked up to see a little Hobbit girl, pushing strands of sandy –light brown curls out her face, and holding a piece of slate and chalk with her free hand.  This last bit of information was all he needed to identify the little scamp.  There was only one little girl who would be learning to write in the Shire.  “A wizard is never late, Arwen Baggins –”

            “— nor is he early, he arrives precisely when he means to,” the child finished for him. 

            Good gracious!  He knew that Hobbits were amazing creatures, but he had never known them to be able to read minds!  But then again, the child had no doubt memorized the whole song.  Her “uncles” would have told her the story about how her father had been doing a crazy dance on a table and fallen into a waiter with a tray of mugs.  They also, undoubtedly would have omitted the little bit about her father disappearing underneath the table, a trick he had pulled courtesy of the One Ring.  And one that, consequently, was still being discussed to that day.  “You didn’t think I’d miss your Uncle Pippin’s Coming of Age party, did you?  Your father also accused me of being late to his uncle’s party.”

            “I know.  Dad said you’d say that.  How did you know my name?  I was hoping to surprise you.  And what do you mean you’re not late?!  Your letter said you’d be here last week!”

            Gandalf laughed.  “Are you sure you’re not a Took?  So many questions, really.  The Frodo Baggins that I know would not have taught his daughter to interrupt her elders.”  The scolding had the desired effect.  The child shrank back, ashamed of her manners, or her lack thereof.  Gandalf gave her a reprimanding stare, but he couldn’t hold it, not against the tears the threatened to invade those beautiful blue eyes.  A teasing smile crept over his face and Arwen saw it.  The scolding forgotten, the child giggled and launched herself into Gandalf’s arms, as though they were old friends, which they practically were.  Each had heard so many stories about the other from Frodo that they did indeed feel like old friends. 

            “How could I not know you, Little Evenstar?  You fit Frodo’s description perfectly.”  Gandalf looked into her eyes again and shook his head.  He could have sworn that the child had inherited Frodo’s cerulean blue eyes.  But that wasn’t the case.  Gandalf knew from Frodo’s letters that he had adopted Arwen after the Battle of Bywater, which had made her an orphaned lass when she was a wee babe – but still she had an uncanny resemblance to the Hobbit that she called her father.

            “Little Evenstar?” Arwen repeated incredulously.  “That’s what Daddy calls me!  How’d you know?”

            Gandalf smiled as he put the child down next to him.  “How?  Why that is simple.  I’m a wizard, dear child.  Didn’t you know?  I’m expected to know these things.”

            Once the little lass was seated comfortably next to him, outstretched legs not even reaching the end of the seat, Gandalf tugged on the reigns that kept Shadowfax, his wild and prized horse, in check.  He hated to do it, but it was necessary.  If Shadowfax were to be set loose in the Shire, he would no doubt trample several Hobbit children.  He was already known as ‘Disturber of the Peace’ and he had no wish to add ‘Murder’ to his reputation as well.

            Looking down at Arwen, he noticed again the book, slate and chalk that she carried.  “What have you been doing?”

            “Practicing my letters.  Dad told me to copy this page.”  She held the book up so Gandalf could see.  The page was the last of a chapter had had no more than four lines.  Then he looked at the slate on her lap. 

            “That’s good.”  And he meant it.  The letters may have been a little lopsided and large, but they were legible… barely, and that was much better than he’d seen from and hobbit lass – or lad - her age.  “So, how’s your old Hobbit?”  he asked, deciding to change the subject away from studies.

            “I don’t know, he says he’s fine but I know he’s not.  He’s hiding something, I know it.  Now if only I could figure out what it was.”  She cupped her chin in her hands, and sat there far too deep in thought for a child her age.

            Gandalf nodded.  He remembered Frodo’s definition of ‘fine’ from his days of recovery in Rivendell and Minas Tirith.  Needless to say, the healers had rarely ever agreed with him.

            “He’s always rubbing his shoulder, and he always locks himself in his study.  He even goes to bed before me!”

            “Oh, really?”  Now this was new.  He knew that Frodo had been drained of much of his former health, courtesy of the Quest, but still, he should be able to stay up longer than his 4-year-old daughter.  They reached the Hill of Bag End and Arwen let Gandalf in, banging the round, green door behind her.  A second later they heard the sound of a baby crying, followed a very angry Hobbit.

            “ARWEN BAGGINS!” a voice bellowed from down the hall.  Frodo Baggins appeared a moment later, carrying a squalling babe.  “I just had him sleeping!”  Frodo exclaimed hopelessly.  At this rate, Thranduil and Glóin will sign a non-conditional treaty of friendship before this lad goes to sleep.  Well, their sons have already have, so maybe there’s hope.  Oh what am I thinking?

            Gandalf watched his old friend fondly, trying to hide an amused smile.  He had never imagined Frodo trying to manage two small children.  He also noticed that Frodo was exhausted and fingering the white jewel that the Queen had given him, which hung around his neck… where the Ring had been in safe keeping for several months.

            “Can I hold him, Daddy?  I know how to make Frodo-lad go to sleep.”

            Frodo-lad?  Here was yet another surprise.  Frodo bragged in his letters about his little lass like the proud father he was.  But why hadn’t he mentioned the lad?  Why had Frodo adopted another child?  On the other hand, the lad could be his child by birth, but then why hadn’t Frodo mentioned his marriage.  They were going to have a lot of words about this.  Though he realized that the answer could be simply that Frodo had been too busy to write.  Or maybe the letter had never reached him, since he was always traveling.  Yes, that was it.  That had to be it. 

            “Alright, Arwen,” Frodo reluctantly agreed, handing his young son to her.  “Then once you get him quiet I want you to feed Elanor.  She’s taking her nap now and should wake up soon if she hasn’t already.  You never can tell with that lass.  She’d stay sound asleep even if a heard of oliphaunts was set loose in Hobbiton.”

            Elanor?  How many children did Frodo have?  Gandalf thought he couldn’t be anymore surprised… but he was wrong.  He looked down at Arwen cradling the little lad, and noticed a silver ring… with Elvish letters on her right, middle finger.  Could it - ?  No.  It wasn’t a Ring of Power!  It just couldn’t be.  The One was destroyed.  The Nine and been destroyed with their owners, the ring wraiths.  The Three were accounted for.  But what about the Seven?  They weren’t all accounted for, and Dwarves passed through the Shire often enough.  What if one of them had been an irresponsible ring-bearer, who had dropped it for this innocent child to pick up?  But no… it was impossible.  This ring fit the child’s finger perfectly; it was much too small for a Dwarf.  Besides, did it really matter?  Now that the One had been destroyed, the others had lost their power.  But what if the Elves had made other Rings - ?  NO!  He couldn’t bear the thought of burdening a third generation of Bagginses with yet another of the cursed things.  Well, here was one more thing that needed to be straightened out.

            With Arwen off to the little lad’s room, Frodo finally had time to notice his visitor.  “Gandalf?!” he exclaimed as Gandalf bend down for a hug, which Frodo gladly gave.  “You should really knock!  How long have you been here?”

            Gandalf laughed softly.  “Your daughter let me in.”

            At that Frodo froze.  “You mean you’ve been here all along and I didn’t even - ?”

            “It’s alright, Frodo.  After all you have three children.  I’ve no doubt they’ve kept you busy.”

            Frodo gave him a puzzled look.  “Three - ?”

            “Arwen, Elanor, and Frodo-lad.  Why didn’t you tell me you had two other children?  Don’t tell me you forgot!”

            The confusion melted from Frodo’s face, sending him into a fit of laughter, which lasted for several minutes.  Gandalf, failing to see what was so funny, patiently waited for the impending explanation. 

            “Arwen is my child,” Frodo said at last.  “But the others aren’t.”

            “Not even little Frodo-lad?”

            Frodo shook his head, leading Gandalf towards the kitchen.  “The other two are Elanor and Frodo Gamgee: Sam and Rosie’s kids.  I’m baby-sitting.  I insisted that they take some time to themselves.  So they did.”  Frodo smiled.  “But only after I threatened Sam.”

            “Oh really?”  The idea of Frodo seriously threatening his loyal gardener and bodyguard was just ludicrous.

            “Aye,” Frodo continued, leading Gandalf towards the kitchen.  “I threatened to begin calling him ‘Samwise the Brave’ on a regular basis.  He doesn’t mind the title being included in the Elven tales, in fact he likes it.  But the idea of me calling him that was just too much.  ‘T’wouldn’t be proper, Mr. Frodo, you bein’ my master and all.’  So I told him, ‘Alright then, Sam, as your master, I’m ordering you to take your lovely wife out to see the rest of the Shire for a few days.’  There was naught that he could say to that.  They’ve been gone for three days.  They should be back tonight.”

~To Be Continued~

Don't Forget to REVIEW!

A/N: Please note that this is not actually the beginning.  I have an un-named prequel in the making that I realized was needed once I had really begun to work on this story.  So there will be some back-ground information on Arwen’s ring.  Also this chapter will probably be the fourth or fifth of this story by the time it’s finished.  Sorry for the inconvenience, but that’s just how my crazy mind works.

I am also planning a prequel about Arwen's pre-adoption days.  So any references that this story makes to the past will be explained when the prequel is eventually finished.

Setting: Hobbiton; 1423, by Shire-Reckoning. 

Arwen (4 years old) birth date, said to be October 24, 1419;

Elanor (2 years old) March 25 1421;

Frodo-lad (5 months) 1423

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything in this story, it all belongs to Tolkien, brilliant man.  Really, I mean, who else do you know who can create different languages, cultures and thousands of years of history with them?  The only thing I might possibly own is Arwen Baggins (no relation to me, lol).  I own the girl, but not the name- that’s straight from Tolkien.  Confusing, I know.  Enjoy.

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Title: His Little Evenstar

Chapter Two: My Fault

            Arwen tucked the baby boy in his cradle with a sigh of relief. Ten minutes of rocking and bottles had finally paid off. Now if she could just tiptoe out of the room and close the door like so. Not a chance. She hadn't even crossed to the other side of the room when she heard it - that scream that was an infant's way of saying: "No nap!" She hurried back to the cradle and gave the child an amused smile. "You like torturing me, don't you, Frodo-lad?" she asked, rocking the cradle, refusing to pick him up. Her small arms ached too much and she couldn't stand the thought of facing her father and saying, "Sorry, Dad, but I kinda dropped little Frodo!" That would be bad enough. Having to tell Uncle Sam and Aunt Rosie would be unbearable, not to mention the end of her life! Uncle Sam might protest, saying, "Now, Rosie, you can't kill the lass. She's Mr. Frodo's daughter." Not that it would do any good. Her neck would be in Aunt Rosie's hands before he could even finish. So, as much for her own good as his, she left Frodo-lad in his cradle and began singing to him. It was by far the worst song to sing to a baby, but she'd only memorized two songs, and the other one was getting old. She had learned this one - courtesy of Uncle Pippin, who had taught it to her on a Yule visit to Tuckborough last year - much to Uncle Sam's embarrassment:

"Troll sat alone on his seat of stone,

And munched and mumbled a bare old bone;

For many a year he had gnawed it near,

For meat was hard to come by

Done by! Gum by!

In a cave in the hills he dwelt alone,

And meat was hard to come by.

Up Came Tom with his big boots on.

Said he to the Troll: "Pray, what is yon?

For it looks like the shin o' my nuncle Tim,

As should be a-lyin in a graveyard.

Caveyard! Paveyard!

This many a year has Tim been gone,

And I thought he were lyin' in a graveyard.'"

            As she sang, she tried to imitate old Tom Bombadil and the gigantic troll. Bad idea! The lad was making baby noises that had a slight resemblance to a laugh! What was I thinking? He isn't supposed to laugh! He's supposed to sleep. She sighed and then used one of her father's most infamous tricks: Elven tales. She told him the story about Earendil, and how his ship had set sail in the sky as a star. The Star of Earendil, most beloved of the Elves. She couldn't even begin to imagine how a ship had ended up as a star in the sky, but then again, Elves were magical and mysterious. Mortals, such as Hobbits, weren't supposed to have clear understanding of all their ways. That would just ruin all the fun. "Its here, Frodo-lad, you wanna see it." Arwen didn't wait for a response, since she knew it wouldn't come. "Well, if you want to see it, you'll have to be a good baby and sleep for Cousin Arwen." Whether it was the promise of seeing a real star from his cradle, or the soothing sound of her voice, Arwen didn't know. Either way it didn't matter, because the lad had drifted off to sleep. Satisfied at last, Arwen gave him a good-nap kiss on the cheek and silently left the room.

            Now it was time to check on Elanor. The poor lass had fallen ill a few hours after her parents left and she'd been confined to her room due to a rising fever and the usual cough. However she didn't always feel ill, which meant that Arwen had to invent entertaining ways to make her stay in the room. She stepped inside to find that the child was still sleeping, but the rag on her forehead, which had been soaked in cold water the hour before, had dried out. So she quietly left the room with the rag in hand, and left for the kitchen - where her dad and his wizard friend were holding a supposedly confidential conversation.

            "You have to tell Arwen sometime," she heard the wizard's deep voice from the hall.

            Tell me what?

            "I know," Dad's voice came back. "But I told her I'd never leave her, so many times. This wouldn't be so hard if I knew I'd be able to come back, but I don't know."

            Dad wouldn't leave me! He wouldn't! Arwen couldn't - wouldn't believe what she was hearing.

            "I have to leave," Dad continued. "I just can't take this anymore! I'll go mad! For a while I could handle the sickness on the anniversaries, but those were only three times a year, and I didn't have to keep a constant watch on Arwen. Well, I had to watch her and take care of her, of course, but she didn't run around everywhere like she does now. That just makes things all the worse. I can handle one or the other, but not both!"

            Arwen froze. It's my fault. All my fault. Daddy's leaving and it's all my fault! He hates me! Unable to walk in the kitchen and demand an explanation, Arwen silently ran back to her room and cried. This couldn't be happening. It just couldn't be!

~To Be Continued ~

Don't Forget to REVIEW!

A/N: Sorry this was so short, the next chapter will be longer, and hopefully up within a week. If you've read the book you should be able to figure out where Frodo's going. I know the book mentions the anniversary illnesses on March 13 and October 6, but I thought that surely he would have something similar on March 25, the day the Ring was destroyed. That's when of course; he gets ghost pains on his right hand, where the middle finger used to be, and the usual nightmares about the Eye.

The song that Arwen sings was invented by Sam on the way to Rivendell, in attempt to cheer Frodo up, and can be found in The Fellowship of the Ring, chapter Flight to the Ford. The information about the Star of Earendil can be found in Appendix A of Return of the King.

Setting: Hobbiton; 1423, by Shire-Reckoning. 

Arwen (4 years old) birth date, said to be October 24, 1419;

Elanor (2 years old) March 25 1421;

Frodo-lad (5 months) 1423

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything in this story, it all belongs to Tolkien, brilliant man.  Really, I mean, who else do you know who can create different languages, cultures and thousands of years of history with them?  The only thing I might possibly own is Arwen Baggins (no relation to me, lol).  I own the girl, but not the name- that’s straight from Tolkien.  Confusing, I know.  Enjoy.

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Title: His Little Evenstar

Chapter Three: Misunderstandings

            Arwen lay down on her bed, sobbing into the pillow to muffle the noise. She had an aching burn in her eyes and a hot sticky face. If her father came in to check on her, she'd have a lot of explaining to do. She could usually talk to him about anything, but today she felt that she'd 'crack' if she even had to look at him. How dare he break his promise? Well, everyone broke a promise once in a while. But not like this? He had always been perfectly serious about never leaving her, always said that he loved her. So why the sudden change of mind. Why did he suddenly hate her so much that he would want to leave her forever? She knew the answer immediately. He had said that she was too much of a burden, and she knew that her father wasn't the healthiest Hobbit in the Shire, particularly after his adventures. But what if she could change that? Of course, she couldn't make all of her daddy's bad memories go away. But she could be a good girl and make his job easier. That's it! That's what I'll do! I'll be the best daughter in the whole Shire, then he won't have to go! Having solved her own problem, Arwen promptly dried her tears and left the room, determined to be a burden no longer.

            Arwen returned to the kitchen to find that Daddy and his wizard friend had changed the subject to something far more pleasant.

            "Aye," Daddy was saying. "Aunt Eglantine was so mad! Said that Pippin could have burned Hobbiton to a crisp, never mind that it was all Merry's idea. I still can't believe they actually lit the firework inside the tent!"

            "Yes," Gandalf agreed. "But since tomorrow is Pippin's coming-of-age, perhaps he'll be better behaved. And fortunately Merry's son is far too young to get into any real mischief."

            "We must still be on our guard. After all, Merry and Pippin aren't the only prankster cousins in the Shire."

            Arwen knew that it wasn't polite to interrupt the adults, but she knew that she couldn't stand around all day waiting for them to finish besides she knew where this was going. Every time Daddy started talking about Uncle Bilbo's eleventy-first party, the topic always ended soon thereafter, with Daddy's head in his hands. He never said anything, but it didn't take a magical Elf to figure out that he was thinking about the bad parts of his adventures. "Hi, Daddy," she greeted, giving him her most charming smile.

            Frodo saw right past the mask. "Arwen, is something wrong?"

            "NO!"

            Frodo wasn't fooled. She had spoken both too loudly and too quickly. He looked at her in the eye with a grim expression: the one that said 'Alright, what is it?' "Arwen, are you telling me the truth?"

            "Yes, Daddy," Arwen answered truthfully. Everything was fine, really. He wasn't going to leave. She had it all worked out. What could possibly be more fine?

            "Arwen Baggins!"

            Arwen faltered a little. Whenever her full name was used it wasn't a good sign, and always made her nervous.

            "Is there something you're not telling me?" It was really more of a statement than a question. He knew there was something else, but he was simply giving her a second chance to be honest, and to provide an adequate explanation for not being wholly truthful from the start.

            "Really, Daddy, I'm fine." She caught a reprimanding look from Gandalf and decided to continue, upon realizing that he might turn her into a toad. On second thought, a toad might be too ordinary. He'd probably make something up, which could only be worse. She had no wish to find out what sort of creature a wizard could dream up. "Well, there was something bothering me, but not anymore. I figured it out."

            That seemed to satisfy Frodo for the moment. "We'll talk about this later. In the mean time, could you go out to the garden and get some taters and mushrooms. Uncle Sam and Aunt Rosie should be home soon and I want to have Dinner waiting for them."

            "Yes, Daddy." The lass picked up a few baskets from the kitchen and headed for the garden, quite relieved to be out of the hole. One more questioning stare from Daddy would have had her crying in his lap, spilling out the whole story and she couldn't have that happen. Particularly not with Gandalf here. Uncle Sam had told her what had happened when Gandalf had caught him eavesdropping as a conspirator. Her ear hurt just thinking about it. Besides, kneeling down in the dirt and being well out of earshot of her father almost made her forget that he had planned to leave. Almost.

            Once she had gathered three full baskets - Uncle Sam and Aunt Rosie were bound to be really hungry after walking all over the Shire, and she had no idea how much food wizards ate and she didn't want to run out during Dinner - she crept back into the kitchen, hoping to sneak past her father. But her job was suddenly made easier upon discovering that both Frodo and Gandalf had left the room, and she knew exactly where they had gone to without even looking. They'd gone to the study to work on Daddy's book about his adventures. What did he call it? The Red Book? Well that was silly name. Why not give it something that sounded a bit more intriguing. A color didn't say anything about it, except perhaps the color of the cover, which didn't really matter. Which is why you shouldn't be thinking about it, Arwen. Now get started with the soup

            She really didn't know what her father had planned to cook for Dinner, but that didn't matter either since he wasn't cooking. The first helpful thing she was going to do cook some tater and mushroom soup for him, as it was the only thing she knew how to cook. "Now, where to start. Ah, yes. The carrots." She pulled up a stool and then took out a small paring knife and began to peel the vegetables. This was going to be fun. She knew that her father had only asked for taters and mushrooms but she wanted to do something more to show him what a big help she could be. She had wanted to gather some herbs, like Rosemary, Sage, or Thyme. But she couldn't remember which one was which. But she did know what Kingsfoil looked like, so she had picked up a few leaves of that as well. Whenever Daddy wasn't feeling well, Aunt Rosie's Kingsfoil tea always made him feel better. Not that she understood why. She had once accidentally drank from his cup believing it to be her own. It hadn't taken her more than a few seconds to recognize her mistake. The stuff may have had a pleasant smell, but it tasted awful, worse even than that Echinacea medicine that Aunt Rosie had insisted on giving her last month.

            Arwen continued working until she was interrupted by a very familiar shriek.

            "Arwen, what in Middle-earth are you doing?"

            The lass in question turned to see the horrified and dumbfounded stares of her Uncle Sam and Aunt Rosie. "Making Dinner," she answered sweetly. "The soup's almost done, Aunt Rosie. Wanna taste it?"

            Aunt Rosie still didn't respond. Her eyes were instead fixed on the mess around the kitchen. "It looks like a herd of oliphaunts was here."

            "No," said Uncle Sam. "More like a troll! I've met both and this looks like the work of a troll to me."

            It can't be that bad. Then again - Upon second glance, however, she realized that Aunt Rosie and Uncle Sam were probably right. She'd cut her fingers several times, which accounted for the fist aid supplies on the table, diced vegetables were all over the counter and the tea kettle had boiled over, coating the better half of the kitchen with the sweet-smell of Kingsfoil herbs. The explosion itself hadn't created too much of a mess. Most of the damage has been done afterwards when she had tried to carry the kettle to the table. However she had panicked into forgetting the mitts. She had done a frantic dance in attempt to get away from the burning liquid and back to the stool, deciding to mop it up once it had cooled down. That had been at least twenty minutes ago.

            "Alright, child. I know you were trying to help, but you'd best let me take over now."

            "Oh." This was not at all what she had planned. She had wanted to show Daddy that she could help. But instead of helping she was becoming more of a nuisance. Maybe Daddy's right about leaving. Maybe I am too much trouble.

            Rosie saw the tears in the child's eyes and got an idea. "Arwen, where's your Dad?"

            "In the study I think. He and Gandalf are probably working on the stupid book."

            ‘Stupid book’? Sam and Rosie looked at each other and then back at Arwen. Sam was about to open his mouth but Rosie was faster. "Sam, why don't you go see if they need any help. Arwen and I will get Dinner ready. Your job is to keep Master Frodo and Mr. Gandalf out of this room until we call for you."

            Sam reluctantly agreed and headed down the hall. He was soon out of sight, leaving the lasses to themselves. Within another half-hour the kitchen was clean, and the tea was done, the only thing left to do was wait for the soup to cool down.

            "Now, Arwen, what's wrong?"

            Arwen looked up at her "Aunt", confused. "Nuthin'," she insisted, her eyes brimming over with tears.

            "Now that ain't the truth, young lass. Master Frodo would never have let you cook on your own and a simple mess - however big- would never give you reason to cry. Never has before. And you don't call his book 'stupid' for nuthin'."

            "Alright, I'll tell you. But you gotta promise not to tell, Daddy."

            "Well, sweetie, I can't lie to my boss, but I'll keep the secret as long as you promise to tell him yourself when you see fit."

            Arwen nodded. That would work. She often forgot that "Uncle Sam and Aunt Rosie" were Daddy's gardener and housekeeper. They had always seemed more like extended family. Like at Brandy Hall. "Daddy's leaving. I heard him talking to Gandalf. And he said he ain't ever comin' back. And since he plans to leave he should be spending more time with us, but instead he stays locked in the study working on that THING!" Arwen's rage was returning and was evident on her small face as she looked up at her aunt. In return she had expected a look of disbelief, but instead she found one of understanding.

            "I know," Aunt Rosie replied. "He told me about his plan a few weeks ago. He said he needed someone to talk to, but he couldn't stand the thought of talking to you or Sam just yet. Do you know why he's leaving?"

            Arwen nodded. "He said I'm too much trouble for him, especially when he's sick."

            "Arwen, your father loves you, and while you - indeed all lads and lasses - can be handfuls for their parents that's not why he's leaving. Not all of the reason anyway."

            "Really? Then why?"

            "I think that is for your father to explain." Aunt Rosie handed her a handkerchief. "I'm going to get Elanor and Frodo-lad ready for Dinner. You call us once the soup is cooled and your face is dry, okay?"

            "Yes, Aunt Roise."

            "That's a good lass." Aunt Rosie put the remaining vegetables in the pantry and then disappeared down the hall.

            Arwen stirred the soup, but her mind was elsewhere. Aunt Rosie's words hadn't really helped all that much. Even she had agreed that Arwen was a handful. And that would still have to change and fast. She'd be good, even if it meant just sitting at the table for the entire party tomorrow. If Daddy saw that she could be good at the party, then he'd really have to reconsider leaving. And she wasn't going to tell him that she knew until she had proved her point. Her Daddy wasn't going to leave! She wouldn't allow it!

~To Be Continued~

Don't Forget to REVIEW!

Setting: Hobbiton; 1423, by Shire-Reckoning. 

Arwen (4 years old) birth date, said to be October 24, 1419;

Elanor (2 years old) March 25 1421;

Frodo-lad (5 months) 1423

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything in this story, it all belongs to Tolkien, brilliant man.  Really, I mean, who else do you know who can create different languages, cultures and thousands of years of history with them?  The only thing I might possibly own is Arwen Baggins (no relation to me, lol).  I own the girl, but not the name- that’s straight from Tolkien.  Confusing, I know.  Enjoy.

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Title: His Little Evenstar

Chapter Four: Plans and Memories

            While Aunt Rosie was slowly going around the smial to tell everyone that Dinner was ready - slowly and quietly so as not to wake Elanor and Frodo-lad. Arwen made sure to dry her tears and by the time her daddy came into the kitchen, there wasn't a trace of them left. The little lass had gone to every means necessary make sure that her daddy would be pleased - but he wasn't. He tried to hide his suspicion at the contents of his mug, but the effort was in vain, and even Arwen noticed the crease in his brow as he sniffed the contents.

            "It's Kingsfoil tea, Daddy," Arwen supplied helpfully - though she wouldn't have done so had she known that she was confirming his fears. "It was my idea, and I made it!" she announced proudly. "It always makes you feel better."

            At those words, all three adults turned to Frodo, trying to hide the multitude of questions that immediately rose at those words. It was Gandalf who finally spoke their unanimous question: "Are you ill, Frodo? You don't look like it. Tired perhaps but not ill."

            Frodo shook his head. "No, I haven't been ill for a few months. Arwen, are you sure there's not something you want to tell me?"

            Arwen thought about it for a second. She hated it when Daddy switched his words around like that? Why couldn't he just say 'Do you want to tell me something?' Throwing in that negative connotation only served to further confuse her. What was even more maddening was the fact that he rarely realized what he was doing. Once she deciphered the question she answered: "Yes, I'm sure there's isn't anything right now."

            "Then why did you make the tea?" This time though it was Gandalf who spoke, more out of curiosity, than a desire to intimidate the poor girl. He also looked to Frodo wondering how the child had discovered the plant's healing properties. Frodo would never have shared his experience of the Morgul-blade wounding with such a young child. And surely the Gaffer and any healer would have dis-reputed its healing abilities, so why did the child seem to believe that it would help her father through his strange illnesses? But Frodo didn't see Gandalf's questioning look. He was in the middle of giving one to Rosie, as if to ask why Arwen had been permitted to handle a hot teakettle in the first place.

            All of this Arwen didn't know. All she did know, was that the adults were engaged in what she called their "silent conversations." None of them ever said anything, but there were various emotions in their faces, and each face eventually found its questioning gaze focused on her once again. "I thought he liked it!" she spoke hesitantly, uncomfortable about having four sets of adult eyes on her at one time, and found it MOST uncomfortable that one of these belonged to a wizard. And at that moment, watching his seemingly magical eyes bore into hers, she was indeed inclined to believe her father on this matter, as opposed to the many gossipers of Hobbiton who claimed he was a cracked old Man who collect fancy fireworks for a living.

            Frodo didn't miss his daughter's quivering lips as Gandalf met her eyes in a questioning stare that she couldn't possibly comprehend. Gandalf knew more about Hobbits than other outsiders, but he didn't quite have the young children figured out. Tweenagers he did okay with, but little children were often frightened of him, just by who he was, regardless of whether or not he intended to make such an impression on them. Such was now the case with his young daughter, and he decided to straighten a few things out (something he'd been wanting to do for the entire day), while at the same time taking her away from Gandalf's potent curiosity. Left to itself, he might talk her senseless and he would probably take her nervousness as a sign of lying, something Arwen just DIDN'T do. "Arwen, may I speak with you for a moment please?"

            Arwen wasn't sure which she disliked more: Gandalf's innocent interrogation (which was referred to as such simply because she kept imagining what it would be like to turn into a toad, which she assumed would happen if he even suspected her of a half-lie); or the thought of a private conversation with her father, where he would no doubt attempt to discover her secret. She decided that she would rather become a toad or an insect, rather than to let her father in on he little secret, an she attempted to slide under the table, but her father caught her hand before she was half-way under. "Come on, Arwen, you've got some explaining to do." He turned to his extended-family (the Gamgees) and to Gandalf. "You needn't wait for us. We might be for a short-while." Thus, having no other option, Arwen allowed herself to be pulled down the various and familiar corridors of Bag-end, when suddenly she stooped dead with realization. She was going to the Study! Her suspicions were confirmed a moment later when Frodo reached into his pocket for the door- key and unlocked it.

            The Study was the only room in Bag-end which was locked, and Arwen knew why. It had been that way since her father was a lad. As soon as Bilbo began having his younger cousins as visitors, he had locked the Study where he had kept several valuable and rather dangerous items (the Ring, Sting, his book an d mithril- shirt among other things). She had heard, though no proof had been given, that this was the Spanking room. As it was the only locked door, it was also the only room which a child could not escape from by yelling out: "What that?!" There were no hiding places and no way to escape. This last thought entered Arwen's mind as she saw Frodo place the iron key on a small bookshelf that was well out of her reach.

            Once the door was shut behind them, Arwen found herself steeping on her feet, in a vain attempt to hide their vigorous shaking. So nervous she was that Arwen didn't even notice Frodo kneel down in front of her and wipe away the tears: tears she herself had been virtually unaware of in her panic.

            "Arwen," he began gently, "I know there's something you need to tell me. Whether or not you want to isn't the issue. There's something bothering you and I need to know about it."

            "Why, why do I have to tell you everything?" Now the fears were gone and in their place was a growing hostility - stemmed more or less from a last-ditch attempt to conceal her secret. If she could just get her father to believe that it somehow wasn't his business, then perhaps he would he would back-off and let her prove herself. These had been her original thoughts, but even as she spoke them, she knew that they were a wasted effort."

            "I don't demand to know everything," Frodo countered, with a hint of anger. "I don't demand to know every word that you speak to Amythest and Aemilia! But if you keep up this attitude I just might start doing that!"

            Arwen was unable to hide a grimace at the thought of her father peering over her shoulder, listening to every word she said as she tried to carry on a conversation while her two best friends were there. That just wouldn't work!

            "But if you would truly like to know, I will tell you," Frodo continued, either missing or choosing to ignore his daughter's headache that seemed to have developed conveniently after his last suggestion. "Arwen, do you remember last October when you were visiting Brandy Hall and heard some of the lasses saying that you were adopted after the Troubles?" Arwen nodded, trying to figure out where this fit into the discussion. "That day, the day I found you in that burned out smial, I sought out your father and found him." Here Frodo paused, unsure of whether or not he should tell a story for one so young. Then he remembered her challenging his authority as her father and decided that she had asked for it. "I found him dying," Frodo continued, his voice shaking a he fought to keep at bay the emotions that the memories brought with them, "and I had you in my arms. He looked up at you, and when I asked if I could do something for him he said this: 'Take care of her, sir. I don't know you're name, but I trust you're a gentlehobbit and that you'll take care of her as you would your own. Please?' I assured him that I would and ever since then I have tried to live up to my promise. But I can't do that, I can't 'care for you as one of my own' if I don't know what's bothering you. Do we understand?"

            This passionate speech of memory and loyalty had been spoken, among other reasons, to soften her heart and to wash away any doubt from her mind regarding her father and any conflict that might be between them. However, Frodo didn't know the gulf that separated them, and instead of bridging the gap between them it had only caused that gulf to widen immeasurably.

            "Really?" Arwen's tone was one of disbelief, mixed with what she hoped was concealed anger. This was the last straw! Now he was breaking his promise to her, but to her father as well! How dare he!? The statement of defiance and anger, however, could better be viewed as a question, for Arwen couldn't begin to comprehend how he could break such a binding promise with such a strong sense of serenity. He must have spent far too much time among the Elves!                     "Yes," Frodo answered. If he saw his daughter's concealed anger, then he must have misinterpreted it, for he gave no sign of it. "I really did. And I intend to keep my promise - and I need your help to do it!"

            "But if you want to keep your promise then why are you leaving?" Those words were shouted at a volume that Arwen hadn't even known she was capable of attaining, and the words had been shouted on such an impulse that she hadn't even become aware of them until they had been spoken. I hope no one in the kitchen heard that she thought as her hand flew to her mouth and her eyes simultaneously flew wide not in shock, but in fear. Father and daughter locked eyes in final comprehension - at least on Frodo's part.

            "So," he began after several moments of awkward silence, "how long have you known, and now did you find out?" Surprisingly, his voice contained more curiosity than reprimanding, a fact that helped to somewhat relieve Arwen's rattled nerves.

            "Not long," the little lass reluctantly admitted. "I heard you and Gandalf talking. You said you had to leave because you're always sick and that I'm too much trouble! So I tried to be really good and helpful. So I made Dinner, but I -"

            "You made Dinner!" Frodo interrupted, not sure whether he should feel more surprised or angry. "But I thought you helped Aunt Rosie make Dinner!"

            Arwen shook her head. "No, I made it. She came home in time to finish the soup and clean-up my big mess. I tried to be good! Honest I did! But I made more of a mess. And now you're going to leave and never come back!" Having exhausted herself in the telling of her short tale, the child fell weeping into her father's arms as the dam of tears broke suddenly, without any attempt made to put them back in place.

            Frodo held her close, hardly knowing what to say or think. Well, actually that wasn't strictly true. He knew at least one thing that needed to be said. "Arwen?" He tried to pull her back in order to look her in the eye, but she stubbornly refused to release his neck from her tight hold, so he just continued holding her close, which was all she seemed to want at the moment, other than a flat and truthful denial of her suspicions regarding his planned departure. That he couldn't give, no matter how much he wanted to, but an apology would not only be possible, but under the circumstances it was required. "I didn't mean what I said. I was - frustrated and exhausted. I never should have said what I did. I am very sorry that I did, and I am even more sorry that you had the misfortune of hearing it!"

            "Really, you mean you're not going to leave!" Her joy at Frodo's confession and apology were beyond words, that much was obvious and Frodo hated to destroy it, and reprimanded himself for not choosing his words more carefully.

            "You misunderstood me, Arwen," Frodo corrected softly. He looked at the floor as he felt his daughter push away from him. "I meant I shouldn't have said what I did about you being a problem. You're just an energetic child, and that's one of the things that I love about you. I wouldn't change you for all of the mithril in Middle-earth! You must believe me when I say this!"

            Arwen however, didn't hear this last part of her father's short speech. She was still trying to digest the first part. "So you're still leaving?" Please say 'no'! Please say 'no'!

            "Yes," her father answered softly and Arwen could feel her heart breaking all over again, especially when he couldn't summon the courage to face her with that word and confession. "But-" He was about to continue when he looked up and lifted his daughter's chin to face him. "But, I'm planning to delay my departure for as long as possible, maybe even for another year if I am able."

            "Another year!" Arwen practically shouted, not in anger but astonishment. She couldn't believe her ears, but then again she realized that she could, for they had never failed her before. "But I thought you were leaving soon!"

            "No, no, not soon. I just came to a decision a few weeks ago. It is also not a decision made in a rash moment. I have in fact been considering this ever since before I returned to the Shire. Up until a few weeks ago it was just suggestion in my mind that I didn't give much thought to, but now?" He smiled up at her, the first real smile she had seen on his face in a long time, and wondered what it meant. "But even now the decision isn't finalized. I have questions that need answering before I make a final decision."

            "What kind of questions?"

            "That isn't up for discussion, young lass! They are complex questions that would be beyond your comprehension, and I would prefer not to discuss them until I have the answers." That just about closed the discussion as far as Frodo was concerned, but Arwen wasn't quite ready to end it just yet.

            "Are they about your adventures?"

            Frodo's eyes seemed to lose their focus, as though his mind had taken him back to some far away place, and Arwen immediately knew the answer to her question. Nothing else, other then reminiscing of pain and torture could cause such a look to come across her father's visage so fast.

            "Daddy?"

            Frodo slowly came back to reality and found himself caressing his daughter's cheek, something that never ceased to make Arwen uncomfortable, since it was a gesture more common towards babies. "Daddy, why are you even considering leaving?" She had saved this question for last because she had been too scared to ask it earlier. Afraid that she knew the answer. But her fear was gone - and in its place was a longing to know the answer as well as to hear her guess out loud. All of the guessing in the world wouldn't reassure her like hearing a certain combination of words would.

            "I think I have told you enough for tonight, Arwen. The story of why I am leaving is too long and too dark to tell to one so young and innocent. But to make it short and understandable - I'm sick, a result of my adventures as you guessed earlier. On the Lonely Isle, where I will be going, they say there are special Elven healers who can heal what none here can, and their medications are made from herbs that do not grow in Middle- earth. And for some reason unknown to me, these healers are not permitted to come to me. I must go to them." He lifted his right hand and ran all four of his fingers through her hair affectionately as he spoke. This Arwen was accustomed to and didn't feel any urge to pull away from being babied. "But I will tell you this as well: I'm only staying another year for two reasons - and you're one of them!"

            At this confession, Arwen couldn't believe her ears. She felt as though she could shout for joy, and could've sworn that she actually had, and if so she wouldn't have noticed if the whole of Middle-earth heard. Arwen threw her arms around her father, laughing for joy as if all of her problems had been taken care of, but they hadn't. Daddy had said that the plan to leave hadn't been finalized, which meant that it also hadn't been discarded completely. Daddy had said that he was leaving because he was sick and that the Elves had special medicine for him. But Arwen knew better. The truth was obvious. Daddy was always getting sick because he was up late working on his book and getting memory nightmares. But if she could help him relax - so he wouldn't get sick -?

            Arwen paused as a fool-proof plan for tomorrow's party began to form in her head. Now having that familiar confidence that she had secured her father's future in the Shire, she took his hand and happily followed him back to the kitchen - only to find that everyone had obeyed her father and finished Dinner during their absence. Rosie had gone to nurse Frodo- lad, Sam was cleaning up the mess on the floor from when Elanor (who had awoken from her nap) had rejected the carrots and tossed them away from her High- chair, along with the better part of her soup. In the meantime, Gandalf was playing with the lass to keep her out of Sam's way. Frodo and Arwen had offered to help, but Sam had refused, saying that the job was almost done anyway, and that it t’weren’t proper to have his master clean up his daughter’s mess. Having heard Sam's final words regarding that issue, the father and daughter walked back to the kitchen to see what could be salvaged for Dinner.

            Frodo put it back in the pot to re-heat over the fireplace. He was bound and determined to taste his daughter's creation as it was meant to be - despite Arwen's assurances that it was cold and ‘mushy’ beyond repair. Frodo, however, proved to be correct and before long they were sitting down to a nice warm dinner, both were too exhausted to talk, and even if they had been wide-awake they still wouldn't have known what to say to each other with a potential audience around.

            When bedtime came, Arwen asked Gandalf to tell her a bedtime story. This in and of itself didn't surprised Frodo in the least. What did surprise him, however, was when he was passing by the door a quarter of an hour later and heard his lass distinctly ask: "Gandalf, what is mithril?"

            "Ah, mithril," the wizard's deep voice was heard musing through the door. "It is a metal, Arwen, and indeed it is a very rare metal. It is called true-silver or Moria-silver, for it is so rare that it only be found in the Mines of Moria." Here Frodo thought he heard Gandalf shudder in memory, but he quickly continued. "The rarity of it has rendered it far more valuable than either gold or jewels."

            "Really?"

            "Oh, yes. In fact Bilbo, who is in fact your father's cousin and not his uncle, was given a whole shirt made of mithril rings that was given to him by a Dwarf called Thorin Oakenshield from the Lonely Mountain.

            "You mean Uncle Bilbo was given some mithril?" The fascination in the girl's voice was evident and it occurred to Frodo that she didn't know what story was to come, for indeed she was too young to have heard all of the stories that were told around Bag-end.

            Frodo, on the other hand, knew the story well. Gandalf would be telling her the story of how: Uncle Bilbo had challenged the Dragon, Smaug, to a game of Riddles and how he had led the party of Dwarves to the pile of treasure that Smaug had abandoned to seek revenge on the people of Lake- town. Then again, Gandalf might omit that part, saying that Smaug had left for some unknown reason, as Bilbo had occasionally done. Frodo however, found his mind wandering from Smaug, to Bilbo, back to the mithril shirt, and from there to the times when it had saved his life on the Quest. Well that didn't help things very much. He got very little sleep and once he began aimlessly walking the corridors to clear his mind, and he realized that his half-asleep legs were guiding him to his daughter's room, more out of habit than anything. There he found her sleeping peacefully without a care in the world. And he vaguely wondered how he would finally break the news to her: he would either leave for the Blessed Realm, or simply die of torment.

            He didn't understand why the pain of the morgul-wound kept coming back, but it did. It grew worse each time, and he knew that it wouldn't be much longer before he could no longer handle the pain. He had to make her understand before that. Before he was forced to leave them, to spare them the pain of his slow and agonizing passing. It would be a hard parting even it was only temporarily, for he still held hope that he would be able to return once he was healed. But as reality set in he began to realize that it was unlikely, indeed highly improbable that such a liberty would be allowed (for such a thing had never happened before as far back as the Elves could reckon, which was saying a lot) but he could still cling to hope. And cling he would, as though his very life depended upon it. He had lived off it before; it had been his nourishment when both lembas and water had been spent. And if he had to live off it again, he would. So his thoughts continued in a constant whirl until he found himself lying on the couch and there he was found the next morning.

~To Be Continued~

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A/N: I know you were all expecting the Party chapter, but that's next I PROMISE. This chapter sort of wrote itself. I intended to put everyone to bed right after Dinner, but I got side-tracked. And I have images from chapters that take place in the "prequel" that I'm writing in my head right now. And I had a hard time steering the conversations around those so as not to confuse my poor audience. I won't make any promises of any kind this time, since you now know that my definition of soon is apparently two months. I hope you're enjoying my story, and please stay tuned for future chapters.

Setting: Hobbiton and Tuckborough; 1423, by Shire-Reckoning. 

Arwen (4 years old) birth date, said to be October 24, 1419;

Elanor (2 years old) March 25, 1421;

Frodo-lad (5 months) 1423

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything in this story, it all belongs to Tolkien, brilliant man.  Really, I mean, who else do you know who can create different languages, cultures and thousands of years of history with them?  The only thing I might possibly own is Arwen Baggins (no relation to me, lol).  I own the girl, but not the name- that’s straight from Tolkien.  Confusing, I know.  Enjoy.

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Title: His Little Evenstar

Chapter Five: The Kitchen Circus

            Arwen laid in bed the next morning, looking out the window, enjoying the peace and bliss of not having a care in the world. But then the hope and heartache of the previous night came back with astonishing clarity: her father's bad news and that he was indeed leaving followed by the good news that he wouldn't be leaving for another year yet. On the heels of that though, was the reminder that today was Uncle Pippin's party. Troubles forgotten, she jumped out of bed, threw on the dress and sandals that Aunt Rosie had set out for her the night before and dashed down the hall to her father's room. "Daddy, get up! We have to go to the party!" Only when she received no response did she realize that the room was empty. "Daddy?" She searched the room only to find nothing. What if he left already? No! Daddy wouldn't leave to go with the Elves! Not after he told her he could wait a year! And definitely not before Uncle Pippin's party! Determined and feeling uncharacteristic worry for her five years, she left and hurried down the hall. The sight that greeted her, she realized, was what she should have expected all along. There was Frodo, lying on the couch, dressed in his nightclothes and tangled up in a quilt. He was sleeping peacefully, like a child comforted after a long nightmare. Though at the moment there was nothing disturbing his sleep, but that wouldn't last for much longer - really not more than a few seconds.

            Arwen knew that she should have let him sleep. But it was already late morning, and a child can only be so patient with a party waiting - especially one with the kind of food that Uncle Pippin usually served to his guests. "Get up, Daddy! Get up!" she shouted, shaking him vigorously. What escaped her notice however, was that she was shaking his injured left shoulder, something that Uncle Sam had told her repeatedly to be careful with. Unfortunately, Frodo did notice - very quickly. He woke up with a startled cry, wincing in pain as he clutched his shoulder. For a second it looked like he was going to scream, but he bit his lip before it could come out. "Owww!" he gasped as the shock began to wear off. "Arwen! Let go!"

            Uncle Sam, who unbeknown to Arwen, had been camping out in the kitchen with Gandalf and little Elanor, jumped up from the table, and was by his master's side before Arwen even knew what was happening. "Master Frodo, are you alright?"

            Frodo, who by now had recovered from the sudden cold pain that had ripped through his sensitive shoulder, just nodded sheepishly. For one thing he hated causing such unnecessary worry, and secondly, he just realized that he was still in his nightclothes at such a late hour on such a fine day as this one seemed to be, if the view from the window was any indication. "I'm fine, Sam."

            "Are you sure, Mr. Frodo, because I can -"

            "Well if you insist, I could use some Kingsfoil tea. Arwen, little bundle of energy that she is, shook my shoulder right on the button!"

            "Are you sure, Mr. Frodo?"

            "Quite sure, Sam. Just a little tea should be fine. It's not bad, really."

            Sam didn't quite believe his master. It wasn't that Mr. Frodo would lie out- right, but he had a tendency to under-dramatize certain situations when children were present. With the pain all but gone, Frodo sat up slowly, and turned to face Arwen, who was on the verge of tears. "Sorry, Daddy. I didn't mean to hit you on the button! I though the only button was on your tummy, like mine. I didn't mean to hurt you."

            Frodo just smiled with sympathy. "It's not your fault, dear child," he soothed, motioning her over to his lap. "Well, you see, it's not really a button, it's just one particular place on my shoulder, it was hurt a few years ago."

            "And it's still not better?"

            Frodo shook his head. "It's like when you break a bone. Remember last year when Aemilia broke her arm?"

            Arwen nodded. "Yes, I remember. It hurt for days after."

            "Yes, and even though it healed it will always be sensitive. Just like Daddy's shoulder."

            "But Lia's arm doesn't hurt still. It's all better. Why isn't your shoulder better too?"

            Frodo sighed. This wasn't going to be as easy as he had hoped. "Well that's because my shoulder wasn't exactly broken. It was - well different."

            "Something from your adventures?"

            "Yes, something from my adventures. Would you like to see it?"

            Arwen nodded hesitantly. If she saw it, then she'd be able to avoid it and wouldn't hurt her Daddy as much. Though she couldn't quite understand what he wanted her to see. Broken bones and such were all on the inside. A person's skin couldn't tell you where the break was. But if there was something important that her Daddy wanted her to see, then she'd take a look.

            "Alright, here it is." Frodo unbuttoned the top half of his shirt (with what Arwen half-fantasized were shaking hands) and pulled the cloth away from the shoulder blade, and there plain as day was a small scare, unlike any she had ever seen. Whenever she got an "owie" it always healed a shade or two lighter than her skin, if it was really bad. But this was white as snow and rather large. "That's the 'button' I was telling you about."

            "Oh. What happened to it? Looks like it hurt."

            Frodo swallowed, tears gathering in his eyes at the mere memory. He closed his eyes, trying to squeeze out the image of the wraith king, pale and white, towering above him with his ice-blade heading right for him –

            "Daddy?"

            Frodo looked up, and forced himself back to reality: to his daughter. "I'm fine. Just memories." He forced a smile and looked at his ragged bedclothes and put a hand on his curly hair, which was sticking out in all directions - and laughed. "Alright now, this lazy old Hobbit has to get dressed. So up you go." He gently nudged Arwen from his lap, gathered up his quilt and headed back down the hall.

            "Um, Mr. Frodo, I could -"

            "Sam, stay there and eat!"

            " - put the quilt away," Sam finished softly as Frodo walked out of sight. "But I've already eaten, Mr. Frodo."

            "Then stay there and relax! You can help with loading Gandalf's cart later."

            Sam mumbled something about being the servant - and how could he do his job if his master wouldn't let him? But then again, he now had a master and a mistress - the little lass! Perfect. "Now, Miss Arwen." He gave a formal bow like one would before a Queen, like the Evenstar for whom she was named. "What would you like for Second Breakfast?"

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            Frodo reappeared about a half an hour later, all dressed for the party in his best suit, a very handsome and very old hand-me-down from his late father, one that his mother had made herself. And consequently, the same suit Drogo had been wearing when he had treated his wife to a romantic boat ride under the stars on a certain fateful night, after a party. He had so many memories wrapped up in it that he had always considered it his finest, even if it wasn't in the best of conditions. He always wore it to formal occasions. The habit starting soon after he came-of-age. The Sackville-Bagginses always insisted that he was more a Brandybuck than a Baggins. He had gotten the idea after Bilbo had told him that he was the mirror image of his father the night he had tried it on, after finding it locked in a rusty old trunk. Drogo Baggins had been a respectable gentle hobbit among the Hobbiton-folk and none (not even cranky old Lobelia) would dare badger him about his family background when he looked so much like one of the Hobbits for whom they had had so much respect, even if he had married one of the queer Brandybucks. There was now no more reason to do so, now that the Sackville-Bagginses were all dead - but a habit was hard to break, and this one would have to wait until later.

            Frodo continued down the hall until he arrived in the kitchen once more and was greeted by a scene that really should not have surprised him - but it somehow did. Sam was running around the kitchen waiting on Arwen, Elanor, and - Gandalf?, as though they were back in the royal court of Minas Tirith. As Frodo thought back those times he realized that, though they were now in Bag-end and not some enormous palace, the situation was practically the same. Sam was attempting to be the servant that he was, though he had to do it when the powers-that-be were not looking. In that case it had been none other than the High King Elessar and Queen Evenstar - now though, it was being done behind his own back!

            Looking around, Frodo realized that the whole walking-party was here except Rosie and Frodo-lad. "Sam, you're doing it all wrong," Frodo teased. "You're supposed to be waiting on your wife!"

            "I know, Mr. Frodo," Sam said without looking up from his cooking. " But the little lad was hungry. Won't let his mamma eat! I'm making her some hotcakes right now, sir. And speaking of food, we've got fruit, hotcakes, breadrolls, and of course, mushrooms! And Master Frodo's special, Kingsfoil tea." He turned around and produced a cup of tea, from which rose the unmistakable of fragrance of aethelas.

            "Thanks, Sam," Frodo said automatically, removing both his plate and tea mug from the counter. But before he sat down, he turned to face his servant as he leaned up against the wall.

            "That's all I made for you, sir," Sam admitted shamefully, upon finding that his master was still in the kitchen - apparently waiting for something. And if that something was more food, then he was going to have to wait a while: there wasn't any more ready. Except for Rosie's, but he wasn't about to offer his wife's food to his master! Besides, it still needed to be re-heated.

            "I know, Sam," Frodo replied, shocked that Sam could even think that he could manage any more food than what was already heaped upon his plate. Sam knew full well that his health wasn't its best - and with that mediocre health, came a less than mediocre appetite. It had been this way for years and Frodo felt himself vaguely wondering how he was going to pretend to be normal at the Party. He certainly wouldn't be able to stuff himself full with half of the food that normal Hobbits did, and if he did manage it by some miracle, then it would surely result in his being sick all night - which he really wanted to avoid. However, he also wanted to avoid any events that might lead the conversation to the "Mad Bagginses". Why couldn't anything be as simple as it used to? WHY?

            "Mr. Frodo?"

            "Yes, Sam?" Frodo asked, coming out of his stray thoughts abruptly.

            "Are you going to sit down, sir?"

            Frodo shook his head. "Not until you do."

            "But, sir, I-?"

            "Sam, you may get back up to serve your wife once she is done feeding your son. Until she comes back, you are under strict orders to SIT DOWN!"

            "Best mind your manners, Samwise," Gandalf admonished gently. He had seen enough of these master/servant debates to know when to get involved, and when doing so might be stepping over the boundary lines of courtesy. Now, however, was not one of those times. Then again - ? Sam *was* giving him a look that could curdle new milk, if he may be so bold. Gandalf half- expect Sam to go into how he knew his place. How he had followed his master to the ends of the earth and so on. But he was spared from hearing another painful recitation of those days by two things: the presence of the children, and more importantly: that of Mr. Frodo.

            In the meantime, Sam continued to do what he did best: which was to serve, though he could have been a little more careful about it. He was trying to pour a cup of peppermint tea for his sick daughter, while at the same time holding a well-laden tray above his head with one hand, a trick he had learned from the king's personal attendants. The tray was tipping precariously and Frodo had a sudden urge to warn him, but decided against it. Any sudden movement would result in covering the whole kitchen with an appetizing, uneaten Second Breakfast.

            Sam may have been doing his best, but little toddler children, usually aren't in a hurry for warm peppermint tea - not with Huckleberries in sight. "Want Huckleberries!" little Elly begged turning her wide, hopeful eyes towards Gandalf. "Huckleberries!" Her daddy hadn't been listening, choosing instead to continue his circus dance with the breakfast for the past several minutes, resulting in her request falling upon deaf ears. So now Mr. Big (as she called him) was her new audience.

            "Elanor Gamgee! What do you say?" Sam's disembodied voice came from the kitchen.

            "Pease?"

            "That's a good lass," Sam praised, making his way slowly over to the table.

            Frodo cast a cautious eye on his servant's burden with a sense of dread. There was no way he'd make it. In order to put down the tipping tray he would have to first lay down the steaming mug, and in order to do reach the table, he would have to bend down - Frodo groaned, It was an accident waiting to happen! Gandalf had offered to help, but Sam stubbornly insisted that he had everything under control. Sneaking up quietly, so as not to startle Sam, he reached up to the tray to relieve it of a few items, so that it would be easier to carry. Well, it was a good plan, now if he could just - Nope! Wasn't going to happen! It wasn't bad enough that Frodo had grabbed the wrong plate, the one that caused the tray to tip even more due to the change of weight distribution, but Sam didn't seem to be cooperating with Frodo's plan. Having felt the removal of the plates, Sam swiftly turned around, knocking the tray in his master's face, and Frodo let out a cry - more out of surprise than pain. He had been dealt several painful blows on the Quest, and the cascade of food and dishes that landed on this head certainly could not be counted among them. Sam, however didn't agree. In Mr. Frodo's current state of health, a stubbed toe might as well be as serious as getting a shard of glass through the foot. "Mr. Frodo!" he cried, suddenly empty-handed, turning towards his master.

            There, in all his glory was Mr. Frodo Baggins of the Nine Fingers, praised Ring-bearer, dressed his late-father's good suit, with the Evenstar pennant displayed proudly around his neck. He would have looked the perfect gentlehobbit, if one did not count the egg yolk on his head - Gandalf had requested an egg 'sunny-side up' -, the milk and squashed berries that had their juice dripping down his face and fortunately lining his lips. "Mmm, great Huckleberries, as always, Sam!" he complemented, licking his lips in satisfaction. He looked up to find Sam staring at his master, his face battling between amusement and horror. So transfixed he was upon his master - hoping that no glass had pierced his skin, and at the same time trying not to laugh - that he didn't seem to hear his daughter's cry of "Huckleberries" for several seconds. Frodo was the first one to hear her. Walking over to the high-chair, ignoring the amused looks of Gandalf and Arwen, he reached his arms down towards the lass and to Sam's growing horror, nonchalantly held her at his side and allowed her to pick the berries from hair and clothes.

            "Mr. Frodo!" Frodo was startled, for it was not Sam's voice that sounded aghast and slightly amused. The next thing he heard was a series of what he imagined to be baby giggles. He turned around to face his accuser, and as he thought, it was Rosie, with his namesake on one hip and her hand placed upon the other. "What in Middle-earth is going on here?"

            Frodo's face had paled. But he quickly recovered, giving her his most beseeching look, and actually had the nerve to ask, "Would you believe that a herd of oliphaunts stormed through here?"

******************

            "Really, Gandalf? It's here! You didn't tell me that last night!" The voice of Arwen scolded. Frodo and Sam both turned around in unison to find the lass staring at the white wizard, her blue eyes lit up with an excitement beyond words. Those hopeful eyes next settled upon her father. "Daddy, Gandalf says you have a mithril shirt here! I thought Uncle Bilbo took it with him when he went with the Elves."

            Frodo, out of view, put down his cleaning rag and placed his head in his hands. This could not be happening! For the past fifteen minutes, Frodo, after having taken blame for the whole unfortunate incident, had taken a rag and gotten down on his hands and knees next to his servant, despite Sam's vehement protests. To avoid anymore mishaps, Frodo and Sam had recruited Gandalf to child-watch, while Rosie was commanded to sit down and eat her breakfast, which fortunately had been safely resting on the counter-top when the tray had capsized. Frodo now found himself thinking that perhaps that hadn't been the best idea after all. Gandalf's stories seemed to be getting out of hand - yet again. But Frodo didn't blame him for it. Every young lad and lass knew that Gandalf had taken the four Travellers on adventures and were eager for stories. Though unlike most children, she wanted stories about Frodo, not Merry and Pippin, who still took a fancy to riding around on their ponies, dressed in their armour. Since she knew that Gandalf had many such stories, there wasn't much hope of avoiding them. As a result, Frodo had given Gandalf permission to share certain stories so long as he left out certain parts. But it seemed as though another of Gandalf's attempts at a safe story had failed. And this time they had somehow ended up discussing the mithril shirt. Of all of the stories to tell - why the mithril shrit?!

            Frodo swallowed nervously, wondering why he was doing so. It wasn't as though Arwen had asked for a better story of how Frodo had lost his finger. He had left that one at an "accident". They were just talking about a shirt! A shirt !- never mind that the thing was made of the finest jewels and the hardest metal in Middle-earth. Never mind that the quality of the armour had saved him from being speared by both a troll and a wizard. "He did," Frodo explained, glad that his child couldn't see the tears welling up in his eyes. "But he gave it to me when I went to visit him a few years ago."  Please don't ask why! Please don't –

            "Oh. Why did he do that?"

            Darn it!

            "Well he didn't need it any more, since he weren't goin' on no more adventures. So he thought your Daddy could use it on his adventure and he did."

            Thank you, Sam!  He was a little bit surprised to find that Sam had answered in his stead, then again Sam had probably seen the panicked look on his face from his side-way position. He had tried to mask it, but it was getting harder every day to get past Sam. And Arwen, unfortunately, was beginning to be as perceptive as her "uncle".

            "I think you should wear it tonight!"

            What? "Um I don't that's such a good idea, sweetie."

            "Why not, Daddy? We're all supposed to look our best! And that sounds a lot prettier than the waistcoat you're wearing now! Besides," she said, standing on the kitchen table so her father could see her from over the countertop, "you can't wear that outfit! It's all ruined! Besides that, it's too big on you!"

            Frodo bit back a reply upon realizing the truth of those words. Everyone had seen him where his father's waistcoat a dozen times or more, and though it had been pressed and tailored over the years, it still looked every one of its 45 years. It wasn't in any condition to be worn anyway, it was still covered in egg yolk and berry juice - and now that he stopped to notice, he realized that it was indeed a few sizes too large. His father had been heavy even by Hobbit standards, and his own slight frame, diminished by illness, starvation and wounds, looked like no more than a skeleton-image of the Hobbit who had once worn it. It was certainly high- time for a change, and the mithril was beautiful, even if it was a bit too flashy for the occasion, but still - "Alright, Arwen, I'll wear it," he finally consented, trying to ignore the stares of astonishment of Sam and Gandalf, and Rosie, who was just re-entering the kitchen.

***************************************

            That night he astonished Pippin by arriving at the Party, wearing his father's old suit (having spent hours soaked in the wash basin under Rosie's watchful hands) and the mithril shirt sparkling beneath the treasured waistcoat.

            Pippin awarded Frodo's lack of promptness with his most endearing smile (for the little kitchen incident had delayed them by several hours. "Well look who finally made it," he teased, looking over at Arwen, the Gamgee family, and Gandalf. The long over-due hugs and kisses went around. Then Pippin scooped up both of his "nieces" in his arms - he insisted on calling Elanor his niece, despite Sam's protests - and proceeded to bounce them around in a most un-dignified manner befitting the Thain's son. But Pippin didn't care. "You girls got here just in time. The party's about to begin. All we have to do is wait for my mum to bring out the cake and it's feast time! Do you know what a feast is, Elanor?"

            Elanor shook her head. "Feast?" she repeated slowly, thoroughly confused by the word.

            "It's where there's lots and lots of food. And no one ever tells you to stop eating!"

            Elanor gasped. "Food!"

            Yes, and lots of it too. Of course, you'll never learn how to have a proper feast at home! Oh no, precious. You're mamma and daddy may be the best cooks in the Shire, but they have never made quite enough for a feast. And, Arwen, your Daddy doesn't eat nearly enough for a proper meal, let alone a proper feast. So you know what that means, don't you?"

            Both girls shook their heads.

            "It means," Pippin explained patiently, with barely contained excitement, "that I get to teach you two how to have a proper Hobbit-feast, Pippin-style!"

            Arwen had seen how much Uncle Pippin could eat in one sitting and wondered if she was ready for such a lesson. Oh what was she talking about? Of course she was! Any right hobbit-lass or lad, would gladly partake in such lessons, even if it did mean being sick later on. At least it would be fun.

            "And then," Pippin continued, "you can use what you learn from me to teach Frodo-lad and Kali. Now wouldn't that be fun!"

            Arwen just laughed at the thought as her Uncle began twirling them around in dizzy circles. This Party was going to be so much fun! Now if only Daddy could enjoy it too! He would. She promised herself that he would have the time of his life, just like everyone else! She could hardly wait.

~To Be Continued~

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Disclaimer: I don't own anything in this story, it all belongs to Tolkien, brilliant man. Really, I mean, who else do you know who can create different languages, cultures and thousands of years of history with them? The only characters I own are the original ones' whose names are denoted with an asterisk, just for clarification. If you want to use them, you've got to ask me. I don't own Kalimac Brandybuck, though, because his name was taken straight from Appendix F of RotK. I hope this isn't confusing you too much.

***Setting: Tuckborough; 1423***

*Amethyst and *Aemilia Took (5 years old, November 1418)

*Arwen Baggins (5years old) birth date, said to be October 24, 1418 (yes, I'm changing Arwen's birthday!)

Elanor Gamgee (2 years old) March 25, 1421;

Frodo Gamgee (5 months) 1423

Kalimac "Kali" Brandybuck (1 year, 1422)

* * *

Title: His Little Evenstar

Chapter Six: A Long Expected Party

        The meadow outside of the Great Smials was over-flowing with Hobbits, presents, and of course, food! *So this is a feast!* Arwen thought as she felt her pupils dilating from the sheer enormity of it all. Half of the field as covered in crowded tables and Arwen felt herself being propelled towards them seemingly without her knowledge. But Daddy had been expecting this and followed closely behind his daughter, filling her plate with all of her favorites, plus some foreign treats: Elven recipes that Merry and Pippin had begged from the Cook of Rivendell on their return trip. He had also spent many of his off-duty hours in Minas Tirith badgering the recipes out of the royal servants there as well, most of which never were quite able to believe in the Hobbits' insistence that Second Breakfast and Elevenses were in fact real meals.

        Once her plate was full, Arwen turned around and proceeded to follow her father back to his table, but Uncle Pippin had other plans.

        "Now, Arwen," he teased gently. "Surely you don't want to spend the party with terribly old lads like your Daddy!" At this he turned to Frodo who gave Pippin a look of mock-surprise, and rolled his eyes, mumbling something under his breath. "I think," Uncle Pippin continued, "that you would prefer dinning with your friends. In fact, I have a special spot reserved just for you, my dear. Now follow me!" He then proceeded to pick up Arwen's plate and carried it high over his head with one hand, while leading his small "niece" with the other.

        "Pip!" Daddy gasped in alarm, noticing the precariously balanced plate, dreading a repeat of that morning's kitchen disaster. "Be careful with that!"

        "Uncle Pippin gave Daddy his most offending look. "Why, Cousin Frodo, you didn't think I'd actually drop this, did you? I'll have you know that I carried a tray twice this size at the Cormallen Feast and I didn't break a single dish!" Daddy seemed to be considering this for a second before sending them on their way with a laugh.

        Having obtained the necessary permission, Pippin escorted his small guest through the maze of tables, straight towards the group of smaller children's tables in the back. Then as they neared one in the back, she saw them. "Amy! Lia!" Arwen shouted running over to her friends. The Took twins (Amethyst and Aemilia, who were the same age as she, and the eldest children of Pippin's sister Pearl and her husband, Berliac Brandybuck) were standing on their chairs, waving their arms, and making a deliberate spectacle so as to grab the attention of their mutual friend.

        "Took you long enough," Aemilia chided, jumping down from the table to give her friend a hug. "Uncle Pippin was beginning to think you weren't coming!"

        "What?" Arwen looked up at her uncle, not bothering to hide her disbelief. "I wouldn't miss your party, Uncle Pip!"

        "Of course not," Pippin argued playfully. "Little Lia here is putting words in my mouth."

        "She is not," Amethyst jumped to her sister's defense. "I heard you, too, Uncle Pip! You said Cousin Frodo was probably taking a short-cut to see Elves near Woody-End!"

        "You misunderstood me, Little Miss Took," Pippin countered. "I merely said that Frodo may have stopped to speak to Elves along the way. I never implied that he would go *out* of his way to find them."

        "Did to!"

        "Did not!"

        "Did to!"

        As is common with this innocent game, the young tongue-tied lasses and the "adult" birthday-lad found themselves switching lines. And before they knew it, they were rolling on the floor laughing, giggling, and tickling each other for what appeared to be (and what was) no apparent reason. The disappointed girls soon realized that tickling a hobbit wearing a mail-shirt wasn't exactly the best idea in the world, since it was nigh impossible. But that didn't stop them from having a fun time trying.

        The energetic pile of Hobbits were completely oblivious to their surroundings until a loud "Ahem!" repeated itself three or four times in an attempt to gain attention. Pippin though, decided that this particular person wasn't worth his time since he (she?) didn't have the courtesy to greet him properly. And as for the question of how humiliating himself at his coming-of-age, well that wasn't really an issue since everyone already knew his reputation anyway.

        "Pippin, dear! I thought you were supposed to be dignified today. Whatever would the Thain say if he could see you now?" Pippin rolled over onto his back, mindful of Arwen and his nieces, to find Diamond (a Took cousin from the North Farthing, whom he had been courting for several months) standing above him, trying to appear stern, but failing miserably. "Come along, dear, do you not want to dance? The music has started."

        Without another word, Pippin jumped up and took his beloved's hand. "I would be most honored, Miss Took." He bowed low and Diamond, as well as Arwen, Amy, and Lia had hard time deciding if the lad was being sincere or merely playing along with her. Either way, Diamond welcomed the extra courtesy Pippin had shown her and led the birthday-lad off to the dismay of the young trio.

        "So now what do we do, Arwen?" Lia asked, turning expectantly to her friend.

        "Why are you asking me? How should I know?"

        "Because you're oldest," Lia answered, as though that answered everything.

        "Only by 2 weeks!"

        "So?"

        "Well," Arwen began hesitantly, scanning the crowd for possible forms of entertainment. But upon spotting Daddy on the other side of the field once more, she remembered that she had to be extra good and she couldn't make extra trouble for him. Darn it! That canceled out half of her ideas. Then she found it - Uncle Merry was sitting around a cluster of small curly heads, which could really only mean one thing: story time. But would they want to sit down and listen yet again to stories that they had hear countless times? Perhaps. "Let's go see which story Uncle Merry's telling," she suggested. All of her doubts were soon erased as Amy and Lia raced ahead straight towards the tall hobbit in question. No, they certainly wouldn't tire of his stories quite yet - well, come to think of it - they probably never would be - and neither would she.

        As most children eager for entertainment, they paid little or no heed to those around them and by sheer luck managed to avoid plowing into various guests who where innocently minding their own business. They eventually made it to the story circle and plopped themselves down by Uncle Merry's feet, a little disappointed to find that his young son, Kalimac, had monopolized the story teller's lap.

        "So there we were," Uncle Merry was saying, "surrounded by Uruk-hai like a great big wall.

        "What're those Uk-ha things," Lia asked, attempting to pronounce the foreign word.

        Merry looked at the wide-eyed group of children who were hanging on his every word, wondering not for the first time if he should even be telling this story. Oh what was he thinking? It was harmless, so long as he left out certain details. "Well," Merry began again, "did you ever hear Old Bilbo's stories about Orcs and goblins?"

        "Oh, yes, it's my favorite! My brother told it to me."

        "Well, old Sharkey, he lived down south before he came up her, and he made Uruk-hai by mixing Orc and goblin blood. So they were tall, strong like Orcs, but twice as ugly, just like the smaller goblins." The reaction was about what he'd anticipated. All of the lasses were shrieking "Ew!", all except Aemilia, who joined the lads in inching closer, wide-eyed, their jaws dropped and all the more fascinated by this turn of events. "So, as I was saying, there we were, surrounded by big ugly Uruk-hai on all sides, minding our own business and being good for once, when we realized that they were all arguing amongst themselves about what to eat for dinner. Then one of the enormous, nasty creatures says "What about them, they're fresh!"

        "You mean they wanted to eat you?" one of the lads piped up.

        "Oh yes, they'd only had bread for days, moldy bread with slimy worms and beetles. They wanted some real, juicy, fresh meat! They were just about to get their hands on a nice, big Hobbit sandwich when- BAM! They were killed! Arrows in the back. The Rohans had come to rescue us! But we didn't know they were friends, so we ran away. Into Fangorn Forest. It's like the Old Forest, only worse. And one followed us in there, wanting to have his Hobbit sandwich all to himself." Uncle Merry rubbed his tummy. "All of this talk of Hobbit sandwiches is making me hungry. How about some desert?

        "No!" the children wailed.

        "Good gracious! You are Hobbit children, aren't you?" he asked, picking up a small lad, seeming to inspect him. "No, must be an Elf," Merry decided with mock-sincerity, and was rewarded with plenty of laughs from the children. "It looks like a hobbit, but it surely doesn't eat like one."

        "Of course I'm a hobbit, and I can prove it," the child declared, trying unsuccessfully to contain his giggles as he perfectly recited his family history of the past one hundred years.

        "Impressive," Merry exclaimed truthfully. He himself surely had not been such an attentive student at that age. "But I'm afraid you have yet to prove it. How do I know that you did not learn someone else's family history just for show?"

        "I wouldn't!" was the indignant reply.

        "Oh, no, well then, if you truly are a hobbit, then you'll just have to take advantage of Uncle Pip's generous table. While I oblige my wife with a dance."

        "Oblige?" a new voice interrupted with a hint of scolding. The children and Merry all turned around to find Merry's wife, Estella, standing there, obviously amused. "You mean you don't want to dance."

        "Uhh-" For once the usually tactful and diplomatic heir to the Mastership of Buckland found himself at a loss for words, something that the children found amusing to no end. Estella shook her head ruefully, took little Kalimac in one arm and somehow managed to drag along Merry who had yet to find his voice.

~To Be Continued~

Sorry that ended abruptly. I've been experiencing some major computer problems so I lost some of my really good ideas for later on in the chapter. I have managed to reconstruct this part and I want to get it up so I don't loose in the unlikely event that my computer hard-drive crashes again. I hope this satisfies you all for the time-being. The party will continue in the next chapter. In which two lads honor Pippin (the King of the Pranksters) with a fire-work stunt of their own. You will see more of Estella and Diamond. Plus some special party guests that even Pippin doesn't know about. And how exactly does little Arwen fit into all of this?

Once the Party is over I PROMISE that this story will pick-up speed!

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