Setting: The Eastern edge of the Shire and Buckland, Late November, 1438. Pippin is 48, Merry is 56, Estella is 53, Faramir Took is 8.

A/N: Pippin and Faramir take a rather out-of-the-way route toward Buckland because I didn’t think they would take the most direct road, considering the circumstances. My map skills are shaky to horrid at best, though, so if there’s any glaring errors, please just turn your eyes away.

Disclaimer: Characters and places do not belong to me

Chapter One: Tooks in Pockets

The inn was quite crowded when Merry Brandybuck arrived, as it was already early evening. The Master of Buckland made his way around tables and serving lasses and lively games of darts nodding often to the greetings he received from the locals until he reached the front desk. There he waited patiently until he caught the eye of Agg Frogmorton, the proprietor.

Agg abandoned the conversation he was having with one of the stable lads and leaned over the hewn wood counter.

"Good evening to you, Master Brandybuck."

"Good evening, Agg. I believe there is a party that’s been awaiting my arrival."

"Aye," Agg nodded solemnly. He was a rare tight-lipped hobbit and known to be able to keep a secret. For this Merry was very grateful. "Down the hall, very last room to your right."

"Thank you, sir." Merry started to move in the direction Agg pointed but hesitated and turned back to the desk. "Have you…" he dipped forward and spoke quietly to the innkeeper, "have you been compensated yet?"

Frogmorton frowned. "Aye, sir. You needn’t worry about that now. I been taken quite good care of."

"Thank you." Merry smiled.

"Thank you, sir."

Merry stepped back from the desk then and, after taking one more glance about the great room, headed down the hall to the lodgings.

~~~~

Pippin woke up abruptly at the hard knocking on the door. He looked quickly toward the hearth to make sure Faramir was still where he had been earlier, before Pippin had dozed off. The stone floor was empty.

"Farry?"

"Yes?"

With relief, Pippin turned to see his son standing upon the table near the window, looking wide-eyed toward the door where the knocking still hadn’t ceased.

"Get down from there," Pippin snapped, hopping off the bed and making his way to the door.

"Who’s knocking, Da? Do you think it’s the innkeeper again?"
"We’ll find out when I answer the door, now won’t we? And I said get down from that table. No one wants to eat where your dirty feet have been."

"They’re not dirty," Faramir grumbled, climbing down carefully, "I’ve just had a bath. And, anyway, I only wanted to look out the window." The lad made to sit in the chair, but then hesitated, watching his father with curiosity. "Do you think it’s someone besides the innkeeper at the door? Do you think they’ve come to take me away?"

"No one’s going to take you away," Pippin murmured. He closed his eyes for half a second to get rid of the thought, then unlatched the door and poked his head out. Relief trickled down his forehead in cold sweat. "Oh, hoi, Merry! Good to see you!"

"Shush, Pip," Merry admonished, pushing his way into the room and shutting the door behind him. Once it was safely latched again, he softened and smiled. "It’s good to see you too."

"Hallo, Uncle Merry!"

"Hallo, Thain Faragrin," Merry laughed and turned to face the little lad who was sitting upon the table, "How are you this evening?"

"I’m well. And clean. I’ve just had a bath."

"Have you now? Well, that’s a good thing."

"Yes. There wasn’t much else to do, though. It’s dreadfully boring being in hiding."

"Are you in hiding?"

"I think we are." Faramir furrowed his brow, "Aren’t we, Da?"

"Faramir." Pippin took the lad up under the arms and set his bottom firmly on the chair. "Can you not just sit where you’re supposed to?"

"Da…"

"Faramir, please!"

Faramir pulled a frown that would make a warg cower in fear and turned away from them, the better to pout and make faces at the window.

Pippin sighed and slumped into his own chair. "Thank you for coming, Merry. I don’t know what we would have done if you hadn’t."

"You would have thought of something, I’m certain. You always do. Anyway, I don’t know what you’re going to do now that I am here. I’m not even quite sure what you need of me." Merry took a seat in the last chair of the three and reached into his coat pocket. He brought out his pipe, but grimaced at the leather pipeweed pouch, which seemed to have been soaked clear-through by the rain. "You haven’t any spare leaf on you, have you?"

"Have I?" Pippin pushed a sizeable tin across the table, "I’ve bargained myself half-way across the Shire with this."

Merry made no comment as he took a pinch of weed and tucked it into his pipe. He reached into his pocket again for his matches, but Faramir beat him to it, producing a packet from his own small coat.

Merry accepted them and asked calmly, "Have you taken up the pipe, Faragrin?"

"No. Da dropped those earlier when he was sleeping."

"Thank you for giving them back to me." Pippin muttered, taking the matches after Merry was done and tucking them safely in his breast pocket. "Such a fine-mannered son I’ve raised."

Faramir sighed and put his down on the table. "When are we going home?"

Pippin’s face grew tight and unreadable. He pushed himself away from the table, stood, and stretched. "I think I’ll have my bath now. Do you want one as well, Merry? They’ve got two basins heated."

"No. But I’d just as soon smoke in there as out here. There’s some things we need to talk about."

"Aye," Pippin nodded morosely, then looked to his son. His voice softened slightly. "We won’t be long, Farry. Be a good lad, all right?"

Faramir didn’t lift his head from the table. "I will."

Merry cast the little Took a sympathetic look, then followed Pippin into the bath room, closing the door tightly behind them.

~~~~

"Oh, Merry," Pippin sighed, "A bath! A bath is a wonderful thing." He sunk deep into the water and tilted his head back, so that soon he was up to his neck, only his chin sticking out like a small cliff above the seas. "You’ve no idea what I’ve been through this past week."

"I’m not sure I want to know."

"You wouldn’t think it would be so difficult to make one’s way to the East Farthing without being seen."

"No, especially when the talk of the Shire is that you’re holed up in Bag End while all the Tooks are quarantined in the Smials. Including your son, I might add."

"Well, that’s an un-truth right there."

"Is it?"

"Yes. Faramir wasn’t at the Smials when they enacted the quarantine. He was in Whitwell with Pervinca."

"I heard Whitwell was quarantined as well."

"It is. Along with the rest of Tookland." Pippin squeezed his eyes shut and dunked himself under the water. Merry crossed his arms and waited for his cousin to emerge before he spoke again.

"Do you not agree with Sam’s decision? Would you rather have the whole Shire infected with pox?"

"I think the Thain should have been consulted before they decided to go through with that."

"I heard the Thain’s not been acting much in his right head these days."

Pippin rolled his eyes. "Sam was too rash. He’s still being too rash. Not everyone is infected at the Smials. He should have let out the clean ones before he ordered them locked in with the sick."

"That’s not how a quarantine works. You’ve got to keep in everyone who’s been exposed. You’re just angry he won’t let you back into the Smials until the pox has run its course. You can’t blame Sam for that. It’s no use exposing you as well and it’s just your own bad luck you were in Hobbiton when all this came about."

Pippin shook his head. "I should have postponed the trip until Diamond was back from Long Cleeve. The business could have waited. Border debates and legal nonsense—I care nothing for it anyway. A tedious waste. Had I been at the Smials when all this started, it would never have become such a mess."

Merry sighed and exhaled deeply on his pipe. He thought about the stories he’d heard while riding in from Buckland, how the Thain had become incensed when the mayor suggested the idea of quarantine at the public council. Uncharacteristic of the hobbits’ good-natured Thain, Pippin had begun ranting at Sam and the other council members and, when he could not be calmed, had been forcibly removed from the meeting and temporarily stripped of his authority as Thain until, as Mayor Samwise had put it, "he’s in his right proper mind again and can think things through as needs to be done."

Merry smiled wryly at what he had felt all along must have been a cover story put out by Sam that the Thain had apologized and was waiting out the situation quietly in a guest chamber at Bag End. It was so very Sam to concoct a story like that in an attempt to redeem Pippin’s newly tarnished reputation. And, he thought bitterly, it was so very Pippin to care nothing for that effort.

"I know I’m in the wrong, Merry," Pippin said quietly, as if he had been eavesdropping on his cousin’s thoughts, "but I couldn’t leave Faramir there."

"But, Pip…"

"He wasn’t sick."

"Neither were a lot of the Tooks. But they were all exposed just the same. They all have to deal with the quarantine just like the rest of us."

"But he’s my child."

"Everyone is someone’s child."

"No, Merry." Pippin looked at him seriously. "He’s my child."

And then Merry understood.

The Shire pox that popped up in pockets about once a generation or so had never been known to be fatal. For most hobbits, it was just an irritation—debilitating for a time, but with no permanent dire effects. For the young and the very old, though, particularly the weaker ends of that spectrum, it was a more dangerous story. Merry knew of hobbits from his parents’ generation that had made it through the pox but been struck blind or lame from its effects. And Faramir was Pippin’s child, in every physical sense at least. He was small and thin and seemed to take more than his fair share of turns with every cold and childhood virus that made its way through Tookland. If there was one ideal little hobbit for the pox to become nasty with, if he were to catch it, it was Faramir Took.

Merry sighed and set aside his pipe.

"What would you have me do, Pip? If he has got the pox, I can’t bring him into Brandy Hall. I can’t take that risk." It pained Merry to even have to say those words, but Pippin seemed to have expected it.

"Crickhollow?" He asked, running his toe thoughtfully around the edge of the basin. "We’d practically have a private quarantine there. The only near neighbor is old Fatty, and he hasn’t got much to fear—no family and I hardly think he’d be at any risk of the pox. He’s heartier than even you."

Merry ignored that jab and chewed the end of his now-cold pipe. "Is he sick? Has he shown any signs?"

Pippin shook his head. "Nothing. I swear to you, Merry. I’ve not noticed a single thing wrong with him." He smiled, half with pride, half with wonder, "He’s a good lad…just…just a very good lad."

"I know he is. But just the same, I think we should make our way to Stock first thing in the morning. Agg Frogmorton’s sister lives down there. She’s a healer and she’s just as tight-lipped as he is. We can trust her. If she looks Farry over and gives him a clean bill of health, we’ll head on to the Hall then."

"The Hall?"

"Yes. If he’s not carrying the pox then you’re to come home with me. I’ll not have the Thain and his son hiding out in some empty house at Crickhollow while all this trouble is still rumbling about in the Shire. And don’t think I’m not going to send for Sam. You two need to settle this matter once and for good and you, Peregrin, owe him an apology at the very least."

Pippin laughed. "I know I do. Oh, poor Sam."

Merry stood up and patted his belly then. "And poor Merry. I rode straight from Buckland and haven’t had a bite to eat since breakfast."

"I suppose Faramir will be hungry as well," Pippin mused, cocking his head, "we lifted some apples from an orchard on the road this afternoon, but I haven’t thought to look for fare since then."

Merry gave Pippin a look, but forced himself to hold his tongue. He and Estella had often discussed with wonder Pippin and Diamond’s appalling lack of responsibility at times to their role as parents. It was a testament, many said, to the Faramir’s character that he had not turned out either spoiled or strange. Though he was obviously well-loved (more obviously by Pippin than by Diamond, Merry thought bitterly) it was not unusual that a meal time (or several) might pass by unnoticed if one of them was particularly focused on some other task or personal pursuit. Faramir was quite used to it, though, and seldom complained, even at his young age. It was a common sight, in fact, to find the little heir by himself in the kitchen, quietly eating a meal of jam and bread when his supper had been forgotten.

But then, Merry thought, it was easy enough to pass judgement when you had no children of your own. Not yet, anyway, he amended.

"I suppose he will be hungry," he agreed and made to head down to the great room to order a tray of food, but then paused. "Pippin?"

"Yes?"

"How did you make it all the way to Frogmorton without being seen?" Merry knew from his own experience that it was impossible for him to go riding in the Shire and not be instantly recognized from even great distances solely because of his height. But as far as he could tell, Pervinca Took and Agg Frogmorton were still the only hobbits who knew that Pippin was not in fact in Hobbiton and Faramir was not under quarantine in Whitwell. He couldn’t fathom how this could be.

Pippin grinned. "I put my hood up and rode half-bent the entire way with Faramir beneath my cloak. You may hear some tales of a terribly fat hunch-backed hobbit bribing his way across the West Farthing if you join the other inn-goers for an ale."

"I just may have to do that," Merry smiled, then left Pippin to finish his bath.

Chapter Two: From Potatoes to Turtles

When Merry returned with supper, Pippin was still off soaking in his bath but Faramir greeted the arrival enthusiastically.

"Oh, Uncle Merry, are those sausages?!"

"Yes," Merry laughed, setting the tray on the table and pointing out various items with a fork, "and cheese and bread—salty-dough—and butter and apples and boiled cabbage and potato-leek soup. That’s a very special soup, you know. You can only make it if you find a potato that’s sprung a leak."

Faramir obliged him with a polite smile, but his attention was clearly focused on the food rather than Merry’s attempts at humor. "Um," he started uncomfortably, staring at the tray before him, "Do we have to wait until Da’s ready to eat?"

"Not at all," Merry said and promptly began filling a plate for the little Took, "and if he comes out and finds that there’s nothing left to eat then that’s just too bad for him and he’ll have to get his own. In fact, that seems to be a quite likely thing to happen, as I feel so hungry I could eat eight trays like this."

Faramir grinned. "I could eat ten."

"Really? Perhaps I could eat fourteen then."

"No, I don’t think so."

"You don’t think I could?"

"No. Maybe thirteen. Maybe."

"Thirteen but not fourteen, eh?"

"Yes."

"Mmm," Merry nodded and buttered his salty-dough bread, "I think you might be right. I wouldn’t want to look greedy, after all."

The two ate in companionable silence for a while and Merry watched Faramir thoughtfully. The lad had nice table manners (no doubt courtesy of Diamond or Eglantine, as Pippin had never had them) but it didn’t disguise the eagerness with which he ate and the fact that this was the first real meal he’d been given all day. Merry wasn’t sure why this of all things bothered him so much. Faramir certainly was not starving or lacking for affection—he was the apple of his father’s eye and much doted upon, but when it came to what Merry felt were the fundamentals of being a parent—making sure your lad got proper and regular meals, bedtimes, baths, schooling, discipline—well, he thought that Pippin was far too cavalier in his handling of this.

‘It’s just because he doesn’t realize how lucky he is,’ Merry thought to himself. Lucky in that Faramir was Faramir: a clean child who took his baths and washed his hands without ever being told to, a smart child who taught himself to read before his parents had even thought of getting him a tutor and a quiet child who stayed out of trouble and seldom raised a complaint, even if he’d been dragged half-way across the Shire with nothing but a couple of apples to tide him over.

That was the problem. Pippin took for granted that Faramir was an exceptional lad—so much so that he was hardly allowing Faramir to be a lad. Like with bedtimes. There had been quite a few occasions when Merry had been visiting at the Smials and the adults had stayed up talking long into the night, reminiscing by the fire and when at last they headed to bed, a light would still be burning in the study or the play room and when Merry peeked in to investigate, he’d find young Faramir, wide awake and reading, or playing alone with his toys. Now, Merry couldn’t put his finger on just why exactly he felt this was an inadvisable thing, but, well, it just didn’t seem healthy somehow for a little lad to be raised with so few restrictions.

‘But it’s none of your business, Merry Brandybuck,’ he told himself firmly, ‘and Faramir’s such a good lad, maybe Pippin does know what he’s doing after all. How would you know anyway?’ And, yet…

"Faramir?"

The lad looked up, an apple poised in one hand and a skewered sausage in the other. "Yes?"

"You ought to say something to your father when he forgets to feed you."

Faramir blushed. "Oh, it’s all right."

"No it isn’t. You shouldn’t be making jam and bread suppers for yourself at your age. That’s your Da and Mum’s job."

"But my Da is Thain. He’s quite busy, you know."

"Yes," Merry smiled wryly, "I realize he’s dreadfully important."

"He is. He’s Thain and the Took and, and well that makes him twice as busy as…well, as other lads’ fathers. I…I…really, I don’t mind." Faramir seemed embarrassed and bowed his head slightly so that he was no longer making eye contact with Merry. His ears flamed all the way to the tips.

Merry tried to soften his voice at the sight of this, though it made him no less determined to say his piece. "Farry, I think he’d be rather upset if he heard you say that. You’re far more important to him than any silly job or title."

Faramir nodded morosely.

Merry sighed. "Promise me something, all right, Faragrin?"

At the gentle use of his nickname, Faramir offered a small smile, Pippin’s bow-shaped lips heaped with far more patience than the elder Took had ever possessed.

"You promise me that the next time supper or dinner time rolls around and you haven’t been sat down with a plate before you, I don’t care how busy your Da is with his work or how wrapped up your Mum is in her sewing or chatting with Auntie Pearl or whoever, you go up and you tug on his sleeve and you say: ‘Da, I’m hungry and you need to make me supper.’ Or you tell your mum: ‘Mumsy, I’m a growing lad and it’s time to eat.’ You got that?"

Faramir nodded and then giggled.

Merry smiled. "What do you find so amusing?"

"Mum hates Auntie Pearl."

"Does she?"

"Yes," Faramir nodded and then shrugged and took a bite of his sausage and spoke around the mouthful, "But then, Mum doesn’t like anyone. Except Da."

Merry laughed but said no more. He was not going to touch that subject with a ten foot pole.

~~~~

Faramir lay awake that night, watching the fire from his place on the big bed and thinking. He wasn’t exactly worried about the coming day, but he wished he knew what to expect. Da had said they would be traveling to Stock but he hadn’t said what they would do there. They always stopped in Stock whenever they were headed to Buckland and they would eat at the familiar inn there and Da would have an ale and Faramir would be allowed a sip and there was a serving lass there who knew them and always smiled and cheered Faramir on when he and his Da played darts after their meal. But this time, Faramir didn’t think that would happen. He didn’t think they would go to the Stockbrook Inn or see the pretty serving lass with bright red curls. And for some reason, this thought made him uneasy.

He sighed and turned over to look at his Da, who was sleeping to one side of him (Uncle Merry was on the other). He studied his father’s face, the turned-down line of his lips, the shiny skin of his closed eyelids. He knew something had happened in Hobbiton. He had heard the grown-ups talking about it before he left and Auntie Pervinca hadn’t wanted his Da to take him.

"You’re jumping into more trouble than what you’re escaping, Pip," she’d told him.

But she’d given Faramir a quick kiss goodbye anyway and told him to be good and he had done his best. But his Da was worried about him. He asked him all the way whether he was feeling too hot or too cold, sleepy or chilly, whether he had spent an awful lot of time in the same room with Auntie Pervinca’s daughters after they got sick.

Faramir didn’t think he was sick. Anyway, he didn’t feel sick. He mainly felt bored. He wished he’d thought to bring some books with, or a game, or something. But they’d left Whitwell in such a hurry and Faramir had been more concerned at the time with the wild look upon his Da’s face, wild with worry…and fear.

Faramir swallowed hard and turned over again, this time facing Uncle Merry.

He’d felt better when Uncle Merry showed up. So had his Da, he could tell. Uncle Merry always seemed bright and confident and certain of what to do next. And he never talked to Faramir as if he were too young to understand things unless he phrased them childishly. Faramir liked that a lot. He also liked the way his father changed when Uncle Merry was around, becoming more relaxed and silly, as if any responsibility had been handed over and he was allowed to be nothing but the younger cousin again, carefree and immature.

Uncle Merry must have felt the weight of Faramir’s eyes on him, for he woke slowly and smiled at him.

"Can’t sleep, Faragrin?"

"No."

"Are you chilly?"

"A bit."

"Well, come here then." He lifted his arm and picked up the blankets, motioning for him to move closer.

Faramir scooted over and burrowed himself contentedly against him. Uncle Merry felt exactly how Faramir thought fathers ought to feel: soft and round and friendly and pipe-smelling. While Faramir’s father was friendly and pipe-smelling, he certainly wasn’t soft and round.

And sometimes, sometimes late at night when Faramir couldn’t sleep, that seemed like the most terrible crime of all.

~~~~

Faramir awoke to the sound of Merry and Pippin talking in hushed voices. He opened his eyes and sat up just in time to see Merry throw on his cloak and head out the door.

"Why did Uncle Merry leave?!" Faramir demanded, suddenly wide awake and struggling to get out from beneath the covers.

"He’s only gone to check on the ponies. And maybe find us some tea if he’s worth his salt," Pippin yawned and stretched. He was sitting at the table but still appeared half asleep.

Faramir made his way across the small room and stood beside his father’s chair. "So he’s coming back?"

"I certainly hope so."

The look on Faramir’s face was heart-breaking so Pippin smiled and brushed the curls off the lad’s forehead gently. "I’m only teasing. Of course he’ll come back. You take your old Da too seriously."

Faramir nodded and crawled into his father’s lap. "Are we going to Brandy Hall after Stock?"

Pippin put an arm around him to hold him more securely. "We might."

"Might?"

"Well, we might go to Crickhollow instead. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?"

Faramir scrunched his nose. The house at Crickhollow stayed locked up and empty most of the time. He’d been there on holiday with his father and Uncle Merry before and the place always smelled musty and un-used, like the rooms at the Smials where the Old Took had lived. Faramir didn’t like those rooms either.

"Are we going to play darts with Peony?" he asked hopefully.

"Peony?" Pippin cocked his head, confused, then remembered the serving lass, "Ah, yes, Peony. Em, no, Farry, I don’t think we’ll be able to see her this time. Next time, though. I promise."

Faramir sighed. Things were not looking up.

"How’re you feeling?" Pippin asked then, eager to change the subject.

"Sleepy."

Pippin laughed lightly. "It is quite early, I’m afraid. But Merry thinks we should be off before the sun’s up. Unfortunately, I think he’s right."

They sat quiet for a while, just the two of them, each thinking their own thoughts of what was going to happen next, each considering the possibilities of this uncertain future to come. After a bit, though, Faramir tucked the thoughts away and turned his focus to more immediate matters.

"Da?"

"Yes?"

"I’m hungry."

Pippin was surprised, though he couldn’t put his fingers on exactly why. It seemed in itself a reasonable enough statement. "Are you?"

"Yes."

"Well…well, all right, then, let’s see what we’ve got left from last night’s feast here." He leaned forward and began rummaging through the dishes, lifting off lids and inspecting with his nose.

"Ah. Looks like leaky potato soup. Cold, though. I suppose we could heat it up."

Faramir turned to face him and their noses bumped tips. Faramir giggled. "Make the soup, Da."

"All right." Pippin set Faramir on his own chair, then stood and took the soup to the hearth. "If it’s soup my lad wants…" He paused, scratched his head at the odd set-up of the fireplace, then knelt and began to heat the pot as best he could, "Then it’s soup you shall get."

Faramir smiled with contentment, laid his head upon the arm of the chair and watched his father make breakfast.

~~~~

Merry returned from the stables to find Faramir finishing his breakfast and Pippin sound asleep once more on the bed. Merry sighed impatiently and yanked his cousin up-right by the collar.

"Up, Pip. Now."

"Oh, Merry, certainly the ponies can wait. It’s not even yet light. Hobbits are not creatures of the night."

"Don’t make me pinch your ears, Pippin. We’ve got to be off and we have to do it now."

Pippin made a face and rubbed his untouched ears as he began to drag himself from the bed.

"Are you ready to go, Faragrin?" Merry asked, crossing his arms as Pippin stumbled about, gathering their few belongings.

"Oh, yes, I suppose."

"Good," Merry smiled, "I’m sorry that we must hurry so, but we’re to meet a friend in Stock."

"Who’s that?"

"Opal Frogmorton. Do you know her?"

Faramir considered it for a moment, then shook his head.

"Well, she is expecting our arrival and I’m anxious not to make her wait. Is that all right by you?"

The lad frowned and set his spoon down neatly on the saucer. "If it’s all right by Da…"

"It’s all right by Da," Pippin muttered impatiently as he re-buttoned his weskit, having done it incorrectly the first time and ended up with an extra button and an uneven line at the end. "There," he sighed with relief, inspecting his reflection in the still-black window of the room. "Come on, then, Farry. Merry? Are you ready to go yet?"

"Watch your nose, Peregrin." Merry replied curtly and reached out, pulling his cousin’s hood down roughly. "There may be other travelers about at this time and I don’t want them recognizing you."

"You too, dear," he nodded at the lad, "I’m sorry."

Merry caught just a glimpse of Faramir’s smile as he lifted the hood of his own cloak and shadowed his face. "I don’t mind. It’s better than another old day at the Smials."

~~~~

Merry successfully lead his two cloaked charges through the back hallways of the inn and out to the stables where they were pleased to find he had acquired a small carriage with curtained windows. Faramir was delighted that he would no longer have to ride scrunched up in the stuffiness beneath his father’s cloak and Pippin breathed a sigh or relief for his poor back, which had become dreadfully achy being bent so the previous days.

It was still a tense passage getting out of Frogmorton without being noticed overly much although the sight of Master Meriadoc driving a carriage not of Brandy Hall was certainly going to arouse a bit of gossip come afternoon. The three remained completely silent until they had passed the far-reaches of the town. As they headed south into the countryside, however, their mood lifted and they began to relax at last.

Merry drove the ponies placidly and watched the sunrise idly around them, turning the autumn grasses a glorious range of golds and green. Unable to hear the conversation inside the carriage due to the steady clopping of the ponies’ hooves, he allowed his thoughts to drift into their own private direction.

He would send word back to Estella, once they reached Stock, he decided. He would have to, no matter what the outcome of Opal Frogmorton’s examination. If the lad didn’t have the pox, he would have to send word to expect them and to make ready accommodations. If the lad did…well, then Merry wouldn’t be returning to the Hall. He would have to join them in Crickhollow and wait out the sickness, for better or for ill. He certainly could not bring his own exposure to the pox with him back to the Hall, not back to Estella and not at a time like this.

A time like this. Oh, how he had been loath to leave when Pippin’s message had arrived at the Hall. ‘Not now,’ he had thought irritably, ‘any other time, Pip, I could deal with your mess, but not now.’ And Estella had been angry as he knew she would be, and rightly so, but she had allowed him to go, as he also knew she would. She was a good lass, a fine one, the only one he could ever imagine himself loving so. And she was understanding. She had finally given her blessing for him to go, only out of care for the lad and sympathy for Pippin’s predicament, he knew. But she trusted him to make things right and take care of it all. As everyone did. Meriadoc the Magnificent, Master of Buckland. Learned of all things wise and Knower always of exactly ‘what is to be done.’

He sighed and sat back in the hard wooden seat of the carriage and twitched the ponies in a slightly more eastward direction.

Sometimes it was awfully difficult to try and live up to ‘magnificent.’

Chapter Three: Taking Stock

Inside the carriage, the air was thick and the light shady, the passing countryside hidden behind the winter-weight curtains and the sound of the ponies’ hooves just a distant rhythm. Pippin leaned against the carriage wall and watched Faramir sleep on the seat opposite him. It was not a large carriage, only intended to carry three or four hobbits at most. Still, lying full-length, young Faramir’s feet did not even touch the other end of the narrow bench.

Pippin felt a swell of emotion in his throat at the sight. His son. So like him. So desperately like him. And yet, a complete mystery to him. When he had first held his babe in his arms, Pippin had recognized his own features and he decided that parenthood would be far easier than anyone had ever made it out to be—why, all you had to do was deal with a small version of yourself, and that would certainly not be too difficult a trial.

But, oh, looks were deceiving.

Beneath those messy curls, behind those gray-green eyes, there lurked a very different little hobbit, one with his own thoughts, own behaviors and—most off-putting—his own sense of humor. Pippin was often startled by the unexpected giggling of his son when there didn’t appear to be anything very funny and when he asked him to share the joke, the lad would merely shrug and disappear behind his stolen Peregrin Took smile. And when Pippin expected his son to laugh? When he quipped clever to the boy or told an amusing story? Well, there were times when one could believe the little Took had not a drop of mirth within his veins.

The carriage hit a bump and Faramir shifted uncomfortably and woke. He frowned at the bit of sunlight allowed by the curtains and attempted to reposition himself more comfortably.

"You may come sit on my side, if you like," Pippin said sympathetically, "it’s less bumpy."

"Is that because you’re nearer to the ponies?" Faramir asked as he rubbed his eyes and moved across to the other bench.

"Well, yes, that and the fact that Merry is sitting just the other side of this wall. He weights the bench down quite a bit."

As expected, there was no laugh from Faramir. He only nodded and snuggled tight against his father. Pippin responded by pulling him closer and burying his chin in the lad’s fine curls. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the scent of soap and hobbit-child and the feeling of that tiny heart beating strong against his side. He had felt that heart beat against him the entire time that they rode from Whitwell to Frogmorton. It had kept him riding, long after everything else seemed to tell him to turn back.

‘As strange as you are to me,’ he thought, ‘I shall never leave you to battle anything alone.’
~~~~

After what felt like ages but was likely only a few hours, Pippin noticed that the carriage had slowed down a great deal and the ponies’ hooves seemed to have taken up a more halting rhythm. He poked his hand out of the window to where Merry sat driving the ponies and tapped him on the shoulder.

Merry jumped slightly, having been lost in contemplation. He brought the ponies to a halt and ducked his head inside the curtain. "What is it?"

"Why have we slowed?"

"We’re on the outskirts of Stock. I’m looking for the cut-off for Opal Frogmorton’s. It’s not a very big road, from what I recall."

"Oh. Well, I’m sure you’ll find it, Merry."

"Yes, I’m sure I will," Merry muttered, letting the curtain drop back down. But then his mood shifted and he decided to make a bit of conversation while he had the chance, as he’d been sitting in silence the entire drive, though he refrained from putting his head through the small window again. As long as the ponies were standing still, they could talk just as well through the canvas. "Pippin?"

"Yes?"

"Whose pony is this?"

"Which one?"

"The gray, silly. I know that the tan is mine."

"Oh, that’s Pervinca’s."

"What happened to yours?" Merry smiled, thinking of his cousin’s handsome pony (which Pippin had years ago named "Sam" in a fit of self-amusement).

"Oh, he’s fine enough, I suppose. He’s at the stable in Whitwell. I couldn’t very well go riding him across the West Farthing and expect to not be recognized. Everyone knows Sam."
Merry thought this was an unusual bit of responsible foresight and decided not to question it further, lest he find that it was not actually Pippin’s idea. He couldn’t deal with his opinion of his cousin dropping any lower than it already had today.

"We should be there soon," he said instead, after some hesitation.

When Pippin made no reply, Merry waited for a moment longer, uncertain, then poked his head through the curtain to see what was the matter. He was alarmed at the stricken terror on his cousin’s face. "What’s the matter?"

"Do you think he’ll be all right, Merry?" Pippin whispered, nodding down at the boy in his lap. "He’s been sleeping an awful lot."

Merry hesitated. Now was not the time, he supposed, to be completely honest and tell him how very likely it was the odds would not be in their favor. But he didn’t want to instill false hope, either.

"Well…to be fair, Pip, it has been a tedious journey for him. He hasn’t got much else to do but sleep. He’s just a young thing. You can’t expect too much of him."

Pippin nodded grimly then looked away. Merry took this as the end of the conversation and so he allowed the curtain to drop back once more and for good. He resumed driving the ponies down the narrow stretch of lane, but his thoughts had been shaken up and they remained so for the duration.
~~~~

Opal Frogmorton lived in a sensible middle-class hobbit house and on a respectably-sized piece of property at the end of a very reputable lane. A sign hung on her gate and read in neat, plain letters: Opal Frogmorton, Healer.

Merry hopped from the carriage and approached the house first, leaving Pippin and Faramir still concealed inside. He returned quickly, though, Opal Frogmorton bustling at his heels, speaking briskly in a voice that sounded to Farmir very much like a chicken clucking.

"Come, come, now, come on inside. No use hidin’ in there. If you’re worried about the neighbors, you shouldn’t be. They’re on holiday in the South Farthing. Won’t be back till a week from Tuesday. No one here to see ye, now hurry up and come on. I haven’t got all day and I’d like to have some tea first."

At the mention of tea, Faramir cheered visibly. He had been leery about this mysterious friend of Uncle Merry’s, but all hesitation dropped away at the prospect of biscuits and sandwiches. Even the sight of the word "healer" marked on the gate did not discourage him. Breakfast seemed an awful long time ago and his tummy felt on the verge of turning inside out in protest. He jumped down from the carriage, not even bothering to take Merry’s offered hand of help.

"Hallo!" He said brightly.

Opal hesitated for a moment when she saw the lad move to greet her. She wasn’t sure why, exactly, but sight of this little hobbit unnerved her. It wasn’t that she had been expecting anything in particular…he was just certainly not what she might have imagined, had she been the sort of hobbit that imagined things (which she wasn’t, of course).

"Aye, so you’re the Thain’s son?" She questioned.

"Aye." He nodded.

"Opal Frogmorton." She held her hand out, then added as an afterthought, "At your service, young sir."

"And yours as well." Faramir smiled brightly, forgetting to add his own name, as his Grandmother had taught him. "Are we to have tea with you?"

Opal felt her heart warm slightly. She was surprised to find that she had been intimidated—that adult manner in that impish face—but was no longer. The boy was charming in a way she didn’t usually find children. "If that’s what you would like."

"Oh, yes, I’d like that very much." He had accepted her hand, but had not yet released it. This proved useful as Opal turned and led the way into the house and Faramir trotted happily beside her.

Pippin remained standing in the carriage, having witnessed the scene in astonishment. "Why, Merry, she didn’t even say hello to me."

Merry grinned, his amusement fed by Pippin’s perturbed expression.

"It’s time to face it, Pip. You’re last year’s plow. Can’t compete with the newer model."

Pippin was at a loss for a reply as he frowned and followed Merry into the house.
~~~~

"Goodness, Farry, you act as if you’ve never tasted sugar cake before," Pippin admonished as the lad helped himself to the last of the spread. Faramir had out-eaten all of his elders combined, a remarkable feat even by hobbit standards and the three now watched him with various expressions: Pippin concerned, Merry surprised and Opal merely amused.

"Is there anything else I can get ye, love?" she asked sweetly.

Faramir swallowed the last bite of cake and gazed at the dishes and trays that covered the table, formerly full of all sorts of breads and fruits and cheese and sweets, now adorned only with crumbs. He sighed contentedly.

"No. I think that is all right."

"Good," she nodded, rising, "Then go wash up while I clean up and if Master and Thain here will kindly find some other sort of amusement for themselves, I think we can get on with the business that you came for."

Merry and Pippin took the hint and removed to the sitting area near the hearth. They took out their pipes and began to smoke. They did not speak, though, keeping their attention firmly focused on the other end of the room.

Faramir finished at the basin and returned to the table, just as Opal put the last plate in the dishpan.

"Are your feet clean?" She asked him, hands on her hips.

He hopped on one leg at a time, displaying the bottom of each foot.

"All right, then, up you go." Taking him up firmly under the arms, Opal lifted the lad and placed him on top of the table.

Then, nose to nose with him, she pursed her lips and began her examination, saying very little as her keen healer’s eyes took in every detail and made mental note. Eyes: clear, lively, green. Nose: clear as well, quite pointed. Ears: sharp, remarkably clean. Teeth: well cared for, all still first-set save for one rather recent-looking gap.

"Did ye lose a tooth, Master Took?"

"I knocked it out playing round ball," he replied, "But Da said it was all right because it was only a first-set tooth and that you’re meant to lose all of them anyway because you have to make room for your next-set teeth."

"Did ye bury it, then? It’s bad luck not to, you know."

Faramir nodded emphatically. "Oh, yes! Da and I, we took it back behind the old stable on the west—"

"Shush, now, don’t be telling me where you buried it. That’s even worse luck."

"Is it?!"

"It is."

"Oh." Faramir closed his mouth tight then, fearful that something else unlucky might slip out of it.

"Ah-ha!" Opal said gravely then, taking hold of his hand.

"What?" he squeaked.

"You haven’t been eating your vegetables Master Took."

"Just, just…carrots…how did you know?"

"See this?" she asked, pointing to small flecks of white in the flats of his fingernails "That tells the whole world straight-out that you haven’t been eating your carrots."

Faramir gasped and peered at the marks. "What should I do?"

"Why, eat your carrots!" Then Opal sighed and continued on with her examination, muttering to herself: "’S a shame. A nice little gentlehobbit like yourself…"

Merry watched along with Pippin. Though neither said a word, a feeling of dismay was growing between them as it seemed Miss Frogmorton was giving the lad nothing more than a standard examination, the sort healthy young hobbits got from time to time. But hadn’t they traveled all this way for something more than that?

Merry said nothing as she checked the lad’s lungs and breathing—that seemed more to the point—but then when she had him hop down from the table and put his back to the wall for height-measuring, he sat his shoulders forward uncomfortably. He could feel Pippin’s irritation growing beside him.

Opal grimaced slightly as she ticked off a mark on the un-plastered portion of the wall.

"How old are ye, lad?"

"I’m eight!"

"Eight? Are you sure about that?"

"Yes."

"Is that true?" she addressed Pippin then, "Is he eight years old?"

Pippin was rather startled. "Erm, yes, he is. Just had his birthday last month."

"Hmmm." Was all she said in reply. She began to dust her hands off, prepared to move onto the next part of the exam, but Faramir interrupted her.

"What’s the matter with how old I am?"

The healer hesitated, then she drew up her chair and sat so that she was eye to eye with the boy.

"You’re small," she said plainly, "though I suppose you know that already."
Faramir did know that. It had been made painfully clear to him at his birthday party when Auntie Pearl’s daughters had all found it amusing that their cousin Lolly Banks, despite being a year younger and a lass to boot, stood several inches taller than the Thain’s heir. The memory alone still made his ears hot.

And yet, somehow hearing this from Opal Frogmorton, it didn’t seem such a mean thing. It didn’t hurt when she said it like that.

"What should I do?" he asked.

Opal smiled. "You can start by making sure you eat your carrots."

The two smiled at each other and it would appear to anyone watching that they had just shared a precious secret without even speaking.

At that moment, however, Pippin lost his patience. He stood up from his chair and muttered so that only Merry heard "I didn’t come all this way for her to tell him that he’s small."
Before Merry could stop him, he had stormed the length of the great room and was standing beside the healer’s chair, glaring down at the hobbitess with a grim expression seldom seen.

"May I ask what you think you’re doing?!" he demanded.

She glared back at him. "I might ask of you the same, Master Took."

Merry reached them then and pulled Pippin back slightly, to his visible annoyance. "Please pardon him, Mistress Frogmorton. He’s just…well, we’re rather impatient to find out if…if our lad here is…infected."

She sighed and folded her hands in her lap. "Do you see the rash?"

"What rash?" Merry and Pippin asked in unison.

"The rash on his face. Do you see it?"

They turned to look at Faramir then and were met with nothing more than the pale face of a lad with enormous, frightened eyes.

"He hasn’t got a rash." Merry said quietly.

"Mmm, exactly." Opal sighed. "Do you see the pock-marks? The little bumps that go with the rash that everyone with the pox is known to get?"

"No."

"Well, then, since he hasn’t got the face-rash and he hasn’t got the pock-marks and he hasn’t got a fever and he hasn’t got a sore throat and he hasn’t lost his appetite nor his wits, then I’d venture to say that he hasn’t got the pox. But," she continued, climbing to her feet and putting her hands to her hips, lecture-fashion, "since you came all this way and are payin’ me for an examination, an examination is what I’ll give ye. And if I can’t very well do an examination for pox if it isn’t there to find, I’ll do an examination for whatever there is there to find. But if you’d rather pay me for no job done, I suppose that is your business and I’ll not be arguing with the mighty Thain O’ the Shire and the Master."

A grin crept across Pippin’s face and he collapsed into Opal’s vacated chair with relief. Merry kept on task, though, setting this small victory aside for the moment.

"But even if he hasn’t got it," he ventured cautiously, "is there still a chance…could he be carrying it? Could he give it to other hobbits even if he isn’t infected himself?"

"Well, if you’ll kindly settle down and let me examine the two of you, I might be able to give ye a studied answer."

Both Merry and Pippin opened their mouths to speak, but Faramir beat them to it.

"Will they have to stand on the table?" He asked, looking quite excited by the prospect.

"We’d probably have more luck if I was standin’ on the table, but I suppose I’ll just have to do my best with them right here on the ground and me standin’ on my toes to reach. Now then, who’ll be first?"

The examinations went quickly, as there was little wrong to find, though Opal could not refrain from at least a few constructive comments.

She picked up one of Pippin’s hands and glanced over his fingernails, finding them clear, if a tad grimy.

"I’m rather fond of carrots," he grinned saucily.

"And potatoes as well, I see," She tsked, examining his ears. "You ought to take a page from your son. You show him how to eat his carrots and he’ll show you how to keep your ears clean."

Merry bit his lip and Faramir giggled openly, clamping a hand over his mouth when his father shot him a mock-stern look.

When she moved on to Merry, he couldn’t help but smile proudly. He was the picture of hobbit health and had carefully cleaned his ears and fingernails just that morning. He’d like to see what she could find the matter with him.

"Well," she sniffed at last, "The Mistress keeps you well enough, it seems, though I dare say it wouldn’t hurt ye none to take in a bit more exercise now and again. Taking after your brother-in-law, you are."

Merry would have rolled his eyes, had he not been so relieved.

"So that’s it, then?" he asked, "Faramir hasn’t got it and he hasn’t given it to us either?"

Opal nodded. "It’s not likely the boy’s contagious, no."

"Would…would it be safe to bring him to Buckland? To the Hall?"

Opal hesitated at the note of seriousness in the Master’s voice. She was well aware of the situation awaiting his return at the Hall—she had a cousin who worked in the kitchens there and gossip spread fast to the East Farthing—and now, facing those piercing gray eyes, she understood that he knew she knew.

"Yes," she nodded firmly, "I would bet my land on it. If the Pox is to hit Buckland, it’ll not be coming with this lad."

The gratitude in Merry’s heart left him speechless.

It had begun to rain during the examinations and so they had stayed until supper, hoping to wait it out. When it showed no signs of letting up, however, they decided to brave the storm, as Merry desperately wanted to get to the Hall before nightfall.

The carriage was left with Opal as an addition to her payment.

"If you can’t use it, I’m certain you can get a good price for it." Merry said, "I paid far too much for it and Estella would have my head if she knew. I happily gift it to you."

Opal seemed quite pleased and stood at the door waving goodbye as the three rode off, hunched over in cloaks and hoods to ward off the rain as well as curious eyes.

They didn’t say much for a while, the rain making things rather dreary and uncomfortable but at last Merry felt he had to say something, so much higher had his spirits been raised since that afternoon.

"You didn’t seem surprised, Faragrin, that she was a healer."

"I read it on her gate-sign."

"Ah," Merry laughed, "Clever lad."

Faramir puffed out proudly. "I can read farther in the primers than any of Auntie Pervinca’s daughters, and some of them are teenagers."

"Oh, my." Merry smiled and watched the road with care as they approached the Brandywine.

Pippin leaned closer around his son, looking guilty.

"I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you ahead of time that we were going to see a healer," he whispered, "I didn’t want to frighten you."

Faramir shrugged. "You never tell me when I’m going to see a healer. You just go ahead and let them in, even when I’m in my nightclothes."

Pippin opened his mouth to reply to that immediately, but then he closed it and thought carefully about what he wanted to say instead. This was a topic he was not entirely comfortable speaking about.

"Well," he said at last, choosing less over more, "sometimes it can’t be helped."

And Faramir shrugged again, content to let the conversation end there. He knew he was a weak lad. No one had ever told him flat-out or even hinted, but he was no fool. None of the other children at the Smials spent nearly as much time in sick-bed as he and some of them had never been. That was why he had caught on to reading so fast—there was very little else to do when you were confined alone to your bed or when you were the only lad not allowed outside in poor weather.

Only. Yes. The being sick part didn’t bother him so much. As his father said, it couldn’t be helped. But it hurt to always be the one singled out, to always be different and odd.
Like the time last winter when his toes refused to lose their chill and the healer insisted he wear woolen stockings. Stockings. It was unheard of in the Shire. He had been so mortified he refused to leave the Thain’s family quarters while wearing them, sliding across the polished floors red-faced and frustrated. His mother had eventually taken so much pity on him that she knit him a peachy-colored pair with a brown swirly pattern up the front, intended to mimic bare hobbit legs. Faramir had done such a poor job of trying to fake a smile when she presented him the ridiculous things that her normally proper face had broken into a fit of giggles. It was one of the few times he had ever seen her laugh.

The memory of that cheered his cross mood some. In addition, he’d been rather pleased when Miss Frogmorton had examined his Da and Uncle Merry and reprimanded them accordingly. It was nice for once to see others on the receiving end, especially his big strong Da, who Faramir sometimes felt he could never live up to. He hadn’t known his Da to be sick a day in his life. In fact, it was rather shocking when Opal had even suggested the possibility.

And now that idea sprouted a tiny, bothersome little worry in the pit of his stomach. What happened when grown-ups got sick?

But he didn’t have much time to think on the matter as they were now at the ferry.

"It won’t be but a short while until we reach the Hall," Uncle Merry said as they began to cross.

Faramir nodded and watched the gray water of the Brandywine dimple with heavy rain.

"Estella will be glad to see you." He added and that cheered Faramir for good. He liked Auntie Estella very much and she was always kind to him. If Uncle Merry was exactly what Faramir felt a father ought to be like, Auntie Estella made an equally ideal mum: all softness and care and bakery-scented. Once Faramir had even secretly wished that they were his parents. Well, more than once, to be truly honest. But never a lot because he knew that it was wicked to think things like that.

Then he felt his Da’s grip tighten protectively on his shoulder as the ferry lurched a bit and guilt overtook all the other mixed up feelings inside of his small belly. He was wicked indeed, he thought, and certainly no hobbit’s ideal son.

Merry caught a glimpse of his little cousin’s face in the fading twilight and wondered briefly what sort of heavy thoughts had caused such a dismal expression, but then they were docking and the memory of that moment washed away as he felt great weight lifted from his heart. He would never be so relieved to see his Estella as he was going to be tonight.

A Slight Case of Magnificence

Summary: Just before one of the turning points in his life, Merry finds himself in an unexpected situation. A Fourth Age tale.

Setting: Buckland, Late November, 1438. Pippin is 48, Merry is 56, Estella is 53, Faramir Took is 8.

A/N: Much thanks to everyone who has been so faithful about reviewing and reading. It means a lot more than I know how to say. I’ve tried to get this chapter out to you a little quicker than the last one. I very much hope that you enjoy it.

A/N 9-18-03: My apologies for having written "Dell" instead of "Dale." That was a silly mistake and I’m really embarrassed by it. Thank you to Shirebound, though, for pointing it out to me. It has now been fixed.

Disclaimer: Characters and places do not belong to me

Chapter Four: Holed Up

The Master’s quarters at Brandy Hall were rather like a large apartment attached the Southernmost end, complete with private gardens and a separate gated entrance. It had often times annoyed Merry to have to come the long way from the road, all around the rest of the smial just to get there, but this night he was glad for it. It made for a much less noticeable approach and he wanted to avoid hoards of Brandybucks who would panic the moment they recognized the Master’s new houseguests.

They entered the gates and in the grass clearing near the entry, Merry hastily tied the ponies to the hitching post. Then he produced two elaborately carved keys from his breast pocket and unlocked the door. Faramir noted this with interest. The doors were never locked at his home. Before he could ask about it, though, Merry had ushered them into the cloakroom.

"Stay here." He commanded then edged past them into the main sitting room.

The room was empty, the fire that normally burned bright and lusty long into the evening had been left to dwindle so that it was hardly more than embers. The sight put a shiver down Merry’s back.

"Estella!" He hissed.

When there was no response he called out slightly louder. "Estella?!"

For a moment he found he could not move nor think, then a clap of thunder shook the rainy night and brought him back to his senses.

"All right," he murmured to himself, "perhaps she has gone to the main hall."

He turned and made his way back through the cloakroom. "I must tend to the ponies." He said. "Stay here."

"Do you need help, Merry?" Pippin asked and stepped forward to follow him.

"Stay here." Merry repeated.

With a slam of the door, he disappeared back into the night.

~~~~

Pippin and Faramir stood in the musty cloakroom for some time without speaking or moving. Only after the meager heat from the adjacent room began to creep in did Pippin realize how miserably cold he felt. With a shudder he peeled off his wet cloak and then began to feel around the walls in the dark for an unoccupied peg on which to hang it.

"Da?" Faramir asked then, finally feeling that it was all right to speak.

"Mmm?" Pippin fumbled but neatly saved himself from falling over an umbrella canister.

"Why does Uncle Merry keep his door locked?"

"Because this isn’t Tuckburough."

"Well, why don’t we lock our doors in Tuckburough?"

"Because it isn’t Buckland."

Pippin heaved a sigh of relief as he found an empty peg and promptly hooked his cloak over it. Then he turned to greet what he knew well enough would be another question. He was met instead by an enormous sneeze.

"Achoo!"

Pippin was startled, then he laughed. "Where did that come from?"

Faramir shook his head and started to answer but sneezed once more.

"Achoo!"

The lad shuddered with chill and stood still, afraid to speak again for fear of another head-rattling sneeze.

The smile faded from Pippin’s face. He knelt down and peered at his son. "Are you cold?"

Faramir shuddered again and closed his eyes. "I’m all wet."

"Well of course you are!" Pippin muttered harshly, "Why didn’t you take off your wet things? Haven’t you any sense at all in that head?" He unfastened Faramir’s cloak quickly (pulling rather more roughly than he intended, to be honest) and hung it on the same peg as his own. It fell to the floor and he re-hung it, only to have it flop down a second time.

"Gah!" Pippin yelled in frustration and kicked the cloak against a bench.

"I…I didn’t…" Faramir struggled to give reason for why he hadn’t taken off his wet things but tears of anger were suddenly welling in his eyes and he fought instead to hold them in.

"Come on." Pippin said sharply and, lifting the boy bodily, carried him over to the fireplace in the sitting room.

"But Uncle Merry said--"

"Never mind what Merry said. Goodness, Farry, you’re soaked clear through to the skin!"

Faramir stood still as his father removed the wet clothes but he jerked away when Pippin started unbuttoning his damp underthings.

"Da!!"

Pippin laughed and sat back on his heels in surprise. "Whenever did you get so modest? Come here."

"Daa…"

"Honestly, Farry. There’s no one here but me and there’s nothing under there I haven’t seen before."

"But Uncle Merry…"

"Uncle Merry’s seen that before as well, believe me."

"Aw, Da!"

"Well, it’s true!"

"Uggh!" Disgusted and embarrassed and still a great deal angry, Faramir gave in and stomped back to his father. Scarlet flaming from his ears to his nose, he allowed himself to be stripped bare though he kept his glare firmly fixed on the ceiling.

"All right, then," Pippin gave him a gentle push toward the hearth, "Get as warm as you can. I’ll see if I can’t find a blanket around here. You think Estella would keep a better fire going in the Master’s quarters. Or a servant, or whosever’s job it is…" His voice trailed off as he moved from the fireplace and began searching nooks and cupboards for some spare blankets. "Ah-ha!" He crowed, spying a stack of what appeared to be towels on the topmost shelf of a very tall cabinet. The way the cabinet was constructed, it was intended that one would have to use a footstool to reach the upper shelves. There was no footstool present, as far as a quick glance could determine, but Pippin decided this was of little consequence. In fact, if he stood on the bottom shelf and bent just so he could just about reach the top…

At that moment, several things happened at once.

Daffodil, Merry and Estella’s maidservant, entered the apartment with a basket of fresh laundry on her hip. She saw the naked hobbit lad, promptly screamed and dropped the basket and all it’s contents top down onto the floor. Faramir saw her see him and screeched as well. He scrambled to find a place to hide from her eyes and tripped over a tea table, taking a stack of papers and a vase of flowers down with him. Pippin, startled by the commotion, tried to turn and see what it was all about. Doing so, he shifted his balance and began to fall back, nearly taking the cabinet with him. He just managed to keep the whole affair from toppling over, but didn’t see the large volume of agricultural reference sliding off a high shelf. It knocked him neatly on the head. He cursed. Loudly.

And that was when Merry walked in.

~~~~

It took several minutes to calm Daffodil down and get her to believe that Pippin and Faramir, despite all that she’d heard did not in fact have the pox nor were they going to give it to her or anyone else either.

"You’ve just got to trust my word," Merry sighed, putting his hand upon her shoulder, "I know I haven’t got any proof of what the healer said but you’ve got to believe that I would never have brought them here if there was any chance of…well, of anything bad happening."

Daffodil took a shaky breath and looked at the Master. She knew that he and the Mistress were very kind hobbits. They were the only ones, for example, who had never called her "Daffy" as everyone else did and instead insisted on calling her "Dilly." It was a small thing, but that kind of thing meant a lot when you were unfortunately named. And it was far from the only nice thing the Master and Mistress had done for her. She looked into Merry’s warm gray eyes and nodded.

"All right," she said, "I trust you."

"Good," Merry smiled "Good, Dilly, thank you."

"May, may I ask you one thing, though, Sir?"

"Yes?"

"Why is Master Faramir not wearin’ any clothes?"

"Indeed, a good question. Faragrin?" Merry called over his shoulder to the lad who was still crouched naked behind an arm chair, "What happened to your clothes between now and the few minutes ago I last saw you? Have you misplaced them?"

"Da made me take them off."

"Well, would you rather I let you catch your death of cold?" Pippin grumbled, speaking up from where he had plopped down to nurse his head, "You were soaked through to the skin." He rubbed the bump that was beginning to rise beneath his hair and frowned in their general direction.

Merry closed his eyes and sighed. "We’ll get you something dry to wear, Farry. Just hold on."

He knelt down and began to rummage through the pile of laundry that Daffodil had dropped near the door. It was mostly towels and linens, but there were a few items of clothing as well. Merry found one of his dressing gowns, pale blue flannel. It would do.

He crawled over to Faramir’s hiding spot and handed him the garment, sitting back on his heels as he did so. Faramir accepted it with his eyes lowered.

"I’m sorry I broke your vase."

"Oh?" Merry glanced over to the shards of pottery near the up-turned tea table. "Well, that’s all right. Estella and I never cared for that much anyway."

"It is ugly." Faramir agreed.

Merry wanted to laugh but suddenly found he couldn’t take his eyes of the lad. That was the exact sort of thing that Pippin might have said at that age. For a moment it felt as if time had fallen backward and Merry was sixteen again, comforting Pippin after some bit of unintended trouble.

But then the moment passed and Merry was old again, helping his little cousin up to his feet, gathering the lengths of extra fabric that hung down from the robe and piling them in his arms. He heard Daffodil behind them, saying to Pippin:

"Looks like you’ve got a right big knot on your head there. Ought to send for some ice to be brought from the kitchen cellars."

"Oh, Dilly," Merry interrupted, turning from Faramir, "I should have told you right away. You see, it’s to be a secret that the Thain and his son are here, all right? I can not have all of Brandy Hall panicking the way you did when you found out they were here."

"But you said they didn’t have the pox." Daffodil stepped away from Pippin.

"Yes and it’s true, they don’t. But hobbits are more likely to panic first and listen last. I honestly can’t deal with that at the moment. So for the time being no one else besides you or I or the Mistress is to enter or leave these quarters. And not a word of this business is to be spoken to anyone. It is to be our secret, all right? I need to be able to trust you as you trust me."

Daffodil nodded solemnly. "You can trust me, Sir."

"Good." Merry straightened up and stretched. "Now would you happen to know where I may find my wife? Has she gone to the main parlor or the kitchens perhaps?"

"Why, no sir. She’s in her bed she is."

"But it’s so early."

"Well, Healer Boffins was by yesterday and he said that she’s not to leave her bed for the duration. It’s an order, he said."

"She’s been ordered to her bed?!" Merry’s face turned ghostly white. For a second it looked as if he were about to swoon, but instead he turned on his feet and nearly ran down the hall to the bedrooms.

Pippin, Faramir and Daffodil all stared after him in shock.

~~~~

"Merry, Merry," Estella soothed, patting her husband’s head which lay at a rather uncomfortable angle against her chest, "It’s all right. It’s only a precaution. You know that."

"Merry, please. I’m fine. Everything is fine."

"Oh, Estella, but what if it is not? Three months? Three months is an awful long time for precaution. Are you sure he said there was nothing actually wrong? He didn’t…he didn’t suspect anything?"

"No and he intends for us to keep it that way. Therefore, I’m not to leave this bed for the next three months. Believe me, I’m not thrilled at the notion but if that’s what it’s going to take, I’ll not argue."

Merry had calmed now a great deal. "It will be good to see you off your feet," he admitted, "You work far too hard."

"You’re a fine pot to be calling the kettle black." Estella smiled. "And anyway, I do hope you’ll find some time in your schedule to keep me…entertained. It does get quite dull in here all alone."

"Yes…entertained." Merry grinned slyly and kissed his wife. But then he sighed and sat back. "Though I doubt I’ll be much for entertaining for some time yet. Not with certain guests about. And all matter of things that need straightening out."

"So Pippin and Faramir have come to stay?"

"For the time being, yes. I’m sorry, Estella."

"There’s no reason to be sorry. Nothing else you could have done. I would like to see our Faramir. Is he about yet?"

"Of course he is. But are you ready to see visitors?"

"Goodness, I’ve spent the past several hours counting the cracks in the ceiling and noting how the curtains need a good dusting. Of course I’m ready for visitors. I am aching for them, to be honest."

Merry kissed her again before he rose. "I don’t know what I would do without you, my heart."

Estella gave no reply. It was the sort of thought she didn’t care to think about.

~~~~

When he was lead into the bed chamber, Faramir was surprised at the appearance of Auntie Estella. While she was still as pretty as she’d ever been (he considered her second only to his own Mum) she’d got awful fat. Almost as fat as Goldie’s Mum had been this past summer when they’d been out to visit Hobbiton just before Goldie got a new sister and stopped writing to him because she said she was too busy. The sight was disturbing to him because while Goldie’s mum was always getting fat and then slim again, Auntie Estella had never been like that. She was a bit plump, it was true, but in a nice, comfortable way like Uncle Merry. This didn’t suit her at all.

"Farry?" She called out uncertainly, "Aren’t you going to give your Auntie a kiss?"

Faramir flushed hot then because he realized he was being rude. Grandma Eg had told him it was never nice to pay too much attention to someone’s size, no matter how often his Da teased Uncle Merry and that people didn’t like it the same way he didn’t like it when people pointed out how very small he was.

So he smiled politely and did his best to reach up and give her a hug and a kiss though it was hard with her great tummy getting in the way.

"Oh, you hardly fit now!" She laughed and squeezed him tight.

Then Uncle Merry lifted him up and placed him next to Auntie Estella on the bed. There was a queer look upon his face and, with a start, Faramir realized that Uncle Merry was nervous.

"Farry," he began steadily, "Have you any idea why Estella…well, why she looks like that. Why she is so big?"

Faramir thought about saying that she probably ate too much but that didn’t sound at all nice so he merely shook his head.

"Well it’s because she, well, we, are going to have a baby."

"Really?!" Faramir’s face lit up like a firework. "Is it going to be a lad-baby?"

"Well, well we don’t know yet. We won’t know until it comes."

"Where is it? Does it take a lot of time to get here?" Faramir was surprised at the way Uncle Merry had spoken about the baby. He’d always assumed babies came from some place local but Uncle Merry made it sound as though they had to come from far away. He wondered if they ordered them from Dale, the way his Da ordered gifts for birthdays and Yule. That made sense, he supposed. Everything good seemed to come from Dale.

"Well, no," Merry fumbled with his words, "See, that’s what I meant. The baby’s here. In there, actually. In Estella’s tummy."

Faramir was aghast. "How did it get there?!"

"Um." Merry looked pained.

But Estella laughed lightly. "Why, that’s just the way it works, darling. Babies sometimes turn up in mummys’ tummies and they stay there until they’re grown enough to come out and be regular babies like you’ve seen."

"Does it always work that way?" Faramir’s mind turned all this information around. He felt ready to burst with all the questions springing up in his head.

"Yes." Estella smiled. "It’s very normal."

"Did I used to be in someone’s tummy?"

"Of course."

"Whose?"

"Your Mum’s." His Da said, speaking up for the first time. He’d been standing in the corner very quietly since they came in. "That’s why she’s your mum."

Faramir took this in. "What if I was in someone else’s tummy? Some other lady besides Mum. Would she be my mum then?"

"Well, you wouldn’t be you then." Uncle Merry stated logically.

Faramir nodded. Then he gazed at Auntie Estella’s tummy. "Is it nice in there?"

"Certainly," Uncle Merry laughed, "Warm and snug and cozy. Lots of good food."

"Like a hobbit hole!" Faramir was pleased to have made this connection.

"Yes," Uncle Merry glanced at Faramir’s Da, "Exactly like a hobbit hole."

"Would you like to have a listen?" Auntie Estella offered.

"Oh yes!" Then Faramir put his head where she directed him against her tummy and grew very still as he listened. After a bit his sharp hobbit ears picked up the sound of his Aunt’s heartbeat. Then, ever so faintly, another heartbeat.

Everyone seemed to hold their breath as they watch Faramir listen with an expression of the most intense concentration upon his small face.

"I can hear it," he whispered. "He’s a lad-baby."

"How do you know?" Uncle Merry asked quietly.

"He told me."

Uncle Merry looked at Auntie Estella over the boy’s head.

A smile crawled across Faramir’s face as he reported the next bit of information:

"He’s a hobbit!"

"Well of course he is!" Estella burst out, offended. "What else would he be?"

But Uncle Merry only smiled gently. "Did he tell you he was a hobbit?"

"No. He told me he was hungry."

~~~~

After some discussion, it was determined that perhaps it would be a good idea for all of them to have a bite to eat (Faramir agreed enthusiastically with this) and so Daffodil was sent down to the kitchens to fetch supper. Faramir seemed reluctant to leave his future cousin and, luckily, Estella was happy for the company. The two were sitting companionably on the bed and chatting when Merry left the bed chamber to find out where Pippin had slipped off to. He’d been unusually quiet all through the visit, not even bidding a hello to Estella. This annoyed Merry.

He found his cousin in the Master’s office, his feet upon the writing desk. If it was possible to smoke in a moody fashion, he was doing so. Merry sat down on the floor beside his chair.

"How’s your head?"

"Got a great big lump. I’m certain it looks quite handsome."

" I wonder what Opal Frogmorton would have to say about that."

"She’d probably suggest knocking it back in with a hammer."

Merry smiled. That sounded like exactly what the old healer would say. "Would you like a drink, Pip? There’s a decanter of brandy on the windowsill."

"No, thank you. I’ve got enough of a headache as it is."

"Fair enough. I think I’m going to have a spot, though, if you don’t mind."

"Merry?"

"Yes?"

"Why didn’t you tell me?"
Merry glanced at his cousin then looked back to his feet and sighed. "I suppose I was afraid."

"Of what? Of me? Do you not think I would be happy for you? Delighted, even. Merry, you’re going to be a father."

"That’s exactly what I am afraid of."

Pippin looked at him, confused. "I don’t know what you mean."

"I don’t know either, Pip. I don’t know why I didn’t tell you. I meant to, but…" He stood up began walking to the door and waved his hands uselessly as if what more there was to explain could not be put into words.

"We used to tell each other everything, Mer."

Merry hesitated, grasping the doorframe.

"Yes," he said, "but there weren’t so many things in the way then." Turning away from his cousin, he left.

Pippin watched him go then flung his pipe against the closed door. It dropped to the stone floor and lay dead.

With a sigh that sounded dangerously close to a sob, he put his head down on the desk and went to sleep.

~~~~

When Pippin didn’t come out of the office for supper, Merry said not to bother him.

"It’s his loss, as always." He said and handed the untouched portion over to Faramir, who’d been eyeing it with interest since finishing his own plate.

Then he left to help Daffodil set up one of the spare bedrooms for Pippin and Faramir to sleep in. It took longer than he expected and when he returned the supper dishes were all neatly stacked and Faramir was sound asleep beside Estella on the bed.

"Poor dear," she said, running a finger softly over the curve of his ear, "He must have been exhausted."

"All that food he put away, I’m not surprised it made him sleepy." Merry pulled his nightshirt over his head and crawled onto the bed, careful not to shake it too much and disturb the other occupants.

"Do you think our child will eat like that?" Estella looked a bit frightened at the thought.

"No. He’s just a Took."

"There’s an awful lot of Took in both of us."

"Yes, but…well, it doesn’t bear thinking about. He will be half Brandybuck and half Bolger. The common sense in that should knock out any stray bits of Took he’ll have floating about."

"You’re saying ‘he’ now just like Faramir."

"Well, didn’t he get it straight from the source?"

"Merry…"

"I’m only kidding. I’m sure if it’s a she she will be half Brandybuck and half Bolger as well."

"I should hope so."

"And entirely as lovely as you."

"Oh, Mer. I missed you so these last few days. It’s getting to be that I hardly want to be apart from you for even a minute."

"Rest soundly then, for I’m not going anywhere for a long time."

"Goodnight, Merry."

"Goodnight, love."

He lay there for a long time, not quite sleepy yet. He watched the moonlight grow full and the trees outside throw shadows across the ceiling.

When he felt Faramir awaken and stir a bit later he asked the boy if he would rather be moved in to sleep with his father.

"No thank you." He replied firmly.

Merry took note at the cross tone. "Did your Da do something to anger you, Faragrin?"

A brooding pause, then a whisper. "He said I didn’t have any sense in my head."

Merry just barely managed to keep himself from laughing. "Pippin? Said that about you?"

"Yes."

And there was such fury in that voice that Merry decided not to let the conversation go further.

"Well, never mind then," he said, tousling the lad’s hair gently. "You have plenty of sense in your head. Now go back to sleep. Everything will be better in the morning."

Faramir nodded and seemed to return to slumber right upon command.

Merry lingered awake still longer, thinking all sorts of thoughts, both pleasant and troubling. Then he sighed and drunk in the nice feeling of being in bed beside his wife, a child cuddled between them. It wouldn’t be long at all before that child would be their own.

Faramir turned in his sleep and buried his nose against Merry’s chest. It added the final warmth inside Merry that he needed to give in to rest.

‘He’s not such a bad stand-in until then.’ Was his last thought before drifting into dreams.

A Slight Case of Magnificence

Summary: Just before one of the turning points in his life, Merry finds himself in an unexpected situation. A Fourth Age tale.

Setting: Buckland, Late November, 1438. Pippin is 48, Merry is 56, Estella is 53, Faramir Took is 8.

A/N: As always, continued thanks to all loyal readers and reviewers. It means a lot to know that you have stuck with this story and continue to be interested. I’m leaving for Europe at the end of this month and won’t be able to post anything new until I get back, so I’m going to do my best to get a significant portion (if not the whole thing) completed before I go.

As for this chapter, apologies for the length, but much of it is dialogue, so hopefully it reads quickly. And I do promise much more actual drama in the next chapter with the arrival of Samwise as well as a guest appearance by another famous hobbit later on. Consider that a coming attraction, I suppose. Anyway, hope you enjoy this one as well.

Disclaimer: Characters and places do not belong to me

Chapter Five: Lying and Pretending

The morning after the arrival at Brandy Hall was dreary, if at least quiet. Pippin had woken with a throbbing headache from his bump the night before and so he spent much of the day brooding in the spare room with a drippy pastry bag of ice upon his head. Merry and Estella spoke quietly in their own room and Faramir tried desperately to amuse himself in the sitting room, settling finally on a volume entitled The Life of Toby Hornblower, Hobbit. It was a very dull tome. They took their meals together, but they were oddly sober and when it became dark enough to call it "bedtime," everyone seemed relieved. The rain did not stop falling for even a moment.

The second day was much the same.

On the third day, however, they woke to sunlight. It felt like this day might somehow be a bit different.

~~~~

Merry finished breakfast in a cheerful disposition.

"Well," he said, pushing back his empty plate, "I think I shall return to my work today. If I am ever to finish that book I must keep writing."

"What are you writing a book about?" Faramir asked with interest. Pippin turned to see the response as well. He hadn’t known Merry was writing a book.

"Ah, herblore, pipeweed, that sort of thing. I think you’d find it very uninteresting."

Faramir nodded. Judging by the collection of books Merry chose to keep in his sitting room he was inclined to agree.

Then Merry hesitated, looking at Estella. "Unless you would prefer that I stay here, my love." They had spent the last few days almost solely in each other’s company, which had been marvelous, of course, and he knew his presence gave her comfort and eased her worries. "The writing will not suffer to wait another day."

"Nonsense. I will be fine alone."

"I can keep you company!" Faramir volunteered, eager not to spend any more time with The Life of Toby Hornblower, Hobbit.

"That would be nice," Estella smiled, "but perhaps your father would like to have you for himself. If he needs you, I’ll not take you from him."

Faramir’s face fell, but Pippin shook his head.

"No, no, that’s quite all right. I’ve been putting off writing to Sam and I should like to concentrate on that. It must go out with this evening’s post."

"Well then," Merry rose and gave Estella a kiss, "If that’s all settled, I think I shall be getting to work."

He left then for his study and Pippin left as well for the writing desk in the spare room. Once they had gone, Faramir turned to Estella.

"What shall we do first?"

"‘What shall we do first?’" She laughed. "I’m afraid that I’ll not be able to do all that much, being that I’m not to leave this bed, but you may stack the breakfast trays by the door if you like. It will make things easier for Dilly when she comes to clean up and it will give us a bit more room on the bed, I should think."

Faramir was grateful to have anything to do and even hummed a little as he did it, making a neat stack on the table by the door. When he came upon a slice of toast that had been left uneaten, he picked it up and made short work of it while crawling back onto the bed.

Estella smiled. "You really are all Took."

"Of course I am. My Mum and Da are both Tooks."

"Yes, but you’re also a bit of Banks and a bit of something else as well because your Mum’s mum was not a Took either, I don’t think."

"Da says Mum’s half fairy and that’s why she is so pretty."

"Is that so?"

"Yes. What’s that?"

Estella looked to where the boy was pointing. A small wheeled table had been pushed to the corner. There was a pattern of squares painted onto the top and several carved pieces stood on its smartly varnished surface.

"Oh, that is a game your Uncle Merry and I sometimes play together."

"Can we play it?"

"It’s a grown up’s game, Farry. I don’t think you would like it."

"Teach me how to play!"

And before Estella could protest, he had pushed the table over to the bedside and sat down with such an expression of eagerness that it was hard to refuse. She hesitated. It was a rather complex game and it had taken Merry ages of patient explanation before Estella had finally understood the workings. How could she possibly expect Faramir to understand? He was hardly more than a babe.

Ah, but she reasoned, even if he didn’t understand, there wasn’t really any harm in humoring him. Explaining it might even help her take her mind off other things.

"The brown army and the white army each have the same pieces…" She began. "They have a King like this one and a Queen who looks like that."

Faramir examined each piece carefully then nodded.

"They have two advisors—these funny things—as well as two castles and two knights."

"A knight? Like my Da?"

She smiled. "Yes. And like your Uncle Merry as well, don’t forget. He is a knight of Rohan."

"Oh, I know that. Da says Uncle Merry is the greatest hobbit knight there ever was."

Estella paused in her setting out of the pieces. "Does he?"

"Yes. He said that Uncle Merry has done deeds that no knight—man, hobbit, elf or dwarf—will ever match. And Mister Sam and cousin Frodo did too, but they aren’t knights."

Estella had never imagined Pippin Took as thinking anything like that. He had always seemed a bit of a self-centered hobbit to her, a spoiled lad in his younger years and a braggart in maturity. To think that he would say something so loving as that about her Merry and to his own son…

Faramir did not notice the tears that appeared in his aunt’s eyes. His attention was still on the game. Picking up several of the smallest pieces from the table, a grin bloomed on his face. "Are these hobbits?"

Inhaling deeply, Estella again contemplated how she should reply. She thought of the somber tales Merry had told her years ago about the ‘adventures’ and the ghost who had returned with him claiming to be Frodo Baggins. When Faramir turned his plaintive green eyes to her, wondering why she hadn’t yet answered, she pasted on a smile and shrugged.

"Well…generally they are called ‘pawns’ but you’re right; sometimes the pawns are hobbits."

~~~~

Merry set down his quill and looked over the drying pages. Not bad for an entire morning’s work. And he would do more before the day was out but for now, he decided, he would move around a bit and try to loosen the crick that had formed in his back.

He came into the sitting room, stretching his arms over his head and it was so quiet that he almost didn’t notice Faramir sprawled across the floor reading a book that looked to be about half the size of him.

"Well, hallo, Faragrin. What are you so engrossed in?"

Faramir lifted the book and displayed the cover.

"Ah. Would you like me to spoil the ending for you?"

Faramir appraised the great thickness of pages he had yet to read then said: "Yes, all right."

"He does absolutely nothing of any interest at all until he is seventy-two. Then he discovers the usefulness of pipeweed, becomes wealthy and famous and then he dies at one-hundred-and-three. His estate passed on to a sister in Hardbottle."

"That’s it?"

"That’s it."

"That’s not a very good story."

"No, not really. Did Estella cast you out from her bed?"

"She fell asleep."

"Ah. And where is your Da?"

"He’s still writing his letter to Mister Sam."

"All this time? It must be longer than Old Toby’s book by now."

"I guess so."

Merry put his hands in his trouser pockets and took a good look about the room. It was a terribly boring place for a young lad to be cooped up in, days on end, he thought.

"Would you like to come for a walk with me?"

"Oh yes!"

"Good. Then go ask your Da if he would like to come and we shall go."

The Life of Toby Hornblower, Hobbit was abandoned on the floor and Faramir scampered off to the spare room. He found his father sitting at the desk, quill in one hand, pipe in the other. The ink on the page looked dry but was marked with numerous cross-outs and blots.

"Da?"

"Mmm, hallo, Farry."

"Da, Uncle Merry says he’s going to take me for a walk. Just me and him."

"He and I. Through the Master’s Grove, I suppose. Sounds quite nice. And why are you telling me?"

Faramir bit his lip and was glad that his father’s back was to him. "He says I should ask you permission."

"Well you don’t need to ask me. Merry ought to know that."

"Yes."

"Wear your coat then."

"Aw, Da…"

"Farry, please do as I tell you."

"All right…I’ll wear my cloak."

"Coat. And cloak, now that you mention it. That’s a good idea."

Faramir scowled as he left the spare room. There was no doubt that he had the meanest father in all the Shire.

"Is he coming with?" Merry asked as Faramir reappeared in the parlor.

"No and he says I don’t have to wear my coat too."

Merry looked hard at the lad. Faramir carefully did not meet his eyes.

"You know, Faragrin, I can spot a lie, even in the dark."

He trembled slightly. "Can you?"

"Yes. Now go get your coat."

Faramir decided not to complain as he fetched his coat. He’d gotten away with half his lie, anyway, and that was better than none at all. And now he’d get to walk with Uncle Merry all by himself. If he had to wear his stuffy coat that seemed an agreeable trade-off.

"Ah, just a minute there." Merry stopped Faramir as they began to head out together from the cloak room. He knelt in front of the boy in order to button the coat that he’d tossed on haphazardly.

"But I don’t want it buttoned," Faramir complained, "It’s too warm."

"Yes but I need the practice so please let me."

He perked up. "Practice for the new lad-baby?"

"Yes, exactly. Though he won’t be big enough for more than two buttons on his coat for sometime, I should think." With care, he smoothed down the soft broadcloth shirt and gave the handsome embroidered weskit a good tug so that it laid flat. Then he straightened the coat, noting the delicate, warm lining of sheepskin with a smile. Eight years ago, many splendid gifts had been sent from near and far in celebration of Faramir’s birth, most notably a large flock of Ithilien sheep the Prince had sent to honor his new namesake. The wool from these sheep was unlike anything seen before in the Shire, so rich and fine. The hobbits called it "King’s wool" and paid the highest prices for it at shearing time. When he came of age, every ewe, ram and lamb from the flock (and they had multiplied abundantly, even by this point) would be in Faramir’s name alone. Even if he had not been heir to the Thain’s hoard, vast farmlands in Tookland and the pipeweed holdings in the South Farthing, those sheep meant that Faramir would never want for money. Merry fancied to himself that this was quite possibly the only independently wealthy eight-year-old he’d ever known.

And yet, to a boy itching to get out and play, it mattered not. Had he been clothed in burlap it likely would make no difference to him.

"How long will it take before the lad-baby is as old as I am so we can play together?" He asked and casually unbuttoned his coat as they walked through the Master’s private garden. Merry pretended not to see.

"Well, if you are eight now, then it should take him about eight years before he catches up to where you are."

"Eight years? That’s a long time."

"It is." Merry smiled. "A lifetime, for some."

"Well…well, then he will be eight, like I am? And we can play?"

"Yes, but you won’t be eight by then, if you think about it. You will be older."

"Oh." Faramir was slightly disappointed, "That’s right. How old will I be?"

"You’re a smart lad. Count it on your fingers if you must."

"Sixteen?"

"That’s right. You will be very old."

"Almost as old as you."

Merry caught the amused tinge to the Took’s lilt and understood that he was teasing. He laughed and ruffled Faramir’s curls.

"Yes. Almost as old as I. Though sixteen is exactly as old as I was when your Da was eight and I was exactly as old as you are now when he was born. What do you think of that?"

"Do you think that he will want to play with me?"

"Why, yes. You will be like an older brother to him. That is a nice thing to be."

"What is he going to be called?"

"Estella and I haven’t decided yet, though she fancies Aster if it is a girl."

"A girl?! But he’s a lad-baby!"

"Ah, we won’t know that for certain until the babe makes its arrival. Would you not like to have a lass-cousin?"

"I have a lass-cousin. I have many of them."

"But wouldn’t she be special to you? She’d be special to me."

"I guess so. It depends on how she is. But it would be better if she was a boy. Like how Goldie Gamgee is my friend and she’s awful fun to play with but I would like her more if she wasn’t a girl."

"Well, you might not always think that. In fact, there may just come a time when you find you’d rather be with a lass than playing games with lads."

"Like when you think she’s very pretty?"

"That’s part of it sometimes, yes. Now," Merry’s eyes sparkled with mischief, "Who would you say was very pretty?"

Faramir was quiet for a moment as he thought. "Well, Mum is pretty and Auntie Estella too and that elf-lady who came with King Strider when I was little and we went to the lake even though Da told Mum she didn’t have any hair on her feet…And Elanor. She’s pretty too."

"Elanor Gamgee? She looks a lot like Goldie, don’t you think?"
Faramir shrugged, oblivious to the bait Merry was attempting to toss.

‘A bit too young to appreciate teasing about lasses,’ Merry thought to himself, ‘I must remember to try again in a few years.’

"Why can we walk here?" Faramir asked, stopping short and nearly tripping up his cousin. "Won’t people see me?"

"Well, this is the Master’s private garden—and up there is a grove, that is also part of it—and no one ever walks here but me. Your father and I used to play here a lot when we were younger, when my father was the Master."

"There isn’t any Thain Garden." Faramir commented.

"No, but there are an awful lot of other things for the Thain to have. Do you know it used to be the Brandybucks were Thains, before they moved to Buckland and gave the title to the Tooks?"

Faramir kept walking, as though he hadn’t heard what Merry said, but then he turned around to address him and the wind picked up his hair, blowing it all into a tangle and he looked more than ever like a duplicate of his father.

"Could I be Master, then?" He asked. "Instead of Thain?"

"What is wrong with Thain? Don’t you like Great Smials?"

Faramir frowned and turned back to the path. "I like it better here."

And then it was Merry’s turn to frown. "Come here for a moment, will you, Farry?"

He came obediently and then allowed himself to be picked up. Merry brushed the hair off of his brow and thought with quite a bit of wonder that he had even more affection for the lad than he’d realized. Perhaps it had been clouded by jealousy over his existence. But then Merry pushed that all back and prepared his words for he knew the child wouldn’t willingly be held long and lectured to.

"Try not to be too angry with your father, Farry. It’s true he doesn’t think as much as he ought before he acts and says things that are sometimes rather stupid, but he is a good and valiant hobbit and he loves you very much."

Faramir did not change his solemn expression and remained stiff in Merry’s arms.

‘Stubborn Tookishness!’ Merry thought with annoyance. ‘Every single one of them!’ But then he laughed despite himself and the joy of it made even Faramir smile, although he knew not the reason for it.

"What’s funny?" He asked, as Merry set him upon the ground once more and they continued their walk into the grove of thin, gray beeches and thicker, leafier oaks.

"It’s just that…well, your father wasn’t much interested in being Thain either, at your age. In fact, he wasn’t much interested in it at all until it was upon him."

"Did he want to be Master too?"

"No indeed. When he was your age, he used to tell me all the time how when he was big he was going to sea like our twice-great Uncle Isengar did. He even tried to build a boat one summer but he really couldn’t make heads or tails of it. No one in Tookland knows how to build a proper boat, you see. And then for a while after your cousin Frodo left, he talked about returning to Gondor, living out his service there rather than here, but, well…then he met your mother and he didn’t seem so restless anymore. Oh, Faragrin, look at that!"

Faramir looked where he was told and was puzzled, yet excited by his cousin’s tone. "What, Uncle Merry, what?!"

"Why, it’s Mount Took. It’s part of your inheritance, Farry. The only mountain in Buckland. You should be proud."

"Mountain? That’s just a big hill."

"Well, when he was very young, your father informed me that this was indeed a mountain and that whoever made it to the top could claim it as his own and, do you know, he beat me to the top that day and claimed it in the name of Took."

Faramir laughed. "Can we climb it?"

Merry was caught a bit off guard as, honestly, he’d been expecting the boy to scoff. "Of course we can, I suppose. But it is quite steep."

Faramir appraised the hill from its base, hands folded seriously across his chest. "We can race it. If you get to the top first, you can have it back."

"Your father won’t be too happy if you lose his hill."

"Mountain."

"Mountain, yes."

"Please?"

Merry sighed and rolled up his shirtsleeves. "All right, then. Does the count of three please you?"

"Yes."

"Right. One. One and a quarter. Three!"

Faramir paused, confused. "That wasn’t--"

"That was still three." Merry winked and leapt past him.

"Hoi!" Faramir cried indignantly and sprinted after him.

~~~~

Pippin sat back from the small writing desk in irritation. He hated writing. Hated it with all his might.

Some hobbits were quite good at it. Frodo, for one, had been excellent, as was Merry. Even Faramir showed a love for the quill, exchanging post with that Goldilocks Gamgee on a regular basis. But not Pippin. He excelled at oration—speaking and singing he liked very much—and he had a fair grasp of grammar and adequate formal penmanship. Reading he was fond of when there was no better option but he avoided it just as often for the same reason that he avoided writing: he simply hated to sit still.

And here he had sat for hours, laboring over one simple letter—to Sam Gamgee of all people. Sam was not one to fuss over to the proper etiquette or art of a simple note, but Pippin was paranoid about it. It must be perfect. And yet, the longer he had worked on it, the more imperfect it seemed. How did one condense formal business, explanation, admittance of guilt and apology into a simple post?

In the end he decided to be brief and formal, telling Sam straight out where he was at and when he would like to meet. He would save the apology and explanation business for when they spoke. He was better at that sort of thing in person.

Carefully, he lifted his final draft and carried it into Merry’s office. There he folded it into an envelope, addressed it to the Mayor’s office and sealed it with the Master’s personal mark so that it would appear to be from Merry. He found Daffodil in the sitting room and asked her to take it with that evening’s mail but to send it by Quick Post if possible. He should hopefully have a reply from Sam within the next few days.

Then Pippin idled for a while by the window, gazing out at the rich late afternoon. He toyed with the idea of catching up with Merry and Faramir on their walk, but he decided against it. He had not been invited, after all, which he thought a bit cold, but, then Merry seemed to have lost all humor of late and was likely angry with him about something. He was himself still a bit angry with Merry about having kept such a marvelous secret as his impending fatherhood to himself. Pippin couldn’t understand it, but he wondered if it was possible to understand Merry at all these days.

That thought made him rather mournful and so, for lack of anything better to take his mind off things, he wandered into Estella’s room and hoped that she was awake. She was but she didn’t seem particularly in the mood for light conversation. In fact, she appeared as though she’d just seen a phantom.

"Are you all right, Estella?" Pippin looked at her in alarm. "Are you feeling pain?"

"No…not exactly. Just—just very…queer. I…"

"Dilly!" Pippin cried toward the open door. "Dilly, are you still out there? Please come here now."

Estella was rather shocked, despite her current discomfort, at the commanding tone of his voice. He suddenly sounded very much like the head of the largest household in the Shire. Daffodil, too, must have been caught off guard, for she stumbled in her hurry to get into the room quick enough.

"Yes sir?" She asked, wide-eyed and breathless, clinging to the doorframe to steady herself.

"Dilly, please fetch the Mistress’s healer immediately. I don’t care what else he is attending to even if it is his lunch. Hurry now, quick as you can."

"Pippin…" Estella shook her head as the girl left, "This really isn’t--"

"It really isn’t anything to be taken lightly." Pippin finished for her and folded his arms uneasily. "What can I do for you until he arrives? Would you like water or another pillow? I’m sorry I am no expert on these matters. If it is nothing after all, you have my blessing to berate me."

"Water would be nice, thank you." Estella said and closed her eyes as another wave of the strange feeling shook through her body. It wasn’t exactly unpleasant, but it was, well, queer was the only word for it.

When she opened her eyes again, Pippin was leaning over her to place a damp cloth upon her brow. A glass of drinking water stood on her bedside table.

"I don’t know if that feels better at all." He spoke apologetically and handed her the glass.

She was surprised that it did make her feel better somehow and was just about to tell him so when they heard the sound of Daffodil and the healer just outside the main door to the apartment.

"Oh, Pippin, you have to hide!" Estella hissed, handing him back the glass without having even taken a sip, "He mustn’t see you!"

With a quick nod, Pippin jumped back from her bed and, glass still in hand, darted through the only other door in the room, closing it silently behind him just as Dilly and the healer entered from the sitting room.

His back to the door, Pippin sunk to the floor and allowed himself a few deep breaths before his thoughts returned. Soft. The floor in this room was oddly soft beneath his hands and feet. As the drapes were drawn and there were no candles lit, it took his eyes a moment to get adjusted to the dimness. When they did he looked down and realized that it was a very fine carpet he was feeling. It was unusual to see an entire room carpeted, for hobbit feet were often dirty and too tough to really appreciate a truly soft pile. If they did have carpets, they were mainly aesthetic or status pieces.

Then his eyes took in the outlines of the furnishings in the room: a rocker, a small armoire, a low table…A nursery! Pippin almost laughed as the notion hit him. But of course, it was so obvious. Even the Smials had a room like this, just off the Thain’s bedchamber, though it was a long time since it had served as anything other than a box room. Faramir had been too old when they had moved into the Smials and, goodness, Pippin realized with a start, he himself must have been the last babe to make that room a nursery.

Smiling, he burrowed his hand into the fibers and tried to remember what it was like to have feet so soft they needed such a cushion, but it was too far back. The best he could recall was Faramir’s feet when he was an infant, how frighteningly delicate they had been. He had spread sheepskin down on every floor in the Crickhollow house, all lifted from the Smial’s finest. His father had yelled at him, said he was taking their best hopes for shearing profits that year. But Paladin hadn’t really been angry, Pippin knew, he was far too pleased by his first grandson. And then the gift from Ithilien had turned up and that was that.

"Are you certain everything is all right?" The words startled Pippin out of his memory and he remembered that Estella was having a consultation with the healer just the other side of the door. He wondered vaguely how long they had been talking, how long he had been sitting here in the dark, missing old Paladin.

"Yes, yes. I’m afraid you’re going to be getting quite used to it."

"That is a relief. I’m so sorry to have bothered you. I know you’re very busy."

"I am never too busy, Estella. This was fine. Anything you notice, anything that feels even the slightest bit odd, I want to be informed. We don’t want you losing this one like the others if it can be helped."

Pippin’s eyes opened wide into the dark. Others?

"Thank you, Marroc."

"Shall I go now, ma’am?"

"Yes, thank you. Dilly will see you out."

Pippin sat still on the floor of the nursery for sometime, his mind struggling to comprehend what had just been unraveled before him. Others. There had been others for Merry and Estella, other children who had never made it to being born. And Merry had never said a word about it.

After awhile he became aware of a tapping coming from the bedroom wall.

"Pippin!" Estella called from her bed. "Pippin Took, do come out already."

For a moment Pippin considered ignoring her, just staying safely in this room forever, never having to face her knowing what he now did. But that was absurd. Sheepishly, he returned to the bedroom, setting the water glass on the night table with a weak smile.

"Everything all right, then?" He asked.

"Yes. Apparently the child is ready to move around a bit more than it has been up till now."

"Getting an early start on learning the Springle-ring?"

"So it seems."

"Well, then I shall leave you to it. If you want any suggestions for a proper dance tune to hum just let me know." He began to leave but she called after him.

"Pippin?"

"Yes?"

"How…how much did you overhear?"

He smiled without emotion and did not meet her eyes. "I heard nothing."

A Slight Case of Magnificence

Summary: Just before one of the turning points in his life, Merry finds himself in an unexpected situation.  A Fourth Age tale.

Setting: Buckland, Late November, 1438.  Pippin is 48, Merry is 56, Estella is 53, Faramir Took is 8.

A/N: Massive apologies for the time I’ve taken since the last update and for the wordiness of this piece.  Real life went to hell for a while and this little story got lost amid all that.  I hope that you enjoy it, still (although this chapter’s quite depressing) and I promise that it will be finished someday.  To everyone who has reviewed, I really do thank you from the bottom of my heart and to anyone who’s still reading this, you deserve some lovely medal of patience. 

Disclaimer: Characters and places do not belong to me

Chapter Six:  A Dreadful Mess of Everything

                Merry threw himself onto the grass with an enormous sigh.  Then he laughed hoarsely, his breath coming in ragged jerks.

                “So it is your hill today, then?”

                “Mountain.”  Faramir squeaked from where he lay panting on his own patch of grass.

                “Yes.  Mountain.  Yes.”  With great determination, Merry hauled himself up onto one elbow and surveyed his victorious opponent.  They had been racing for claim of “Mount Took” for several afternoons now.  Merry had actually won the first day, but as he had laid there in the grass, his chest burning and his head spinning from the unaccustomed exertion, he had thought to himself that perhaps Opal Frogmorton had been right—it would not do him harm to get a bit more exercise.  He’d run the same stretch of steep hill with Pippin in his childhood countless times and could not recall every having found it so difficult.

                As he had been pondered this, Faramir had flopped down beside him and the boy could barely breathe, so rapidly did his paper chest move in and out.  Merry noticed this with concern but curiosity as well.  Faramir had certainly inherited many physical traits of his father, but as small and wispy as Pippin had been in his youth, he’d never had such trouble scaling the hill.  It supported a theory that Merry had long secretly held: much of the reason Pippin had been capable of so much more than one might expect was that he had never lacked for pure determination.  He had made himself stronger by countless attempts to do anything he wanted, whether adults thought him capable or not.

                Perhaps, Merry had thought, he could instigate something similar in bookish, passive Faramir; build the boy up even if he wasn’t really aware of it.  And perhaps Merry could get his own physical benefit as well…

                “So, so it’s Mount Brandybuck now?”  Faramir had asked once he’d been able to speak again.

                “For today.”  Merry had smiled and Faramir understood that there would be another chance to win back the mountain again the next day.

                It had been a handful of next days since and already Merry could see improvement.  Faramir did not breathe quite so hard or linger exhausted upon the grass for quite so long.  There even seemed to be a bit of color in his cheeks that had been missing before.  Merry, too, was finding the run easier and was secretly pleased to notice that his waistcoat did not seem to be fitting so snug.  Perhaps if they kept this up, he thought idly, he would even be able to fit into his Rohan finery by Yule, something he’d not attempted since his first wedding anniversary.  Wouldn’t Estella be surprised by that?

                Then his thoughts were interrupted.

                “Uncle Merry?”

                “Yes, Faragrin?”

                “What do you think we’ll have for tea today?”

                “What do we usually have?  I suppose it will be that.”

                “Well, sometimes we have sandwiches and sometimes we have biscuits and sometimes we just have bread with jam.”

                “Which of those do you prefer?  We can have whichever you like best today.”

                “I like sandwiches and biscuits and bread with jam best, actually.”

                “All three?”

                “Yes.”

                “You wish to have them together?”

                Faramir’s face lit up, as if it were Merry’s suggestion and he himself had never before contemplated the idea, a beautiful performance.  “Oh, could we?”

                Merry silently bid farewell to fantasies of Rohan finery and drew himself to his feet.

                “We will have whatever pleases you.” He said, dusting grass and dirt from his coat and breeches.

                “Truly?”  Faramir asked as he performed the same task of tidying, even shaking the tiny bits of debris out from his curls, much to Merry’s amusement—he had never known such a clean child.

                “Very truly.  Have you got something particular in mind, then?  Besides the sandwiches and biscuits and bread with jam, of course.”

                “Well…”  Faramir bent over to comb his fingers through his foot hair, careful not to make eyes with his cousin as he attempted this most delicate part of his scheme, “Dilly did mention that they make all the cakes in the kitchen on Fridays and today is Friday and I haven’t had cake in ever so long—since my birthday…”

                Merry did recall that they had begun making cakes only for birthdays at Great Smials, one of Diamond Took’s consistently peculiar notions (as lady of the Smial, she was in charge of the kitchens, as Estella was at Brandy Hall) but he found it doubtful that there had not been another birthday in the very populated home since young Faramir’s more than a month before.  He said as much to his companion.

                “Oh, there were lots of birthdays at the Smials but I was at Whitwell then and the only birthday there was Auntie Pervinca’s, but she wouldn’t let me have any cake.”

                “Why was that?”

                “Because I wouldn’t finish my supper first.”

                “Well, why wouldn’t you finish it?”

                “I wasn’t hungry.”

                “I find that hard to believe, dear Faragrin.  The entire week and a half I’ve had the pleasure of your company you’ve not left more than a shine upon your plate.”

                Faramir shrugged.  “Buckland makes me hungry.”

                And Merry could not help but laugh.  “Ah, it makes me hungry, too.”  He patted Faramir on the shoulder and began the walk back to the smial, taking in the sight of glorious midday Buckland as they went.  “A fine place for a hobbit,” he murmured, “a fine place indeed.”

~~~~

                “Are you awake, cousin?”

                Estella opened her eyes at the sound of the whisper and saw Pippin looking down at her hesitantly.  She cleared her throat and attempted to sit up a little straighter, no easy task.  “Yes, I am, actually.”

                “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”  He asked, taking her at the elbow and assisting her, “I couldn’t tell whether you were sleeping or just had your eyes closed.”

                “No, no, I was just drowsing, mainly.  Not really sleeping.”

                Pippin nodded, pulled a chair up to the bedside and took a seat.  “It does get remarkably dull confined to a bed all day, doesn’t it?”

                ‘What would you know about it?’ She thought grouchily.  She was achy and not particularly in the mood for conversation.

                Pippin laced his fingers together over his lap.  “I can remember being a lad and just wishing for something interesting to happen.  Just anything to break the tedium.”

                Estella flushed a bit, then, feeling guilty.  “You were bedridden an awful lot as a child…”

                “Oh, not too much.”  He brushed the topic away with a smile.  “So, Faramir’s been keeping you good company, then, has he?”

                “Yes, quite,”  Estella was relieved to talk about something else.  Faramir was a cheering subject. “I’ve been teaching him to play chess, actually.  You wouldn’t believe how quickly he’s picked it up.”

                Pippin puffed with pride.  “My smart lad.”

                “I was surprised, actually, that he had never seen the game before for I distinctly remember Paladin and Ferumbas playing tournaments when I visited the Smials as a girl.  Has it completely gone out of fashion there?"

                “I suppose quite a few still partake of it in the elder games room, but I don’t personally play it myself so we haven’t a set in our apartments.”

                “Well, perhaps Faramir will teach you to play after this.”

                “Oh, I’m familiar with how to play it.  I just lost my taste for the game some years back.”

                Estella found this to be a rather cryptic statement and wasn’t quite sure how to take it.  “Are you unhappy that I have taught him to play?  If so, I apologize.”

                “Goodness, no,” Pippin laughed.  “Every gentlehobbit really ought to know how to play a game of chess and it’s not likely that I would have thought to teach him myself.  No, you’ve done me a service and I’m grateful.”

                A silence fell between them then which Pippin filled with antsy movement.  He got up from his chair, walked over to the window, gazed outside for ten seconds and returned to his chair.  He sat there a moment before getting up again to examine the chess set near the foot of the bed.  This held his attention for another ten seconds before he returned to the chair.  Then he stood once more, removed his weskit, folded it over his arm and then sat still at last with a sigh.

                Estella looked at him sitting in his shirtsleeves and bit back the irritation that he seemed to have a knack for stirring up in her. It was irrational and she knew it, but she couldn’t help but feel it.

As if sensing this, Pippin smiled his most charming smile and asked in a sincere tone, “How are you doing?”

                Estella sighed.  “I’m not so bad.”

                “And how is baby today?”

                She laughed.  “Quiet, thankfully.  Finally giving me a rest from the kicking .”          

                “Ah, that’s good.  Enjoy it while it lasts.”  He scrunched down in the chair and stretched his long legs out before him.  “I imagine it must be frustrating, not being able to do everything you’re used to.  Diamond at least could still do a lot of her sewing and handiwork when she had to stay abed the last week or so having Farry.  You run a household.  Hard to just hand over that responsibility to everyone else.”

                “Well, yes, but it doesn’t bother me over much when I think about the reward I’ll get for it in the end.”

                “That’s true.”

                “And Diamond runs a household as well.”

                “Aye, but not the same way that you do.  And, anyway, when we had Farry, she hadn’t anyone under her rule.  Excepting myself, of course.”

                “Who do you think was running the house at Crickhollow?”

                “Oh, you can’t fool me, Estella.”  He grinned.  “You know just as well as I that that house was yours the first day you stepped in it.”

                “Why, I never…”

                “I, for one, was happy to let you have it.  I’ve never eaten so well in all my life, before or since.”

                Estella rolled her eyes.  “A lot of  good it did you.  You’re still as much of a garden rake as you ever were—no matter how I tried, I never could seem to change that.”

                “Were you actively trying, then?  Consciously, I mean.”  Pippin looked genuinely surprised and amused.

                “Of course.”

                “Really?  Why?”

                She shrugged.  “It was a challenge.”

                Pippin shook with mirth, a flush spreading from one ear straight across his cheeks to the other. 

Estella watched him uneasily.  She didn’t understand why he would find that so funny but she supposed it was a better reaction than being offended.  As she watched him begin to recover himself, she wondered just why he had come into her room and why he seemed so determined to make small talk with her. 

It was not usual practice in their relationship.  Although there was no specific animosity between them, they had always seemed to have an innate understanding that they were two people with very little in common, brought together by the simple fact that they were family.   In turn, they had developed a rather neutral relationship wherein they were cordial but Pippin minded his business and Estella minded hers.  And Estella had been comfortable with this arrangement.  She was fond of all things predictable.

But if there was one thing to be said about Peregrin Took, it was that he was not always especially predictable.

“My,” Pippin murmured, shaking off the last of his laugh and wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, “that was grand.  You look lovely, by the way.”

“Pardon?”

“You.  You make quite a nice picture with your hair like that and the sun…the sun coming in from the window the way it…is.”  He flailed his hand a bit in the direction of the window and smirked at the awkward execution of his compliment.

It was a bit too unpredictable for Estella to deal with at that moment and so she bypassed it, asking instead: “Is it true that you have fired all the cooks at Great Smials?”  If he was so determined to have conversation, she decided, she would give it to him.

Pippin looked taken aback but he answered quickly.  “No.  That is a rumor, I suppose.  Only our personal cook, the one who worked for Diamond and I, has left but as far as I’m aware the cooks in the main dining hall are all still there.”

“Your cook’s been gone for some time now, hasn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“And you haven’t thought about replacing her?”

“There hasn’t seemed much need to.  There are only three of us.”

“But who does your cooking?”

“Well, sometimes we take meals in the main hall but usually Diamond or I will put something together.”

‘No wonder you are a family of garden rakes.’ Estella almost said but held her tongue just in time.  The memory alone of Pippin and Diamond’s culinary attempts in Crickhollow conjured up a distinct ache in her temples.  

“And lots of times Faramir will get his own meals,” he continued, “He’s quite good about that.”

Again, Estella refrained from comment, though there were many things she considered saying. 

Another gap opened in the conversation and Pippin once more felt the need to fill it, jumping again from his chair, pacing to the other side of the room and then leaning against the bay of the window.  He folded his arms in front of himself and gazed down toward his feet.

“Merry and Faramir seemed to be getting on well,” he said after a time, “They’ve spent nearly every afternoon out together since we got here.”

“Merry’s always been fond of Faramir.”

“Yes,” Pippin nodded, “He does seem to understand him.”

As he said those words, a look of sadness passed over his features, just flickered, really, but Estella realized exactly why Pippin had sought out her company that afternoon: He was lonely.

A twinge of sympathy tightened around her heart then and she resolved to ask Merry later just why he had decided to take Faramir out and away from his father for so long every day that they had been there.  It hadn’t occurred to her before, but now it struck her as rather a mean thing to do.

“Pippin?”

“Mmm?”

But she was not sure what she had been intending to say so Estella faltered for a moment before she gave him what she hoped was a warm and genuine smile.  “Sam…Sam is on his way, you said?  You heard from him and he is coming?”

A lock of his unkempt hair had fallen into his eyes and Pippin made a practiced head-twitch so that it fell back in place with the rest of his curls before he nodded.  “Yes, he wrote that he would leave as soon as he got the chance this week.  If he left when he predicted he would and he makes good time, I imagine he should be reaching Buckleberry this evening.”

“You should get matters straightened out soon enough then.”

“Yes.”

“That will be nice.”

                “It will.”  He sighed and closed his eyes, deep with thought, “And then I should be off to Tookland to see how bad things have gotten there.  And to do what I can, whatever that might be.”

                Estella started to say something of comfort but the words disappeared in a gasp.  Pippin looked at her in alarm.

                “Are you all right?”

                She couldn’t speak for a moment but then nodded shakily and took a deep breath. “Baby is not sleeping anymore.”

                “Oh,” he said with relief, “How wonderful.”

                Estella gazed at Pippin for a moment and thought that he looked a bit pathetic, as though he’d lost a great deal of sleep over the past few weeks.  It was likely that he had, she realized and felt again a surge of pity.  And guilt.  He had been the one to insist on the doctor when she’d been so terrified that the baby’s movements were not normal and then he’d kept his word and not said a thing about it to Merry when it turned out to be nothing, so to spare him needless worry.  He had also not mentioned the conversation that Estella was quite sure he’d overheard between she and the doctor.  In short, he had been nothing less than a perfect gentlehobbit to her since his arrival.  As exasperating as he could sometimes be, she did feel that she owed him something to show her gratitude.  And so, she gave him the only thing she had to offer.

“Would you like to feel it kick?”

                Pippin looked both surprised and pleased by the offer.  “May I?”

                “Of course.”

                He sat gently on the edge of the bed then and put his hand to her belly.  Immediately he felt the odd sensation of movement below.  A grin crept over his face and he bent his head down beside his hand.

                “Hello, little Brandybuck,” he whispered, “I cannot wait to meet you.”

                At that moment, Estella Brandybuck forgave Pippin Took every bit of annoyance he had ever cost her.

~~~~

                Teatime that day was an elaborate affair, both Pippin and Estella (and Dilly as well) astounded by the spread Merry brought up from the kitchens.  It had necessitated the use of two tea trolleys to get it all to the Master’s apartments, Merry pushing one in front of himself and pulling the other behind him.

                “Is there some holiday I’ve forgotten about?” Estella questioned as dish after dish was set out.

                “Do we need a holiday to eat well?”  Merry laughed and poured her the first cup of tea.  “Drink up, my love.  Just because you are not in the kitchen, waving your wooden spoon about and brandishing your rolling pin of doom does not mean that we should all waste away into Tooks.”

                “Oh, I don’t think you’d need to worry about that any time soon.” Pippin muttered and spread a layer of marmalade over a slice of bread.

                Estella merely shook her head at her husband’s teasing and sipped her tea.

                Conversation did not go much beyond that as they all concentrated on the serious task of packing away the spread.  Merry seemed to take great pleasure in putting extra treats onto Estella’s plate, saying “Oh try this” and “You must have one of these.”  He did the same with Faramir and the lad gleefully accepted everything Merry pushed on him, much to Pippin’s chagrin.  Pippin, too, had been encouraging the boy to try certain things or offering to cut him a slice of one thing or another but every one of his offers had been refused.  No one else seemed to notice so he didn’t say anything.  Perhaps it was nothing, but…well, he couldn’t quiet a growing feeling in his belly that it was very deliberate. The reasons why it would be, though, he couldn’t imagine.

When all the sandwiches and cakes and other treats had been eaten and the last drop poured from the teapot, they were all feeling quite full and relaxed.  A questioning  look sat on Faramir’s face, however, and Merry, who seemed somehow to be anticipating it, noticed.

                “What’s the matter, lad?”  He asked, just barely suppressing a smile.

                “Well…”

                “It’s all right, Faragrin, you can ask me.”

                “Well, what’s in that last dish, Uncle Merry?  The one that’s still all covered.”

                Pippin sat up a little straighter.  He hadn’t even noticed the last dish on the trolley which still sat there, untouched and covered.  “How many types of cakes does one smial need on a regular day?”  He wondered out loud.  It sounded more scornful than he intended but he was feeling increasingly left out.  He noticed a flash of offense pass over Estella’s face and he blushed.

                “Oh, it’s not a cake,”  Merry assured them as he stood and began to stack the dirty dishes and cups.  “It’s a special treat.  For Farry.”

                “For me?”

                “Yes, but I cannot give it to you until we return to the sitting room for it looks to me like Estella didn’t get her afternoon rest today and we’re just keeping her from that, being in here.  So, come, help your Da and I clean up and then you may have your treat.”

                “But,” Faramir picked up his own dish and cutlery without taking his eyes from Merry’s face, “then Auntie Estella won’t know what my special treat is.”

                “Oh, I know what it is already, love,” Estella murmured, settling deep into her pillows now that the trays had been removed from the bed,  “In fact, it was my idea.  I mentioned it to Merry last night.”

                “Have you got any room left for treats?”  Pippin asked, “I don’t think I could fit another tart after a spread like that.”  He meant for the tone to be teasing, but to his ears it sounded a bit flat.

                “I think I still have a few corners.”  Faramir replied, not entirely convincingly.  In fact, he was at that moment considering whether it was worth the tummy ache to partake in whatever special treat his Uncle Merry had brought for him.  He did wish he had known about it sooner.  He would have at least tried to save a bit of room.

                “This is the sort of treat you always have room for,” Merry smiled.  He handed a few of the dirty dishes on one tray to Pippin and taking the other for himself, kissed Estella goodbye and then lead the way out to the sitting room.  He closed the bedroom door quietly and then continued the conversation.  “In fact, it’s also the sort of treat that you can never have too much of, no matter what some ignorant folk might tell you.”

                Faramir was now thoroughly intrigued and waited impatiently as his father and his cousin stacked up the dishes once more neatly on the trolleys so that Dilly could take care of them when she came back.  When that was finished, he gave Merry his most beseeching look.

                With a slight bow, Merry took the last tray from the trolley and handed it out to Faramir still covered.  “Your treat, my lord.”

                Tentatively the boy reached out and took the cover from the tray, revealing what was beneath.  His eyes grew wide and his face lit up at the sight.

                “Books!” He cried.  “You’ve brought me books to read!”

                “Yes.  I noticed you’ve been working on whatever you could find around here, but I’ll be the first to say the books in the Master’s apartment are not all that interesting.  Unless you’re a boring old adult like myself.  And so Estella mentioned that I ought to find some of the books I enjoyed when I was a lad your age and so, I did.  While Cook was putting together our order for tea this afternoon I went to the Hall library and tried to find a few of my old favorites.  I hope you like them.”

                Faramir was speechless.  The open gratitude and admiration on his face spurred something once more in Pippin’s heart, something rather aching and surprisingly painful.

The boy picked up the three small books and hugged them tightly to his chest, then he found his voice again.  “Do you really have an entire library here?”

                “Oh, yes.  Quite a lot of books.  We Brandybucks are a bit more civilized than you might have heard.”

                “There’s an awful lot of books at the Smials, too, Farry.”  Pippin interjected.

                “Yes, but not in one place!” Faramir snapped.  “They’re just all over the place and everyone takes them where ever they want and lose them so you can’t find anything ever.”

                Pippin mouth dropped open in shock, but Faramir had already returned his attention to Merry, eyes shining once more.

                “May I read in your study?”

                Merry seemed pleased by the response his surprise had gotten out of Faramir and not aware of anything amiss in the tension between the boy and his father.  His back was to Pippin as well, so he did not see the way the elder Took’s shoulders slumped, making him appear to shrink several inches.  “Of course you may.  The big chair by the window is the best to read in.”

                “Thank you.”  Faramir squeezed the books against his chest once more and started to head to the office but then paused and turned back.  “Uncle Merry?”

                “Yes?”

                “Do you think maybe when I’m not supposed to be hiding anymore you can take me and show me the library?”

                Merry beamed.  “I would enjoy that.”

                Faramir grinned in response, then fairly skipped out of the room.

                Pippin sunk into an arm chair and did not speak.  Though he chose not to look at Merry, it was not out of spite.  The hint of anger or jealousy that had been building inside of him had all but evaporated, replaced immediately with hurt.  And confusion.  His eyes gazed down at his lap but they did not focus.

~~~~

                Merry had sat for some time in the chair across from Pippin, seemingly oblivious to his cousin’s upset.  He smoked his pipe contentedly, only after a while appearing to recall Pippin’s presence. 

“Would you like a pinch of pipeweed, cousin?”

                “No…” Pippin replied absently, “No thank you.”

                “Suit yourself.” Merry shifted back into a comfortable sprawl in the chair.  He blew a string of excellent smoke rings toward the ceiling, then asked in a dreamy fashion, “Whatever happened to your idea to build the grand library at the Smials?  I seemed to remember Lord Faramir sending you a great many books when you wrote to him of the plan.  What became of all that?”

                Pippin sighed.  The furrow that had been imbedded in his brow relaxed slightly as his thoughts moved away from what they had been focused on.

“The books are in a storage room for the time being.  In one of the Old Took’s rooms, as a matter of fact, since I knew no one would dare to lay a finger on them there.  Or ‘take them where ever they want and lose them so you can’t find anything ever .’ ”  A shadow of a smile could be detected as he said this.  “I suppose I gave up on the idea after Farry was born.  I just didn’t have the time for it, really, and then my father…”

                Merry nodded  to let Pippin know that he needn’t go on, that he understood what he was referring to without it having to be actually said.  Although it had been four years, his cousin still ached greatly at the memory of Paladin’s death. 

                “Well, then I had to take on all my father’s duties.”  Pippin finished shortly.  “I haven’t had much time for a project like that since.”

                “It’s a shame,” Merry commented, “I think Faramir would enjoy taking part in something like that.  He’s got quite an impressive interest in books.”

                “Yes, it’s ironic, isn’t it?”

                “How so?”

                “Well, he looks like a Took.  He speaks like a Took.  He’s got more purebred Took blood in him than any other hobbit in the Shire…”

                “And yet?”

                “And yet if you didn’t know any of that you could easily mistake him for a Baggins.”

                Merry choked on his pipe.  Coughing and laughing at the same time, he turned and grinned at his cousin.  “I never thought about that before but you’re right.”

Pippin crossed his arms and smirked at the ceiling.  “Where ever Frodo is, I’m sure he’s having a good laugh about it.  And old Gandalf too.  You can be certain he had something to do with it.  Probably cast one last spell on me just before the boat took off.”

                “Yes, now that you mention it, I do recall that there might have been a mysterious glow coming off you as we rode home that night.”

                “I thought as much.”  Pippin ran a hand through his hair and settled deeper into the chair.  He felt more relaxed then, as if he could be as candid with his cousin as he used to be. “Merry?”

                “Mmm?”

                “Why are you angry with me?”

                The question took Merry by surprise.  He peered intensely at Pippin.  “What makes you think that I’m angry with you?”

                “Well, you haven’t been very welcoming.”  Immediately, Pippin wished he had not phrased it that way, as it was the wrong to say and he knew the instant it passed over his lips that it would set Merry’s temper off.  Sure enough, it did.  The Brandybuck became all tense posture and glare.

                “I haven’t been very welcoming?  I have been nothing but!”

                “I…I meant…”

“Do you not think that allowing you into my home is welcoming?  To let you hide out here while poor Sam lies and tells everyone you’re at Bag End, risking my reputation as well as his--not to mention your own—is that not welcoming?  Do you know what would happen if people were to find out that you were here, that Faramir is here when every hobbit in the Shire thinks he’s safely quarantined in Tookland—do you know what sort of a riot I would have to deal with then—will have to deal with if they do find out…”

                “Mer…”

                “Just what exactly is your definition of ‘welcoming,’ Pippin?  Does it involve giving you and your son a safe place to stay while you figure out the ridiculous mess you’ve made?  Giving you a comfortable bed to sleep in and good food that you mock?  Running secret letters out to Michel Delving for you?  Making Estella’s honest handmaid lie to the rest of the staff and half the hall?  Entertaining your poor son who’s bored to tears and yet too good a lad to say ‘boo’ about it?  Do you consider all of that terribly unwelcoming of me?!”

                Pippin did not meet the fierce gray eyes that bored into him.  Instead, he kept his watch on his cousin’s hands trembling in outrage on the arms of the chair.  When he finally replied, he spoke cautiously. 

“Forgive me, Merry.  That isn’t what I meant to say at all.”        

                 Merry’s voice came out low.  “What did you mean then, Pippin?”

                “I don’t know how to phrase it exactly.”

                “Try.”

                Pippin bristled at the terse, condescending tone and suddenly found himself trying to keep his own temper in check as well.  He took a deep breath and attempted to start from a different angle.

                “‘Welcoming’ was not the right word.  What I suppose I meant, Merry, was that you’ve been leaving me out and…and, well, I don’t understand why.”

                Merry’s eyes grew wide with offense, temper soothed none.  “Leaving you out of what?”

                “Well, like what’s going on between you and Farry.  And not telling me things.”

                Merry looked completely bewildered.  “Whatever have I not told you?”

                “About the fact that you’re going to be a father two months from now, for one thing.”

                “Pippin.  I said already that I was sorry about that.  You just have to understand…”

                “No, I do understand, Merry.”  Pippin’s voice dropped and his eyes grew sad.  “I understand because there are other things you haven’t told me…that you never told me.”

                “Other things?”

                “Yes.  And I should like to think that you could tell me these things, that you would want to tell me.”

                Realization dawned visibly on Merry’s face, realization of just what ‘things’ Pippin was referring to, of the babies conceived then lost, kept secret in a desperate attempt to dull the pain.  The attempt had been vain, Pippin understood as he witnessed all the light drain immediately from Merry’s eyes.

                He waited with trepidation for Merry to speak.  His cousin was still, too silent for too long.  And yet, Pippin did not tell him not to speak, did not offer a quick apology or words of comfort or any means of easy escape from having to reply.  He knew in his heart that he should, that it would be the kind, loving thing to do.  But his curiosity would not let him.  It overpowered all his better sense, just to wait and to see what might happen next.  There were times when Pippin felt he had no strength at all against that desire.

                When Merry spoke at last it was in a tone Pippin had never in 48 years heard him use.

“There are things,”  he began, then tore his eyes away from Pippin before he continued, “There are things that I do not talk about because it does not do to think about them.  It only hurts.  More than you can likely imagine.”

                Pippin was shocked.  “But we are best friends and family.  We have always told each other everything.”

                “Have we?”

                “Well, I have always told you everything at least.  I thought until now that you had done the same.”

                “No,”  Merry shook his head, a smile on his face but one that did not seem in the least bit amused, “No, you certainly have not.  And I have never asked you to because I understand that the things you have not told me are too painful to speak about and I have enough of a care not to go poking around and dragging them out so that you have to face them again for the satisfaction of my own curiosity.”

                Pippin flinched at being pinned so deftly and still, he could not stop himself from pressing on.

“I haven’t any secrets from you.”

                “You do, Pippin.  Just understand that everyone has secrets that no one else has any business to go touching.”

                “Well, I don’t know what mine are so please tell me.”

                “You don’t want me to bring these things up, Pip, trust me.”

                “No, Merry, I do.  So tell me.”

                At that moment, light returned to Merry’s eyes; unfamiliar in its darkness, however.  Pippin nearly shivered at the frigid anger that he saw there.        

“All right.” Merry said evenly.  “If you want me to go poking at things, let us start with your wife.”

                “Diamond?  What secret have I about her?”

                “The secret everybody in the whole Shire wants to know: why in the world you ever married her.”

                “Merry…”

                “No, Pippin, why did you?  She is one of the coldest people I have ever known.”

                “She is not cold.”

                “Isn’t she, though?  In all the years of her acquaintance, I  don’t believe she’s found it in her to utter more than two dozen words to me.  When I’ve seen her, that is.  Because she’s hardly ever about, is she?  Hasn’t got much time for you and Farry.  She always seems to be off somewhere with her ‘real’ family or pursuing her more important interests.  How there was even time for Farry to enter the equation I’ll never know.  One of the great mysteries of the Tooks, I suppose, and one the gossips from here to Hardbottle never seem to tire of discussing.  I used to try and stop them, but then I wondered what is the point—no one likes her.  Frankly, neither do I.  I don’t know what I am supposed to say to them when they ask me what sort of wits you had about you when decided it was wise to marry that girl; I haven’t the slightest clue myself.  Imagine employing bricklayers and painters instead of cooks and nursemaids—it’s a wonder Faramir has made it to eight with what little there is of him in tact.  No help from her, of course.  I doubt she remembers what he looks like.  And you’re no better, letting him run about the way you do without a care for his well being.  A desperate excuse you are for a father, Pippin and a shame that is, a terrible shame, considering you had a fine father yourself and even more of a shame because you’ve been blessed with a wonderful, beautiful lad like that and you’re too much of a fool to realize just how lucky you are.”

                Merry’s voice faltered there but it was only half a second before he continued with renewed venom.

                “Faramir!  There’s a subject I could poke around a long time.  I’m certain there’s plenty of things you’d rather not talk about there.  If I had a mind to, I suppose I could ask you just how close you’ve come to losing him.  Hmm?  How many times have you sat up all night, just watching him sleep to be sure that he’s still breathing?  Do you blame yourself there at all, Pippin?  Does that sort of accountability ever enter your mind?  Do you blame yourself for that body you gave him?  Do you worry about the fact that he’s so small, that he’s thin as paper—that one strong wind could blow him down or one bad cold could be the end of him?  Do you think about what would happen if you lost him, that it would be your own daft fault if you did because you didn’t take better care of him? I--”

                Abruptly, Merry stopped speaking, as if it had suddenly caught up to him how far over the line of cruelty he had just crossed while temper and pain had possessed him.  He went pale as a bed sheet.

                “Oh.  Oh, Pippin, forgive me.”

                Pippin didn’t move.  He felt as if his entire being had gone numb and only after great effort did he find he still could speak.

                “You are right, Merry.”

“About what?”  Merry stared at him in horror. 

“There are some things it does not do to speak about.”

                Merry began to tremble with shame.  “Pippin, I’m sorry.  I can’t believe the things I have just said.”

“No,”  Pippin shook his head and stood.  “I am sorry that I drove you to that.  I’m sorry that I hurt you that much by pushing the way I did.  I did not think and I was foolish.  I am foolish.  I’ve made a dreadful mess of everything.”

                “No, Pippin, there’s nothing to justify what I’ve just done.”

                “I’ve made a dreadful mess of everything.”  Pippin repeated.  He was hardly even aware that Merry was standing before him, so lost was he in his own conclusion.  “I should never have dragged you into my own problems.  You’ve nothing to do with it and I’ve only managed to cause you pain.”

                “Pippin, what are you talking about?”  Merry was alarmed at the dazed way Pippin was speaking.  He wondered if he had somehow managed to send his cousin into a state of shock.

                Pippin blinked at the fear in Merry’s voice and it brought him back to the moment.              

                “Merry,” He said softly, putting his hands on his cousin’s shoulders.  He drew him close and their faces touched nose to nose.  “I’m sorry for all the trouble and pain I’ve caused you.  This wasn’t your problem in the first place and it still isn’t.  You have your own worries to deal with and I will leave you to them.  Perhaps later when things are more settled I can make it up to you…or perhaps that can’t be done, I don’t know, but I do hope for the former.”

                Merry looked into Pippin’s sad, calm eyes and was suddenly the younger to his cousin’s elder.  “What do you mean later?  You make it sound like you’re leaving.”

                “Well, I am.”

                He broke away from him in alarm.  “Pip!  No—don’t be driven away by me!  I’m a cruel, stupid hobbit but--”

                “No.  No, Merry.”  Pippin caught Merry’s hands and tried to smile.  “You’re not driving me away.  Far from it.  I’m driving myself away because I must deal with my problems on my own and it isn’t fair to tax you like this, to tax Estella as well.  You should be so happy right now and not bothered by my foolishness.  I’ll take Farry and we’ll go meet Sam in Buckleberry.  We’ll take him to Crickhollow and get everything straightened out there, just Sam and I--the way it should have been.

                Merry didn’t speak for a moment as he processed everything that Pippin had said.  He was still aghast at his own behavior and desperate to repair things in whatever way he could but there was a logic to what Pippin had decided and there was a resolve in his voice that Merry knew he was powerless to argue with.  That stubborn Tookishness could be quite compelling, in its own way.

                He took a deep breath.  “Do you promise that you’ll come back once everything is sorted out?  I won’t let you go if I think this wretchedness will be hanging between us any longer than it has to.”

                “I promise.”  Then, smile dropping slowly, Pippin backed away and picked up the pipe that Merry had dropped on the floor in the blindness of his anger.  He returned it to his cousin and then added quietly: 

“I do love her, you know.  For everything you have said…I do love her.”

                “Pip, I…”

                “And Faramir…”

                “Please, I didn’t mean…” Merry moved toward Pippin, deep regret on his face once more, but Pippin held out a hand to stop him and shook his head.

                “We will talk about this later, Merry.  But just…”  He hesitated.  “…Just don’t ever think that your pain is the only one that’s real, that your love is the only one that means something.”

                Pippin closed his eyes after having said this.  It hurt him to speak that way, so boldly, but he also felt that he needed to say it, although seeing Merry’s response would indeed be too difficult to handle.  Head bowed, he turned and walked from the room, leaving Merry alone in front of the fire.

 ~~~~

                “Put the book down, Farry, we have to go.”

                Faramir jumped in his chair, startled by the interruption of the study’s comfortable quiet.  He had not even heard his Da come in.

                “Faramir, please.  I’m sorry but you must gather your things together quickly.”

                “Where are we going?”

                “Crickhollow.”

                “Crickhollow?!”

                “Well, Buckleberry first, actually, but then on to Crickhollow.  We mustn’t burden your Uncle Merry any further.”

                “Uncle Merry’s not coming?”

                “Well, no.  That’s why we are leaving.”

                “Because of Uncle Merry?”  Faramir was terribly confused.

                “No, because of me, mainly.  But come now, are all your things still together?  All your clothes and such?”

                Annoyance darkened Faramir’s face.  He pulled his book back sharply from his Da’s hands and held it as precious against his chest.  His father looked surprised by the movement and reached again for the book.

                “No,” Faramir squeaked and crumpled his shoulders over the book.  “I’m not going.”

                “Don’t be ridiculous, Farry.  Give me the book.  It belongs to Merry and we can’t take it out of his home.  We will find you something else to read later.”

                “No!”  Faramir continued to speak to his knees, curled protectively over the book.  “I am not coming.”

                If he had been looking, he would have seen a smirk of irritation pass over Da’s face as he crossed his arms.

                “Well, I’m sorry but you are coming.  There isn’t any choice in the matter.”

                “But I don’t want to come.”

                “It doesn’t matter if you want to or not.  I must go and you must come with me.”

                “Why can’t you go by yourself?  I want to stay here.”  Faramir continued to keep his face hidden.  He didn’t dare look at Da because they had never had a fight like this before.  It scared him, actually—he could hear his heart pounding in his chest—but he was also so angry that he didn’t want to give in and say all right or that he was sorry.    He wasn’t sorry.  He didn’t want to go to Crickhollow.  He hated Crickhollow and its stupid, dusty rooms.  There was nothing to do there and no one to play with.  Brandy Hall was so much better and Uncle Merry and Aunt Estella and his new cousin on the way—it wasn’t fair for Da to take him away now.  He wanted to stay and it was just Da being mean not to let him.  Just mean and not fair.  No one ever asked him what he wanted.  No one but Uncle Merry.  Why could Uncle Merry be his father?  He would be so much better.   It wasn’t fair!

                His father sighed.  “I’m not going to argue with you, Farry.  I’m your father and if I say that you must come, you must.  It’s as simple as that.”

                “I wish you weren’t.”

                The words were out before Faramir even realized he was saying them.  Then they hung there in the shocked silence between them.                  

                Faramir’s  tummy flip-flopped, but he didn’t move.  He was waiting for Da to say something.  He wished that he would say anything.    When he didn’t, Faramir couldn’t help but look up.

                Da’s face looked strange.  Faramir couldn’t tell if he was mad or sad or about to laugh.  He hoped for a laugh.  That might make what Faramir just said go away.

                But Da didn’t laugh.  Instead he spoke quietly.  “You wish that I wasn’t your father?”

                Faramir felt his ears and cheeks turn hot.  He wanted to hide or look away but that would be babyish so he didn’t.  And he wanted to speak but his throat felt tight like if he did he would cry and he didn’t want to cry.  He wouldn’t cry.  Not ever.

                So he nodded.

                Then his Da bent down and put his hand on Faramir’s knee.  “Well I’m sorry that I’m not who you would like me to be.”

                Faramir squirmed.  He was scared, by what he had said and by the way Da was acting.  He swallowed hard and looked away from him.

                “C-can I just stay here?”  His voice sounded very tiny and strange to him but he didn’t know what else to do.  And his collar was becoming clammy against the back of his neck.

                Da was quiet for a bit and then he said “If you’re a very good boy and you try to help them as much as you can I’m sure Merry and Estella won’t mind having you for a bit longer.”

                Faramir nodded.  He couldn’t speak again.

                “But it is only while I’m with Sam.  When I return in a few days you will have to come back to Tookland with me.  You may not like having me as your father and you may not like Tookland but that is your home and you must stay there, at least for a few more years.”

                Faramir nodded again.  He heard his father move toward the door but didn’t hear him leave.  He looked up and saw him standing there, watching him.

                “Merry is not your father, Faramir.  And it isn’t fair to ask him to be.”

                “I know.”

                “All right, then.  Be a good lad.”

                “I will.”

                His Da left and Faramir kicked his book to the floor and curled up as small as he could in the big chair.  He though about things like what was fair and how one thing that could be fair to one person might not be fair at all to another person and how he wasn’t going to cry, wasn’t going to cry even a little because he was a big lad and instead he decided that he would just stay like this as long as he could and swallow up all those things that made him want to cry, even if that made his tummy hurt terribly.

~~~~

Pippin made his way quickly to the stables and in some part of his mind was relived to have not encountered any other hobbits along the way.  He found the pony that he had borrowed from Pervinca and mechanically put on her tack and saddle.  He led her from the stable, latched the doors behind him and then mounted her.

                The wind was bitter cold but Pippin paid little attention.  He did not raise his hood nor put on his gloves.  He rode until he was out of the view of Brandy Hall, until he had passed the edge of the Brandybucks’ property.  Then he dismounted the pony, tied her to a tree, and wept into the grass.

A Slight Case of Magnificence

Summary: Just before one of the turning points in his life, Merry finds himself in an unexpected situation.  A Fourth Age tale.

Setting: Buckland, Late November, 1438.  Pippin is 48, Merry is 56, Sam is 58, Estella is 53, Faramir Took is 8.

A/N: Considering the wait for this chapter, it’s not very exciting.  More of a bridge chapter than anything, but oh well.  And as for the huge amount of time it took to get this up, I don’t know what really to say other than I got busy with work and grad apps and sort of couldn’t look at it for a while.  But I can’t tell you how much it means to me that people still cared enough to send me e-mails and reviews and just to stay interested in my mundane little story.  I especially want to thank Marionros, Pip Brandygin, Lady of Ithilien but everyone else as well.  Your words mean so much to me and I promise I will finish this eventually.  Thank you.

Disclaimer: Characters and places do not belong to me

Chapter Seven: Complications at Crickhollow

                Sam was surprised to find Pippin waiting for him onshore when he crossed into Buckleberry, but there he sat, cross-legged in the grass, munching sloppily on an apple, his pony grazing a few yards off.  He made no wave or other overt sign of noticing his presence, but as Sam lead his pony closer, he saw cheerful acknowledgement in Pippin’s bright eyes.

                He swallowed the last bite of apple and wiped his mouth on his handkerchief.  “Hullo, Sam.”

                “Aye, hullo.”

                “Had a safe journey, I trust?”

                “I did.”

                “Grand.”  Pippin stood then and broke the apple core in half.  He gave one piece to Sam’s pony and then retrieved his own pony and gave her the second piece.  “There’s been a bit of a change and we’re going to Crickhollow instead.  Is that all right?”

                “That’s fine,” Sam shrugged, slightly disappointed that he would not be receiving Brandy Hall hospitality and an Estella Brandybuck dinner in particular, but there were far heavier concerns on his mind.  “Is Mister Merry waiting on us?”

                “Oh, no.  He’s going to be staying on at the Hall, actually.  Not really his business.”

                “No, I suppose it isn’t.”

                “Do you mind walking for a bit?”

                “Not at all.”  Sam watched Pippin carefully from the corner of his eye as they began walking their ponies, side by side down the narrow road that led out toward Crickhollow.  There was an odd tone in his voice that lead Sam to conclude something regrettable had occurred, and it may have been his imagination, but he was fairly certain he’d detected a bit of red mistiness around Pippin’s eyes that suggested that the hobbit had either had a great deal to drink or quite a weeping session.  His countenance was so sober, however, that Sam suspected the latter.

                “Is Faramir…”

                “He’s with Merry.  Safe and sound.”

                “He’s not—he’s not sick, then?”

                “No.”

                “Well, that’s a pretty piece of luck.”

                “It—it is.”  Pippin’s voice wavered then and Sam was certain it would crack and give up the game, but it did not.  Instead Pippin turned to him with a grimly penitent expression.

                “I’m sorry, Sam.”

                “It’s all right, Mister Pippin.  I’m not angry with you.”  This was truth.  Sam understood Pippin’s love and fear for his son too well to hold it against him.  The choices made were not admirable but he had thought long and hard about it and found that he couldn’t blame him for his desperation.  Sam might have done the same, had he been in similar circumstances. He’d like to think he’d have better sense, but you could never say something like that for certain, not til you’d lived a day in the other hobbit’s skin, as the saying went.

                “Well, I’m still sorry.  I mean, I’m not sorry for what I did—I still say I had to and I’m glad for that.  But I am sorry for the way I went about it.  I haven’t any excuse for treating you like that and putting you through what I have.  But I will make it up to you, I promise, and we’ll get everything sorted out and think up a great plan of action, made with plenty of restraint and common sense, just as you would have it.”

                Sam smiled.  It would certainly not be as easy as Pippin made it sound, but at least he was willing and seemed far more receptive than he had the last disastrous time they’d faced the matter.  Perhaps they would get things solved to both their likings at Crickhollow.  “That sounds right good, sir.”

                Pippin laughed then, sounding much more himself.  “Have I embarrassed you?”

                Sam frowned.  “Why do you think that?”

                “Your face is all red.  Aren’t you blushing?”

                “Oh,” Sam felt his cheek curiously, “It does feel a mite hot, sir, but I don’t think I’m embarrassed.  Likely I’m just nervous from the river-crossing.”

                “You’re still afraid of the water, even after all these years?”

                “Aye.  And I’ve no plans to go changin’ at my age.”

                Pippin laughed again.  “I don’t suppose you do.  But a good meal or two should help to calm your nerves.  Estella insisted I take some provisions with so we needn’t set up in an empty kitchen.  Nothing too fancy, just some bread and some ham and some beans and some tarts and perhaps some mushrooms…”

                Sam smiled genially but couldn’t help but feel that even an Estella Brandybuck meal would not make the evening much easier.  He fished the handkerchief out from his pocket and mopped up a layer of sweat that seemed to have appeared from nowhere along his hairline.  Goodness but he was tired.  He didn’t know if it was still nerves from the ferry or that he had pushed himself harder than he should have to get to Buckleberry on time or just the pressure he’d been under these past weeks.  Sam didn’t cotton to lying at all and he never would have if he’d seen any other way around the matter, but as it was, he had been lying to a lot of people more or less since the day Pippin had stormed out of Bag End and, frankly, it was an exhausting business.  At least after tonight, he promised himself, there would be no more lying.

                Thank the stars for small luck.

~~~~

                Brandy Hall after Pippin’s departure had become a very somber place.  Merry had said not a word about the discussion gone horribly wrong but Estella could surmise what had happened easily enough by the way he entered the bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed farthest from her and put his head in his hands.  Pippin had ducked in briefly once more to ask if it was all right if Faramir stayed.  It was then Estella insisted Dilly fetch him a basket for his and Sam’s supper.  Pippin had thanked them politely and formally and then that had been all.

                At suppertime, Faramir emerged from the study and took his meal silently with his two cousins, no one having the heart to even attempt conversation.  Then the dishes were cleared and Faramir kissed them a tentative goodnight and left for the bedroom he had previously shared with his father.

                Merry changed into his nightclothes, his jaw fixed so stiff it would have ached had he mind to notice, and slid heavily into bed.  When he felt the merciful touch of Estella’s soft arms around his shoulders, he gave in and collapsed against her.

                “I am a terrible, horrible hobbit.”

                “Shhh,”  Estella brushed the curls from her husband’s brow and traced the strong lines of the face that she so loved, “Try to forget about it and sleep.”

                “How can I forget about it?  The things I said, the way I acted…utterly foolish and unforgivable.  I’m so ashamed…”

                “Hush.”

                “No, I--”

                “Merry, listen to me, please.”

                “I--”

                “Merry.  Listen to me.”  She scooted as close to him as she could and whispered, her breath hot and moist against his neck, “Stop trying to be perfect.”

                Merry sighed and Estella could feel, even in the dark, his patronizing smirk.  “You don’t understand…”

                “Yes,” she hissed, “Yes, I do understand, Merry.  I understand that you’re the Master of the Hall and that you are the older cousin and that everyone expects you to be wise and infallible and a model hobbit, but you aren’t that.  You’re just one hobbit, Merry, one plain, ordinary hobbit!  You are allowed to make mistakes, you are allowed to make you own decisions and they don’t always have to be what everyone agrees is the most reasonable thing.  And you are allowed to have a temper, Merry.  You are allowed to have emotions.  And you are allowed to stop trying for perfect all the time because perfect does not exist.  You can chase it all you want but you’ll only exhaust yourself.”

                Estella waited with anxiety for any reaction from Merry—it had been a speech she’d been putting off making for some time and there was a lot of emotion behind it.  It seemed dreadfully small to her, now that she’d finally managed to speak it.

                “Merry?”  She touched his ear hesitantly, then paused as he murmured something into the pillow.

                “What was that?”  She asked.

                “I said ‘I love you’.”

                Estella sighed and settled deeper into the bedclothes.  “You’re a good hobbit, Merry.”

                “Mmm.”

                “And whatever happened out there today, I’m certain Pippin will forgive you.  He loves you too, you know.”

                Merry rolled over and kissed his wife.  “You should sleep now.”

                “Well…”  She gazed at him, far too many troubles seeming to weigh down on the strong planes of his features.  Nothing she could say could lessen that weight.  At least not on this night.  “Goodnight, then, I suppose.”

                “Goodnight.”

                Merry lay in the dark for sometime unable to relax into sleep, despite his exhaustion.  It was a difficult thing to do when your heart felt so plain sick and your mind refused to stop sprinting through painful events, over and over and over again.  For as sweet and well-meaning as she was, Estella just didn’t understand.  No one did.  No one else had to deal with what Merry did.  No one else had such responsibility.  At least not in the Shire. 

He flopped onto his back and wondered idly whether the King felt like this.  He had so very many people depending on him, even more than all the hobbits in Buckland and he surely must have times where he didn’t say exactly what he should have or do the best thing that he might have.  Perhaps sometime when things were better, Merry would write and ask.  Might be a bit forward, though.  This was probably yet another great thing he would have to figure out himself.

                “Uncle Merry?  Are you awake?”

                Merry nearly leapt out of his skin but managed to stay composed as he made out the shape of a small figure at the foot of the bed.  The child must have the eyes of a mole to see his way in here in the pitch darkness of the apartment.

                “I am.  Can you not sleep either?”

                Faramir climbed up onto the mattress, careful not to disturb Estella.  He crawled up to the head and whispered to Merry: “I think the baby is missing me.”

                “Is that so?”

                “Yes.”

                Merry smiled as the boy scooted under the covers and made himself comfortable between the two adults.  “Are you missing your Da?”

                Faramir shook his head.

                “You certain?  Not even a little?”

                “He’ll be back soon.  He said so.”

                They were quiet after that.  Merry listened for a time until he heard Faramir’s light snores mingling with those of Estella.  He marveled at the odd stubbornness of the lad.  There had almost certainly been some row between Pippin and Faramir, and it had effected Faramir enough that he had spoken hardly a word all evening, moving as quiet and timidly as a bird and yet he refused to even admit that he might be upset.  Such forced restraint seemed perverse on that young a child and Merry couldn’t help but feel it was strange and dangerous.  A child has to cry at some point, doesn’t it?  What sort of a child doesn’t cry on occasion?

                ‘Well,’ he reasoned, ‘perhaps that’s just what makes Faramir such a unique sort.  And at least he isn’t a squirmer.’  Pippin used to squirm something terrible in his sleep but, thankfully, the boy seemed not to have inherited this annoying trait of his father.  For this Merry was extremely grateful.

                He wondered idly whether Pippin still slept like that or if he had outgrown it.  Merry had shared a bed with both father and son briefly that night in Frogmorton some weeks back but he had slept so heavily himself that he doubted whether he would have noticed.  As he dropped off to sleep, sufficiently distracted from his previous worries, Merry’s last thought was that he would have to ask Diamond next time he saw her whether Pippin was still a squirmer.

~~~~

                The morning sunlight at Crickhollow was weak and dim, making it the sort of morning that did not particularly inspire one to cast off warm bedclothes and eyesleep.  Sam also fancied that it was to blame for the ache that had invaded his bones.  With a heavy groan, he pulled the linens up tighter and returned to a weighted, almost drunken-feeling slumber.

                When he woke the next time, the lantern clock on the far wall read half past ten.  Sam chastised himself for his laziness as he threw on his dressing gown and headed for the kitchen.  There was important business to be taken care of (not to mention meals to be cooked) and here he was lazing about like a spoiled tween.  To think he had spent the past two weeks muttering to Rosie about the Thain’s irresponsibility.  ‘Aren’t you a pretty kettle, Sam Gamgee…’

                In the kitchen, Pippin was no where to be found, but evidence of his presence was all about: a mostly blackened pot of porridge on the stove, dirty dishes and toast crumbs on the table, and a messily chalked message on the bit of slate that hung beside the door.

                Have gone for a ride to gather my thoughts.  Hope you don’t mind that I have let you sleep but you look as though you need it.  Breakfast if you want it on the stove.

                                --P.T.

                Sam peered once more into the burned and congealed mass of oats and without hesitation threw it into the dishpan.  He gathered up the breakfast dishes and put them in too, alongside the dishes that were still soaking from last night’s supper.  They still hadn’t had a proper discussion over the matters they had come here to talk about but they had managed to make their way through nearly all the provisions Estella Brandybuck had sent.

                “Don’t bode well at all, no sir.”  Sam muttered as he began scrubbing the supper dishes.  When they were dried and returned to the cupboard he poured himself a glass of water and sat down on the bench, strangely tired from the activity.

                “Needn’t keep the fire so blazin’ hot in here.”  He scrubbed his handkerchief across his forehead and eyed the hearth bitterly.  He then gazed for sometime at the dismal landscape beyond the window and wondered how long Pippin would be gone. “Back for the noon meal, most likely.”

                That thought made Sam’s stomach growl and he decided to start a little early making the meal.  If he didn’t Pippin might come back and insist on making it himself and that would be…well, Sam would just prefer to do the cooking on his own, that’s all.  The problem was that there wasn’t a lot to work with, just a bit of meat and some bread, not a green or any mushrooms left at all.

                Frowning, Sam lit a candle and headed down to the cellar.  Although no one had officially maintained a residence at Crickhollow for some time, Merry and Pippin still used the home regularly as a retreat and Sam thought it was likely there might be a bit a store kept up, perhaps some potatoes at least, cool and dry down in the bins.  Harvest hadn’t been that long ago and it seemed the sort of sensible thing Estella might have suggested.

                The trip down the stone steps made Sam a bit woozy, however.  He sat down on the bottom step and tried to will his head to stop spinning.  It was the heat, he decided, the moving from the stuffy, hot kitchen down to the chilly, drafty cellar.  Enough to make anyone feel a mite ill.

                He stood again and moved forward, peering into the dim illumination that the candle provided, trying to make out the shadowy shapes around him.  Eventually he saw shelves and jars (preserves!), old furniture, garden tools, a frock dummy (discarded by Diamond, no doubt), and then barrels.

                “Now that looks promising.” 

Carefully, Sam set the candle on top of an old trunk and set about trying to guess the contents of the barrels.  Each wore a label bearing the inscription “B.H.,” but they did not elaborate what Brandy Hall goods were inside.  A good shake showed one to be filled with a liquid, most likely wine and another had a thick powdery white dust about the rim that proved to be flour.  A third, however, made a very queer sound when Sam knocked at the side and it aroused his curiosity.  Stepping back from it, he spied a mallet and chisel laid against the wall near the barrels.  Immediately, he snatched them up and set to work.

After a great deal of grunting and far more force than he would have expected, Sam managed to pry open the top.  The smell of what greeted him caused Sam to stagger backwards in disgust.  He stumbled and landed on his rump, a hand clutched firmly to over his nose and mouth.

The scent was over-powering in the small space and Sam froze in chill fear that he was going to be ill.  Before he could follow through on that act, however, he passed out.

~~~~

                Estella closed her eyes and tilted her head back with a sigh.  “Oh, Merry…”

                “Is that better?”

                “It feels marvelous.  I don’t understand how my feet can ache so badly when I haven’t even been on them in weeks.”

                “Just lacking in adoration, I imagine,” Merry rubbed her arches firmly, “They get jealous, the rest of you getting so much attention.  ‘What’s so special about a tummy?’ they ask.”

                “Mmm.  Or a bosom.”

                “Yes, can’t seem to help myself favoring that, I’m afraid.  Feet don’t look nearly so nice when they are swollen.”

                “Hush.  Faramir’s only in the other room.”

                “You did bring it up.”  Merry noted drolly and rested Estella’s feet on his shoulders.  She was reclined on the settee while he was seated below her on the floor.  A few paces away, the fire burned brightly and it made the entire room feel quite cozy.

                “Are you enjoying yourself?”  He asked, running his hand absently over the base of her calf, “Being allowed out of your pen for the afternoon?”

                “Yes, it feels like a holiday, even if it is just lying in the sitting room instead of lying in the bed.  It’s wonderful not to be staring at those dreadful drapes all day.”

                “Marroc said it might do you some good.”

                “Aye.  I feel like I can think again.  I got more work done this morning than I have all month.  Every last scrap of that mending that’s been piling up for ages.”

                “You could have just sent it out, you know.  You don’t generally do it all yourself anyway.”

                “Yes, but I’m not doing anything else useful right now.  It seemed a shame to send it out when I’ve got two perfectly good hands.”

                “Have they gotten all swelled up as well?”

                “A bit.”  She held out one small hand for him to see.

                He toyed with her wedding band, but it wouldn’t budge.  “Not getting that off any time soon.”

                “Why should I want to?”

                Merry smiled.  “Faramir wasn’t too much trouble while you were trying to work, was he?”

                “Goodness, he was a great help.  He darns better than I do.”

                “He knows how to darn?”

                “Mmm.  He fixed up all your woolens.  And much quicker than I ever could.  He’s got a very neat hand.”

                “Where does an eight-year-old learn to darn?”

                “From his mother, I imagine.  She’s useful for something.”

                Merry shook his head.  “A lad shouldn’t be learning to mend clothes.”

                “Whyever not?”

                “It’s just not right.  He ought to stick to lad things.”

                “You don’t think that a skill is a skill and it can only do you good to learn as many as you can?”

                “It won’t do you good if it just gives the lads at the inn more to tease you about.  You end up looking right foolish then.”

                “Really?  And do you not think my brother Fredegar looked right foolish two weeks after our wedding when he showed up on the doorstep with a sack of dirty laundry and a button for me to sew back on his cuff?”

                Merry laughed at the memory.  “You did spoil Fatty something awful.  He was terribly put-out when you left.”  When he saw the glare Estella was giving him, he sobered.  “Yes, but, see, that’s different.  Fatty’s a bachelor.  Bachelor’s just hire a lass to take care of those things for them.  It’s what Pip and I always did.  That’s what everyone expects bachelors to do.  They don’t expect them to take up knitting.”

                “Well, I think it’s a good idea for a young person to try and learn anything that might be of value to them.  If our son wants to learn to sew or to knit, I see no reason to stop him.”

                “Taking childrearing advice from Diamond Took—I never thought I’d see the day.”

                Estella pulled her feet away from Merry sharply.  “I’m doing no such thing.”

                He took a deep breath, far too tired to feed an argument from a pleasant conversation.  “I’m sorry.  I’m still sick over yesterday.  I don’t mean to take it out on you.”

                He felt her hand appear gently behind his ear and they began to make a soothing circle, playing where his curls bent slightly wayward anytime he let his hair grow out.

                “Did you have a good morning, though?”  She asked, softly.  “Did you get lots of work done?”

                “Yes, and there’s still plenty more to do.  The Hall has got to be set for winter when it comes but apparently everyone’s been waiting on my word to start the preparations.”

                “Well, you are the Master.”

                “Yes, so I remembered today.  I managed to get quite a bit accomplished but I’m afraid I’ll still have to be working in the main of the Hall for the rest of the week.  Will you mind?”

                “No.  I hardly missed you today, I’m sure it will be fine.”

                “Grand.  And after this week I should have everything set so that they can finish up without my being there every moment. I’m planning to leave word not to disturb me after that so that you and I can spend our last weeks alone together.  And then…”

                “And then we won’t be alone again for a very long time.”

                “Indeed.”

~~~~

                A chill wind swept through Buckland and the midday sun gave little warmth as Pippin returned to the yard at Crickhollow.  He shivered as he put the pony away in the barn, fed and watered Sam’s as well and then headed up to the house.  Readjusting the package under his arm, he rubbed his hands together and silently hoped that Sam had something hot cooking on the stove.

                The kitchen, however, was cold and dark when Pippin entered.  He made his way immediately to the hearth and rekindled the small fire that had been just about to go out.  Then he stood and called out.

                “Sam?”

                There came back no answer and after quickly checking all the other rooms, Pippin was back where he started.  He called out once more then noticed that the cellar door was partially open.

                “Sam?”  He whispered into the blackness from the head of the stairs.  He cleared his throat and spoke more loudly.  “Sam, are you there?”

                He startled when he heard a low groan answer him back.

                “Sam!”  Without hesitation or thought to get a candle Pippin galloped down the steps, promptly tripped over a trunk and found himself sprawled on his back on the dirt floor, blinking into the cool darkness around him.

                “Where are you, Sam?”  He asked calmly.  “Have you hurt yourself?  Or are you stuck somewhere?”

                He was surprised to realize Sam was on the floor, just inches away.

                “I’m sorry, Mister Pippin.  I…I think I must’ve…fallen to sleep.”

                “On the floor of the cellar?”

                “Well, I…I don’t remember.  I just felt funny and then…I don’t remember until I heard you calling.”

                “Sounds like you swooned, then.  Have you hurt yourself?”  He crawled to his knees and felt around until he was beside Sam.  He grabbed what he rightly guessed to be the Gamgee’s elbow and yanked him up to a sitting position.

                Immediately, Sam reeled and brought his hands to his head.  “I don’t feel right at all.”

                “You must have hit your head when you went down.”

                “I don’t remember.”

                Pippin wrinkled his nose, suddenly catching the scent of something awful.  “Whatever were you doing down here?  It smells…wretched.”

                Sam gulped.  “It’s that barrel I opened.  I think it’s pickles.”

                Pippin sniffed again then stuck his tongue out.  “Pickled cabbage is what it is.  I thought we’d gotten rid of it all.”

                “Pickled cabbage?”

                “Yes.  It’s a Dwarven delicacy, believe it or not.  Gimli likes to send me a barrel every so often and I always must write back how very much I enjoyed it.  The first time I opened one of the barrels, I was certain whatever he’d sent had spoiled.  One of the stinkiest customs I’ve ever found.”  Pippin shook his head and glanced about but the darkness was deep in every direction.  “Why’d you come down without a lantern?  It would’ve made a bit more sense, to my mind.”

                “I had a candle.  Must’ve gone out.”

                “How long have you been down here?”

                Sam didn’t say anything and Pippin felt worry leap up in his belly.  As bad as the smell was, it certainly shouldn’t be cause enough for someone to faint.  He reached out to touch his shoulder again, to help him up so that they could get back upstairs and into the fresh air, but his fingers came into contact with the side of his face by mistake.

                “You’re burning up.”

                “I…I don’t feel right.”

                “All right, Sam, all right.  Let me help you up and we’ll get out of here.”  Pippin scooted until he was positioned behind Sam’s shoulders.  “We’ll get you back upstairs, have a nice glass of water, maybe you’ll have a good lie-down for a bit.”  He stood slowly, taking Sam up with him then gritted his teeth sharply as the hobbit fell back bodily on him.  Pippin’s feet started to slide but he managed at very awkward angle to find some purchase keep them both from toppling.  He leaned forward then and wrapped his arms around Sam’s middle but soon realized by the weight already pushing back on him that lifting him entirely was not going to be an option.  Not for the first time in his life, Pippin cursed his own physical weakness.

“Sam, I’m sorry,” He whispered, “I may be taller but I’m not all that strong.  You’re going to have to help me carry you.  Can you walk at all?”

                Sam nodded faintly and attempted to straighten up but then groaned and fell back down.  He would have hit the floor, but Pippin caught him before he came in contact with the hard packed dirt foundation.

                “All right…” Pippin breathed shallowly through his teeth, holding back a shudder from his nerves as he struggled to figure out what to do.  “All right…I’m going to have to drag you, Sam.  I will try to make it quick, though.”

                “I’m sorry Mister Pippin.” Sam murmured pathetically.

                Pippin barked a laugh.  “Oh, no, don’t you be sorry too, Samwise.  Only one hobbit’s allowed to be sorry right now and that’s me.  Now, buck yourself up because I doubt this will be too pleasant.”

                With a grunt he hefted Sam up as best he could, scuttled in an awkward circle so that he was now in front and could walk backwards up the steps, dragging Sam’s upper body one step at a time.  It was a tedious process and though it was pitch dark Pippin could sense Sam’s head lolling in a painful way from the jerky movement.

                He paused to rest midway up the staircase, setting Sam down slightly so he could rest his arms but still not let go of him.  He allowed himself a few deep breaths, then asked “All right there, Sam?  Still with me?”

                There was a pause, then a shaky “Aye.”

                “All right.” Pippin repeated.   It seemed in some subconscious way that if he just kept repeating that phrase eventually it would become true.

                They didn’t stop again until they reached the top of the stairs.  Pippin settled briefly on the stoop, grateful to be back where there was light but also horrified, as he could now see Sam’s face clearly and Sam was not well at all.  There was pox rash all over him.

~~~~

                The sun was sitting low in the sky when Merry gazed at the amber wash it gave all the fields and hills of Buckland.  The days were getting very short now, he mused, and chillier.  Soon he would have to find an alternative to their evening walks, an indoor activity where the constant fire in the hearth would assure Faramir’s warmth.  Pippin had said he would return for the boy in a few days but Merry knew he would not take him home to Tookland with him—not if the pox was still rampant there and especially after he had gone to such lengths to get him out of there and away from infection in the first place.  What he intended to do with him, then, Merry did not know, but he had his suspicions that, had they not had the terrible blow-up, Pippin would certainly have asked him to play guardian.  With shame, Merry knew that now that would most certainly not happen.  Pippin did have his pride.

                But what, then, was he going to do with the boy? Long Cleeve seemed too long a distance to cart him, even if his mother was there.  Too far at least when there was a grand emergency in Tookland that the Thain had already left boiling over for too long.  Hardbottle, too, where Pimpernel lived with her family, would be just as out of the way.  No, it would have to be somewhere closer.  Buckland?  All Pippin’s Buckland relations were in the Hall, so that was out of the question.  Fatty Bolger?  For a moment, Merry considered this, then shook the notion away.  Fatty was a bachelor.  As Estella had pointed out earlier, he barely knew how to feed and dress himself.  No one with any right sense would leave their child with him.

                Ah, but this was Pippin, Merry reminded himself.  Right sense for anyone else was not necessarily right sense for Pippin.  In Pippin-sense, Fatty Bolger was the obvious choice.  The image suddenly popped into Merry’s head of Fatty taking Faramir with him for his nightly supper at the Howling Hound Inn, surrounded by all the regulars, sour brew flowing easily, the perfect accompaniment to the greasy fish and chips…

                Merry closed his eyes tight and resolved that when Pippin returned, he would insist the boy stayed here.  He would discuss it with Estella later tonight, but he was certain she would agree.  Blow-up or not, Brandy Hall was the best place for Faramir right now.

                “Uncle Merry?”

                Merry opened his eyes with a start.  A moment ago, Faramir had been playing quietly on the other side of the hilltop.  Now he seemed to have skipped over and was crouching in front of Merry, who sat beneath the only tree on Mount Took.

                “Were you sleeping?”

                Merry shook his head and found his voice.  “No, I was just taking in the view.”

                Faramir smirked.  “With your eyes closed?”

                “Yes,” Merry nodded, then grinned.  “No, I was just busy thinking, actually.”

                “What were you thinking about?”

                “I was thinking that it’s getting a bit too chilly and we should probably head back to the Hall.”

                “I’m not cold.”

                “Let me feel your hands.  Ah, they’re like ice.”

                Faramir flushed and drew his hands back.  “I’ll keep them in my pockets,” he muttered, “But I don’t want to go back yet.”

                Merry softened.  He had spent a great deal of his youth having conversations like this with another Took.  “Come get under my cloak, then.  I’ll warm you up a bit.”

                Agreeably, Faramir climbed into his lap and Merry re-fastened the cloak around the both of them.  “Better?”

                He didn’t answer.  Instead he took one of Merry’s hands into his own and frowned.  “Why aren’t you cold too?”

                “Because I’m a fat old hobbit and I have a lot more stuffing to keep me warm than you do.”

                Faramir frowned more deeply at this but did wriggle back until he was comfortably settled into said stuffing.  “Do you know how to make Ent Draught?”

                Merry suppressed a laugh at the sudden change in topic.  “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

                “Da doesn’t either.”

                “You’ve asked him?”

                “Yes.  But he says that if he ever sees an Ent again, he’ll get me some.”

                “That’s a pretty tall promise.”  Merry smiled at his own wit.  Were Pippin here, he would have laughed.  Faramir, however, did not catch the pun.

                “Do you think there are Ents in the Old Forest?”

                “Well, I wouldn’t say no, but the only Ents I have ever met personally were in Fangorn Forest.”

                “Then I should never meet one, I suppose.” 

Merry was alarmed at the amount of sadness in the lad’s tone as he said this. “Why do you say that?”  He asked, “It’s not such a far-off idea that you might do some traveling when you are older, like your father and I did, and you might meet some of our old friends.”

                Faramir shook his head.  “No.  I’m not even allowed out of the Smial in the winter.  They’ll never let me go traveling.”

                “It’s only because they care about you, Faragrin.”  Merry winced as he heard himself use such a tired phrase.  He wondered how often it had been said to the boy.

                “If I got to meet the Ents they wouldn’t have to care so much.”

                “Why’s that?”

                “Because if I met the Ents, the Ents would let me drink Ent Draught and then I wouldn’t be small anymore.”

                “Oh, Farry,” Merry pressed his cheek against the top of the boy’s head, “Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up.”

                “I’m not.  I just don’t want to be small.  I want to be tall.  And strong!  Like you and Da are.”

                “Small doesn’t mean you aren’t strong.”

                “Yes it does.  I always get sick.”

                “But you always get better.  You have to be strong to do that.  Fighting, you know?  Just like your Da.  He was the strongest little fighter I ever knew.”

                Faramir turned and looked at him.“Da was sick?”

                “Of course he was.”

                There was a queer expression on Faramir’s face, but before Merry could place it, he had turned his back to him once more.  He sat more stiffly, though, and did not recline as he had been a moment before.  Merry got the distinct feeling that he had done something wrong.

                “Hoi,” he said lightly, squeezing him a bit, “Are you angry with me?”

                Faramir shook his head but did not turn around.

                “Certain?”

                “Yes.”

                Merry waited for the lad to say more but he didn’t.  “Why so quiet, then?”

                “I’m thinking.”

                “What about?”

                “I don’t know.”

                “You must be thinking about something.”

                Faramir was quiet for a minute, then he spoke in a much brighter tone.  “What are you going to name the baby if he’s a lad?”

                Merry grinned, satisfied that whatever had gone amiss seemed to have sorted itself out.  “Have we not already had this discussion?”

                “No.  You said that if he is a girl that Auntie Estella wants to call him Astor but you didn’t say what you want to call him if he’s a boy.”

                “You’ve a good memory.  I suppose we haven’t discussed it then.” Merry settled back, pleased to note that Faramir relaxed with him.  “What would you name him?”

                “Beorn.”

                “Beorn?”

                “Yes.”

                “Well, it’s more of a name for a bear.  I can’t see giving it to a little baby.”

                “But he won’t always be a baby.”

                “Yes, but he won’t ever be a bear.”

                “He might be.  Maybe he will change like Beorn did.”

                “Let’s hope it never comes to that.  No, if he is a boy, we are probably going to name him after a great man, as you are named.”

                Faramir sat up straight.  “You’re going to name him Faramir?”

                “No, not the same great man for whom you are named.  I would like to call him Théodoc.”

                “Who’s Théodoc?”

                “Théoden, is the great man.  The ‘doc’ would make him a Brandybuck in my line.”

                “Oh.  Théoden was your king.”

                “He was the king of Rohan, yes.”

                “Da says he was very nice.”

                “He was.  He was also a very brave and noble man.  He died fighting alongside many of his people in a great battle.”

                “Did you fight in the battle too?”

                “Yes.”   

Faramir turned then to face him.  Not for the first time Merry was taken aback by the intensity of that small face.  “Is that where you got your scar?”

Merry brought a hand up unconsciously to his brow.  He always took such care hiding the scar behind his hair that he himself almost forgot it was there.  Almost.

“No,” he said softly, “That scar is from a different occasion.”

Faramir brought his own hand up to inspect it.  “Did it hurt very much when you got it?”

“I don’t really remember it happening, but it did hurt, yes, after I woke up.”

Faramir nodded.  “I should like to have a scar like that.”

“Oh, Farry, if you lived your entire life and never got a scar like this I’d be very happy.”

“But it’s a nice scar!  And everyone can see it, not like Da’s.”

                Speechless, Merry thought about how relieved he had been when they discovered that the long scar on Pippin’s sword arm was neatly covered by the sleeve of his shirt.  Seeing the ugly thing disappear under crisp, white linen had felt like the final step of its mending.  For a moment, he considered how to explain to Faramir how wrong it was to be impressed by something so awful, but then he gave up.  It wasn’t wrong, it was just natural.  Little boys would always be interested in macabre things, just as he himself had once been intrigued by his uncle’s missing toe or the fact that Frodo didn’t have any parents.

                Instead he cleared his throat and stood, pulling Faramir to his feet as well.

                “It’s nearly dark now, love.  We’d better go.”

~~~~

                The lantern had long since burned itself out and the only light at Crickhollow came from the dying embers in the spare room. 

“Sam?  Sam, can you hear me?”

                Pippin put the back of his hand to the hobbit’s flushed cheek and then sighed.  All Evening Sam had lain in bed, hardly showing any response to Pippin at all.  Now he was still as death, lost in feverish dreams.

                “Sam, you really must try and drink some water.”

                He peeled the sweat-chilled blankets off once more and replaced them with the first set which, though not any cleaner than when they had been removed, were at least dry.  Sam shivered, his only response.

                Pippin peered at him, taking in the flush and the angry pock-marks and obvious pain that had not changed all day.  He felt his eyelids grow heavy, aware of his own exhaustion.

“All right, then.  I suppose I’ll try again in the morning.  I’ll be right here if you need me.” 

He took a seat in the arm chair he’d dragged near to the bedside and pulled off his dressing gown, allowing it to stand in for a blanket as he was far too tired to go and find another.

                “Sleep well, Sam, where ever you are.”

~~~~

                Faramir curled tight into himself and pulled the blankets over his head.  He could not sleep at all.

                After a while it became too hot beneath the covers and he kicked them all off violently, then flopped onto his back with a whimper of frustration.  He rolled his head back and forth, closed his eyes, tried to count lambs.

                Da was sick.  Da had been sick once.  Da could be sick.  Da could die.

                He pulled the blanket back up to his chin, folded his knees up near his shoulders.

                But he’s not sick now.  He’s fine.  Da’s always fine.

                One lamb, two lambs, three lambs, four…

What if Da died?

Faramir rolled over and pressed his face into the other pillow.  Da had slept here just two nights before and it still smelled like him.  He would come back.  He said so.  Even though Faramir had said mean things to him, Da had said he would come back.

Faramir pulled away slowly from the pillow, holding his breath.  That scent might have to last a long time and he must be careful now not to ruin it.  Faramir had ruined lots of things and now he couldn’t even tell his Da he was sorry.

A Slight Case of Magnificence

Summary: Just before one of the turning points in his life, Merry finds himself in an unexpected situation.  A Fourth Age tale.

Setting: Buckland, Late 1438.  Pippin is 48, Merry is 56, Sam is 58, Estella is 53, Faramir Took is 8.

A/N: I don’t know what to say about the wait for this chapter, as always.  Life just has a way of getting overwhelming sometimes.  Anyway, I hope you enjoy and I do promise that it will be finished someday, so long as that big outline stays plotted in my notebook, annoying me until I’ve brought every last plot twist into life.  Thank you to everybody who bothers to keep up with this; you make all the bits and pieces typed up on my lunch hour worthwhile.

Disclaimer: Characters and places do not belong to me

Chapter Eight: From Badness to Worseness

                Marner Goodbody drew a deep breath before he knocked upon the door jamb to the library.  The door was open but he felt he ought to let the Master know he was here first, so lost in his work did the great hobbit appear to be.

                Merry Brandybuck looked up slowly from the ledger.

                “Yes?”

                “I just wanted to let you know, Sir, that the last of the reinforcement work on the West side of the Hall has been completed.”

                “Tight as a drum then, is it?”

                “Oh, yes, Sir.  The lads have done quite a neat job of it.  I shouldn’t think we should have to be worrying about it for at least a few more seasons now.”

                “Grand.  Let’s have a look at it, shall we?”

                “Yes, Sir.”

                It was a winding journey through the network of tunnels but the two soon arrived outside at the farthest Western slope of Brandy Hall’s outer wall.  The workers there were just cleaning up the last of their tools and chatting jovially.  They quieted and straightened up when they saw the Master approach.

                He greeted them and began to inspect the work, quizzing them on various aspects.  Marner shivered as he listened, wishing he’d thought to bring his coat.  He noted that the Master did not seem at all uncomfortable in the bitter air, but, then, the Master rarely appeared uncomfortable in any way at all.

                “Right,” Merry finished with a nod, “That’s the last of the winter preparations.  Good job, lads.  You’ve done excellent work.  Let us all go to the parlor for a nip of Brandy to celebrate.”

                  Never was there a Master, Marner reflected, who knew better exactly the best thing to always say.  Taking up one of the spades and a bucket he grinned and followed the rest of the party back into The Hall.

~~~~

                Merry frowned and toyed with a pear while he waited for Cook to finish the trays for dinner.  He counted the days back in his head but there was no denying it—it had been over a week since Pippin had left to meet Sam, and Merry hadn’t heard a thing from either of them.  He surely would have expected something by now, a letter, a note, anything…

                But then, it had also been over a week since their blow-out, since Merry and Pippin had said such awful things to each other, Merry reminded himself.  Perhaps Pippin had no intention of letting Merry know what was going on from this point.  Or perhaps he had no intention of ever talking to him again, Merry thought sickly.  But no, he had said that when he came back they would sit down and talk things through, all this badness that had come between them.  He—

                “Sir?”

                Cook was looking hard at him, her faded blue eyes determined.

                “Yes?”

                “The dinner trays are ready, Sir.”

                “Oh.  Thank you.  I’ll just take them up then.”

                “There’s just one other thing, Sir, I beg your pardon, but I have to ask.”

                Merry felt his throat dry up.  “Yes, what is it?”

                “Well, it’s about the Yule party, the celebration this year.”

                “Mmm?”

                “Well, it’s just…the Mistress usually has all her plans made up and then  she gives me the lists and…well, it’s nearly time that we were sendin’ out the invitations and such but I just don’t know…”

                Relieved, Merry maneuvered the tea trolley with the dinner trays away from the counter, preparing to push it from the kitchen.  He smiled at Cook.

                “I’ll ask my wife after we eat if she has put thought to it at all but for now I would say that you should start planning for the banquet for at least everyone in the Hall—Yule will be happening with or without word from the Mistress, won’t it?  Certainly send out the usual invitations, count on all close relations from Buckland, or most, the East Farthing as well.  Tookland is out of the question, obviously,  what with the quarantine, and you’ll not get any mail through anyway.  I would say to go ahead and send out the normal invitations to the rest of the Shire, though.  Is that enough to go on for now?”

                “Oh, yes, thank you, Sir.  ‘Tis quite good”

                Merry could almost see the menu plans beginning to form in Cook’s mind.  He supposed it was probably a bit of a treat for her to get to make those decisions as usually Estella was very specific about deciding every tiny aspect herself.  And then Merry, of course, was forced to listen to her go on about it continually until several days after the great feast.  It was something he’d always had to fake a great interest in and, to be honest, Merry felt a little bit glad that she would be unable to take the control she usually did this year.  It gave him (and, he suspected, a good deal of the staff) a bit of a break.  One holiday off wasn’t such a bad thing at all.

                “Goodness,” he thought, as he pushed the trolley down the tunnel toward their apartments, “Yule is but a handful of weeks away.”  They had been told to expect the baby some time not long after.  At the time Marroc first said that it had seemed ages away.  Now it seemed almost frighteningly too soon.  He wasn’t ready.  Not now.  Not yet, anyway.

                A knot of worry immediately tightened in his gut and Merry realized it had become a familiar feeling of late.  He grimaced and made the turn into the last tunnel before their quarters.  He envied Estella, getting her time off from responsibility.  But it wasn’t the responsibility that tired him out, he reflected; it was the worry.  And he could never seem to arrange time off from that.

~~~~

                “How are we this morning, Sam?  Are you with us?”

                Pippin pulled Sam away from pillow a bit to get a proper look at his face.  It was still lost, however, in fever and heavy dream.  He laid him back gently and glanced at the clock.  It wasn’t really morning at all; were he at home they would be midway through the noon meal by now.  Pippin closed his eyes, imagining a fresh bit of pork, some Tookbank apples, boiled potatoes with butter and salt, slices of tomato and brown bread, some crackling baked beans…

                His stomach growled and Pippin jumped at the sound.  Then he smiled bitterly.  He was not at home; he was in Crickhollow and as little concern for the correct time as there was here, there was even less for proper meals.  He wasn’t quite certain how many days had passed since he’d found Sam down in the cellar—it felt like an age, the exhausting blur of it all, but there certainly hadn’t been six square meals for each of those days; it was more likely less than six between the whole of them.

                Standing up and stretching, he glanced back at Sam once more  leaving the room.  He looked a state and Pippin did not allow his eyes to linger.

                The kitchen was a mess.  Pots and pans and dishes lay on every surface, thick with a layer of grease and filth.  The food he’d set out from Brandy Hall with was long gone, the food he’d nicked from Fatty Bolger’s pantry just before he’d found Sam that first morning was nearly gone as well.  It would have disappeared more quickly in normal circumstances, but there was nothing normal in this farmhouse.  Pippin had made a bland, unseasoned vegetable soup that he’d managed to get Sam to take a tiny bit of over the past days.  The porridge had been less successful, the bread and meat completely untouched.  And Pippin himself seemed to have lost any appetite; too worried, too exhausted, too overwhelmed by this disgusting kitchen, growing more and more out of control by the day. 

                Then again, he sniffed, it could just be the growing mold that killed his desire to eat. In fact, the mold quite definitely had something to do with it.  He picked at the skin that had spread over the top of the milk pail and felt his stomach seize up.

                He grimaced and let it drop back, moving a few paces away from it all, deciding to ignore it as best as he could.  He went instead to a small cask he’d dragged up from the cellar a few days earlier.  Taking up a somewhat dirty but passable mug, he filled it with wine and sighed.  He took a deep sip and tasted Brandy Hall rolling over his tongue.  That was by far the best thing he’d accomplished the entire time here, hauling that barrel up the stairs.  It was tempting, given the situation, to drain it with his mug, escape into self-pity and apathy from this depressing, worrisome present, but he did not.  He took only the single mug full for the moment and returned to his station at Sam’s side.

                “I deserve this, I suppose,” he said not for the first time to Sam’s slumbering form, “You don’t and such is the pity, but I do.  Deserve worse, likely.”

                Sam turned, fluttered his eyelids briefly and groaned.  Pippin immediately forgot himself.

                “Here, here now.”  He picked up the cloth from the basin and began the process again of wiping down Sam’s brow, which had grown hot to the touch once more.  “That’s better, I think, mmm?”

                And Sam was gone again.

                Pippin finished up, wrung out the cloth and laid it out neatly on the side of the basin.  He re-tucked Sam’s covers then sat back in his chair to watch and wait some more.  He hadn’t any idea what else there was to do.

~~~~

                “Faramir?”

                “Yes?”  The boy looked up obediently at his cousin from where he was seated at the other side of the game table.

                “Are you feeling all right, love?”

                He nodded and moved his knight.

                “It’s just…you’ve been very quiet lately.  It seems.”

                He shrugged.

                “Are you upset about something?”

                “No.”

                “Are you certain?”

                “Yes.”

                He looked at her pointedly then and Estella felt her chest tighten.  “Yes?  What is it?”

                “It’s your move, Auntie.”

                “Oh.”  She blinked and forced her eyes back to the board.  “So it is.”

                She moved a pawn quickly, not really paying attention.  She realized immediately after having done it that it was a stupid  move, that she’d walked into a trap.  Faramir could easily take her knight now.

                He didn’t, however.  He merely gazed at the board for a few moments, set his jaw and then looked up at her wearily.

                “I don’t want to play anymore, if that’s all right.”

                She stopped herself from once more asking if he felt well.  She didn’t want to push him.  Instead she nodded and made her face cheerful.  “I should like to stop now, anyway.  I’m needing a bit of a rest.”

                He was up off his chair and quickly scooting the game table back to its place near the wall, careful not to disturb any of the pieces.  Then he turned back to her.  “Can I rest with you?”

                “May I.”

                “May I rest with you, then?”

                Estella settled herself back into the pillows, trying to find a comfortable way to suit her awkward body.  She was distracted by this dilemma and waved him off. 

                “Yes, of course you can.”

                “I may.”

                Oh, how every part of her ached!  Her feet, her arms, her back, her neck…Perhaps Merry would finish his work early and give her a good rub-down.  It seemed the only thing that helped these days.  A steaming bath might be nice as well, but Marroc had said that was out of the question.  No, no soothing heat from copper kettles for her—only lukewarm, damp rag-baths from Merry or from Dilly.  Humiliating, having to be cared for like that.  Nearly enough that she might rather just stay dirty for the trouble.

With a sigh, Estella found just the right angle at last and lowered herself down at the elbows gently.  Then she turned to Faramir, having just registered what he’d spoken.

                “You may what?”

                “I may rest with you.”

                “Didn’t we agree that you would?”

                “You said that I can.”

                “Yes, I said--”

                Faramir broke his innocent expression and started to giggle then.  Estella puzzled over him.  It was unnerving, the way he seemed to find amusement in situations when no one else did.  Slowly, however, she realized the joke and smirked.

                “Don’t be smart to your poor auntie.  I’m right tired.”

                “I’m sorry,” he laughed and crawled up beside her.

                “It’s all right,” she said and nearly told him that it was good to see him smiling, but changed her mind.  It would only spoil the pleasure by making him self-conscious.

                He curled his thin little body and placed his head beside her tummy.  The warmth of that, at least, felt nice, the finest little hot water bottle, precisely heated.

                When Faramir spoke again, it was almost directly into her tummy.  “Uncle Merry says that you are going to call him Théodoc.”

                Estella smiled to herself.  The lad had not lost one bit of enthusiasm for the baby, even after all these weeks of waiting.  It reminded her of Merry a bit, that dogged determination and ability to focus on one idea so fully. Perhaps he was not so singularly Tookish afterall, though had she asked him, Merry would have said it was rather actually one of the Tookish traits he himself had picked up from Esmeralda.  “We may still call her Astor.”

                “Could we call him Teddy for short, do you think?”

                “Teddy?”  Estella marveled over how the lad’s mind worked, that he came up with such things. There was no doubt that that was Tookish. “If he is a he, I suppose we might consider it.”

                He scooted up and nestled in the crook of her arm, a sleepy smile on his face. 

                “May I call him Teddy?”

                Estella brushed his caramel curls off his face, noting his exhaustion-ringed eyes without comment.

                “Yes.  You may.  As for what anyone else calls him, we’ll have to see.”

                “That makes me quite important, doesn’t it?”

                “Indeed.”

~~~~

                Estella woke up with a start.  The first thing she saw was Merry looking down at her with alarm.  It took her a moment to realize that it wasn’t his presence that had woken her—it was the death-grip around her arm.

                She followed Merry’s eyeline to the source, suppressing the instinct to pull away as the grip grew nearly numbing.  Faramir, fast asleep, was the culprit, his two small hands fastened like iron about her.

                Estella opened her mouth to make some sort of a plea but Merry had already beaten her to it.  She watched him gently lift the boy with one hand, using the other to pry loose the grip.

                Faramir let go slowly but did not wake.  He transferred his hold to a fold of Merry’s jacket and laid his face against his cousin’s tweed westkit.

                Merry glanced at Estella with a look she could not interpret, then turned his attention to the boy.

                “Farry,” he whispered, “Faragrin?  It’s time to eat, love.”

                Faramir blinked slowly.

                Merry bent and tilted slightly so that the trolley of food came into view.  “Are you hungry?”

                Half-lidded eyes peered out sleepily.  “Is it time for dinner?”

                “It is.  I’ve brought some lovely things.  Cook even snuck in one of those fancy little pastries you like.  I told her not to, said Estella and I had quite enough sweets, but I’m quite sure she sneaked it in there when I turned my back.”

                Faramir rubbed his face and squirmed down out of Merry’s grasp.  He immediately began to set out the trays and cutlery, as they did at every meal, taking care that Estella could reach everything from her awkward position.

                Merry glanced at her once more but said nothing.  He put his smile on quickly and helped Faramir with the last, most heavy bits.  “So, what have I been missing here all day?”

                “Auntie Estella says that I can call the baby Teddy when he comes.”

                Merry grinned.  “Teddy, eh?”

                “Yes.  It’s a lot better than Théodoc.”

                “And why is that?”

                “I don’t think someone named Théodoc would be much fun to play with.”

                “Well,” Merry tucked his napkin into his lap and began to spoon some gravy over his meat and that of Faramir’s, “I suppose it depends on what sort of a person he turns out to be.  That’s how your father got to be Peregrin, you know.”

                Faramir looked up from his greens with interest.  “What do you mean?”

                “He wasn’t originally to be named Peregrin, that’s what I mean.”

                “What was he to be named?”

                Merry had a mouthful of roast beef and had to swallow before he answered.  “Peregrim, with an ‘m.’”

                Faramir made a face.  “Why?”

                “Because he was to be a Took and Tooks are often ‘grims;’ Isengrim and the like.  A bit of a tradition, like the Brandybuck ‘docs’ that I told you about before.”

                The boy nodded , took another bite, swallowed, then asked “So how did he become ‘grin’ if he was supposed to be ‘grim’?  Did they spell it wrong?”

                Merry laughed.  “I wouldn’t put it past them to do such a thing, but, no, in this case it was your Granny.  Apparently your father was a very good baby, far less trouble than any of your aunties had been--imagine that--and your Granny Eg insisted that such a child should not be called ‘grim’ if he wasn’t so in any way.  Your Grandda wasn’t too happy but she put her foot down and he let her have her way the day of Pippin’s naming ceremony.  Turned out to suit him quite well, I think.”  Merry leaned in then and winked.  “Let that be a lesson for your future, Farry: no matter how mad they may be, always do what your wife tells you to.”

                Estella rolled her eyes and Merry raised his eyebrows at her over his cup.

                Faramir ate thoughtfully for a few moments, then looked up with curiosity.  “Was I a good baby?”

                “Quite good, yes.”

                “Are you certain?”

                “Of course you were.  Born in Buckland, after all, how could you not have been?”

                Faramir seemed to accept this as a logical enough answer.  He finished up his dinner, as well as a few stray bits from Merry and Estella’s plates, then excusing himself to read, pocketed his last pastry and headed off into the sitting room.

                “I never knew that about Eglantine and Pippin before,” Estella said after Faramir had left.

                “Mmm,” Merry nodded.  He poured both of them another cup of tea and kept his eyes busy on spooning in the sugar.

                “I suppose she was trying to be hopeful, wasn’t she?”

                “It’s likely, yes.  I was too young to remember much, but it was a very frightening time.”

                “Poor Auntie Eg.”

                Merry nodded and then dipped his head toward her arm. “So what do you think that was about earlier?  Nightmare of some sort?”

                “I don’t know. I don’t think he’s been sleeping well since Pippin left.  Did something happen, you think?”

                Merry cocked an eyebrow.  “Other than his father leaving without him?”

                “I think Faramir wanted him to, actually.”

                “No, I think you’re right.  I don’t know what else might have happened, though. Some sort of row, obviously.  Perhaps he’s feeling guilty, or still feeling angry.  Or perhaps it’s nothing.”

                “No, he definitely hasn’t been himself.”

                “How so?”

                “I’m not sure how to explain it.  I don’t know.  Maybe it is nothing,” she sighed, “Maybe I’ve become a great senseless worrier.”

                “I think you’re just becoming a mother.  I forgive you, of course.”

                “Yes, well, one should hope so.”

                Merry moved closer, put his arm about her just as she began to tremble.

                “I’m so frightened,” she whispered.

                “Shh, shh,” he kissed her forehead and smoothed her curls, kissed her again.  “You’re very strong and nothing bad is going to happen.”

                “Poor Eglantine—what if we…what if…”

                “Shh, there now.  Eggy got to keep her lad and he turned out to be just fine and grand.  So will our lad.”

                Estella sniffled.  “Or lass.”

                “Yes, or lass.”  He smiled and put his cheek to hers.  “And anyway, you’ve nothing to fear for I love you and will be right here for you at any moment.”

                “You can not keep everything bad away.”

                “No, but I can certainly try.”

                “Promise me that you won’t leave.”

                “Estella, really.  Where in the world do you think I might go?”

                “But your work?”

                “Is not taking me out of the Hall any time soon.  And I’ve finished what I had to do anyway this afternoon.”

                “Truly finished?  Completely?”

                “Yes.  I’ve no more reason to leave this apartment ‘til after Yule.  So you’ve nothing to fear.  Does that suit you, dear great senseless worrier?”

                “Now, there, don’t be smart.  I get enough of that from Faramir.”

                Merry laughed and breathed deep the scent of his wife’s hair.  She’d always smelt sweetly of baked things to him, even when she’d been far from a kitchen this long.  “The boy’s smart enough for all three of us, that’s for sure.”

~~~~

It was hard for Sam to open his eyes.  He felt so horribly weak and cloudy-headed, but he was also afraid that if he did open his eyes, the cinders and chaff from the mountainside would blow in them.  He could feel the heat against his skin—so hot it seemed to almost be coming from within his skin—and he was not eager to face it fully.

                But he must.  For something had happened to Frodo.

                “Mm—Mister Frodo?”

                He thought he’d said it, but suddenly he couldn’t be certain whether he’d only thought it.  His throat was so dry and his voice seemed lost beneath the weight of humid, heavy air that sat thick in his chest.  He had to sift deeply to find it.

                “Mister Frodo?”

                He managed to open his eyes finally but it was all blurry.  Even as they adjusted it was difficult to see for it was hazy and dim, wherever they were.  He couldn’t see the mountainside anymore.

                “I can’t have lost you…”

                Sam fell abruptly from the ledge he had not realized he was on.  It was a short fall, though, and he was shocked to hit the ground so quickly.  But it wasn’t the ground…it felt like laid flooring.  Wooden flooring, floor boards.  Were they back in the tower?  Had the tower had wooden floorboards?  He couldn’t remember.

                But dread took over from curiosity and Sam moaned in panic.  If they were back in the tower then they truly had fallen so much further back from the end.  All that ground must be covered again!  They would never make it.  Mister Frodo could not go through all that nightmare again.

                Where was Frodo?

                Whimpering, Sam began slowly to crawl.  He must find him.

~~~~

                Pippin sat on the floor of the kitchen holding his nose and sipping from his mug of wine.  He couldn’t be blamed for an extra mug, he told himself, for life at the present had gotten as bad as he supposed it could get.  And that he could be blamed for.  Depressingly, he began to tally in his head all the things that had gone wrong lately because of his own foolish actions.

Merry was angry and hurt and that was Pippin’s fault.  Pippin had betrayed Estella’s secret so he guessed that she was likely angry with him as well, for she must certainly have found out by now.  Faramir…well, Faramir’s father had bollixed things up pretty fantastically there.  And poor dear Sam Gamgee was sick, likely because Pippin had somehow carried the pox and handed it over to him.  It was the only explanation he could think of, which meant there was a good chance he had carried it on to Estella and the baby as well---if that were the case it would be a tragedy he would never be able to forgive himself.  And Sam continued to be very sick, likely because Pippin was such a terrible nurse and such a useless fool in these situations.

He sighed and put his head back, closed his eyes.  There was also the situation with Diamond.  In still moments these past few days, he kept finding his mind wandering back to her.  He’d sent her quite a few letters on the sly when he’d been at Brandy Hall and not a one had been answered, so far as he knew.  It wasn’t all that unusual for Diamond not to send word back to him, but he thought perhaps in this case she might.  Asking more about Faramir at least, he’d hoped, but as of the day he’d left, not one note had come down from the North Farthing.  Merry certainly did have a point, even if he was ignorant about a lot of other things…

Pippin startled as he heard a noise from very nearby within the silent house.  He set down his mug and crawled on all fours toward the hall, his heart pounding with trepidation.  He reached the corner and peered around.

“Sam?”

“Who’s there?”

“Sam, you’re awake!  How did you get all the way out here?”

“Back, you!  Hear me?  Back!”

Pippin blinked and laughed.  “Sam, you old fool, it’s me!”

“I know what you are, you orc filth.  What ‘ave you done with him?”

“Orc?  Is that really what you think of me?”  Pippin stopped a safe distance of a foot or two from his friend.  He sat back on his knees.  Gut instinct was always to make a joke of things, but he wasn’t sure if that was going to be the best way to play this.  He reached out and was surprised by the swiftness with which Sam reacted, slapping his arm away.

“Gollum, then!  I knew it!  Where is he?!”

“Gollum?”  Pippin cocked his head, “That distasteful fellow?  Really, Sam, can’t you see that it’s me?  Pippin Took.”

“I’d know those awful, gangly arms anywhere.  Stop playing games and tell me where he is or I’ll tear you limb to limb, I will.”

“Now, I am not that skinny, Sam, and you just stop it.  I’m not Gollum, I’m not an orc.  I’m not anybody but a stupid hobbit you used to know.”  Tears of frustration stung in Pippin’s eyes.  This was just too much. He had thought Sam lost in fever-sleep for days had been bad but Sam hissing with madness was far worse.  He didn’t know how to deal with this at all.  He wasn’t clever enough by far; much too stupid and useless.  Whyever had he thought he could solve anything?

“Where is Frodo?”

“He’s not here.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”
                “I want to see him right now, you.”

“I’d like to too, Sam, but I don’t think that’s possible.”

Sam was quiet then.  Very slowly he shuddered and laid down on the floor.  “What ‘ave you done to me,” he whispered, “I don’t feel right at all.”

Pippin gazed at him miserably.  “I don’t know what I’ve done.  I really am so very sorry.”

Sam did not reply and after a while, Pippin reached out again, tentatively.

“Asleep again, then?  Well, all right.  Perhaps that is better for both of us.”

He waited a while and steeled himself before pulling Sam up and dragging him to the bedroom.  Sam seemed lighter and easier to carry than he had days ago down in the cellar.  The thought didn’t comfort Pippin in the slightest.  He wondered if he did manage to get Sam through this awful pox business whether there’d be anything left of him at all.

~~~~

                Faramir laid on his belly near the hearth and tried to remain interested in playing with his soldiers.  This was hard work, however, as they were nothing more than some left-over corks he’d found in Uncle Merry’s study.  They were a poor substitute for the fine set of hand-carved hobbit archers he had at home, a birthday gift from his Da, and the handsome dragon his mum had stitched up from the scraps of Faramir’s green velvet yule suit; it had real glass eyes and all the other children at the Great Smials were jealous of it.  He’d left the dragon at Auntie Pervinca’s home in Whitwell.  He wondered if her daughters were all playing with it now that he wasn’t there, if they were playing roughly with it, and ruining it.  He bet they were.

                He rearranged the ranks and set up a plan of attack on the yellow yarn ball and the knitting needle, which made rather a fearsome-looking pair of enemies, but then gave up before the actual battle and rolled onto his back.  He held one of the corks, a short stubby one, at arm’s length and squinted at it.  He turned it around, noting the way the firelight made it half-shadowed in any position.  His Da had once shown him how to dip a cork into the fire to make it into a sort of crayon of soot that you could draw on all sorts of things with, including your face.  Faramir considered trying this himself but then decided against it, as it would leave an uneven number in his ranks.

“Still up, lad, are ye?”

                Faramir turned his head slowly to view the maidservant who had entered into the main room of the apartment.  “Hallo, Dilly.”

                “Hallo, sir.”  She closed the apartment door quietly behind her and turned to him with a curious but proprietary smile.  “Beggin’ your pardon, young master, but do they allow you to stay up all hours of the night at your home?”

                Faramir frowned.  “Why wouldn’t they?  I’m the one who has to be tired in the morning when I must get up and, anyway, I don’t bother anyone else or keep them up.  I’m very quiet.”

                “Aye, that ye are.”  Dilly settled into an arm chair beside the fire and took up the work basket she had brought with her.  She began sorting through various bits and scraps of things in a leisurely manner.

                Faramir pretended to be lining up his ranks again, but he was really watching her.

                “Dilly?”

                “Mmm?”

                “Haven’t you your own apartment in the Hall?”

                “I’ve a room with my mother in the far Eastern wing, yes.”

                “Then why are you here right now?  Why aren’t you with your mum?”

                “Well, to be indelicate about it, she snores.”

                Faramir giggled.  Dilly looked at first embarrassed, but then she smiled lightly.  “Well, some nights ere worse than others and some times if I feels like I’m not sleep’n anyways, I come here an I do a little extra work for the Mistress an the Master.  I don’t think they mind.”

                “I don’t think they even know you come.”

                “I don’t think so either.”

                They were quiet for a bit, then, only the crackling fire keeping up a steady murmur.  Faramir feigned play for a bit with his cork-soldiers, then gathered them all up into his shirt and took a seat on the low table across from the maid.

                “Dilly?”

                “Yes?”

                “Are you sure you haven’t got a letter back from my mum yet?”

                She looked up and it frightened Faramir because she looked like she was angry.

                “D’ye think I would keep your personal mail from ye?  D’ye think that I would do that?”

                “No.”  He felt bad because he realized that what he’d said had been rude, or had seemed so, anyway.  He didn’t want to be like that.  He liked Dilly.  She was nice.  At the same time, though, Faramir found that he really wished that she had said yes; that there were loads of letters his mum had written, one for every letter that he’d written her all the weeks that they’d been here. 

                He took a deep breath and tried to think of something grown-up to say, but he couldn’t--he was just so mad.  When he did speak, his voice sounded all squeaky.

                “But why hasn’t she written?”

                Dilly glanced up from her mending.  “Ah, who’s te say, young master?  Perhaps she’s very busy.”

                “But I told her it was important.”

                “I’m sure ye did, but, well, maybe she’s got other things to do that are important too, takin’ care of her family up there and such.”

                “She doesn’t take care of her family up there,” Faramir picked up one of the corks and began squeezing it tight in his fist, wanting to see if he could squish it, “They have servants to take care of them, just like at the Smials.”

                Dilly peered at him curiously.  “What does yer mum do up there, then?”

                “I don’t know.”

                “Well,”  she hesitated then set down the mended bit and picked up her knitting, “certain it’s something very important and when she’s done, first thing she’ll do is sit down an write ye a nice long letter.”

                “Maybe,”  Faramir gave up.  He’d received very few letters from his mum in his life, but for some reason he didn’t want to tell that to anyone, even Dilly.  They wouldn’t understand, and they might even think that he was lying, or exaggerating, even though he wasn’t.

He yawned and felt now too tired to be angry.  He took up all his cork soldiers in his hands and plopped them into a bowl on the tea table.  Then he curled up on the couch and settled in to watch the fire.  The click-clack sound of Dilly’s knitting needles was soothing and reminded him of nights at home when Mum would stay up crocheting in her parlor and Da would be working steadily away in his office.  Faramir hadn’t realized then how easily that could go away and how much that he would miss it.  It all seemed very long ago now.

~~~~

                Pippin awoke with a start as he heard a cock crowing far off somewhere.  ‘Must be at Fatty’s place,’ he thought slowly as he opened his eyes and adjusted to the streaky bit of daylight poking through the curtains.  His head was pounding and he felt like he had barely slept at all.  He couldn’t remember what time it had been when Sam had at last returned to sleep.  Had it been nearly morning then?  Evening?  The dead hours of night?  He really could not recall.

                At least Sam was still asleep.  That was the important, merciful thing.  He didn’t know whether Sam was better off lost in fever dreams or awake in nightmares, but Pippin certainly felt the former was easier to deal with.  Some of the things Sam had said, after all…he shuddered just remembering it.

                Pippin quickly shook the thoughts away and set about getting some (reasonably) clean things together for his friend.  The sheets would need to be changed again, fresh water should be fetched from the pump in the yard, and something must be made to get down Sam’s throat.  The poor hobbit was not looking at all like himself anymore and Pippin feared that could be the most damaging---he could sleep away a fever and sickness but he couldn’t exactly sleep away starvation, now could he?

                “No, Peregrin Took, he can’t.”  Pippin nearly laughed to hear his own voice out loud.  “I do think I’m going mad.”  He smiled at no one and stepped out to the kitchen.  It was still early enough that he needed to take a candle, but by the short time he returned with a bowl of soupy day-old porridge and a pitcher of ice cold groundwater, the daylight was almost too bright in the room.  He peered over at Sam, but he showed no signs of waking.

                Pippin sighed and set the bowl on the nightstand.  He shivered and switched the cold metal pitcher to his other hand.  It had been sharply chilly outside and he didn’t relish going back but he had remembered while he was at the pump that the ponies had not been tended to in quite a while.  He would need to go back out and see to their stalls, see that they were adequately fed and watered for a bit.  Since Sam was still out so heavily, he supposed he might as well take care of that now.

                He moved to set the pitcher on the dressing table and froze, met with his own reflection. Exhausted eyes took in the ugly redness streaked harshly across his cheeks.

                ‘Oh,’ he thought calmly, ‘I am sick now too.’

                “Well. Nothing to be done for it.”

                Setting the pitcher down near the basin, he turned away quickly from the looking glass and headed out to see to the ponies.

~~~~

                “Merry!”

                “Mmmm.”

                “Merry, please wake up.  It’s very important.”

                Merry bolted up from his pillow and reached out for his wife.  “What is it?”

                “The invitations.”

                “What?”

                “For Yule.  We’ve forgotten all about the invitations.”

                Merry frowned and laid back on his pillow heavily.  His heart was still pounding in his ears.  “You woke me for that?”

                “I don’t know how we managed to forget.”

                “Perhaps because there are more important matters at hand, the sort that might warrant a rude awakening in the middle of the night.”

                Estella seemed to notice his annoyance at last and sighed.  “I frightened you, didn’t I?  I am sorry.”

                Merry shrugged.

                “It’s just that I honestly feel as though I must be going mad when such a great big thing slips by me.”

                “It’s hardly a great big thing at the moment.”

                “Perhaps not to you, but you are not the Mistress.”

                “For which I thank my stars.”

                “People are counting on me.  Yule can’t just pass by unnoticed because Estella Bolger’s been distracted.”

                “Estella Brandybuck.  Will you never think of yourself as that?”

                “I’m sorry, it’s just old habit.”

                “Well it’s about time that you broke it.  The Bolgers had you long enough.”  Merry squinted at the sunlight breaking beneath the drapes and scowled.  “Seems to be morning, actually.”

                “Yes, I suppose.  So hard to tell these days when I am always stuck useless in here.”

                He grunted and began peeling back his blankets.  “Anyway, you needn’t worry.  The invitations have already been taken care of.”

                “What do you mean?”

                “I mean, Cook asked me about them yesterday and I told her to just go ahead and do whatever she thought was best.”

                “Merry!”

                “What?  You can’t control everything, love.”  Merry smiled at her sardonically but the smile quickly faded under the steely glare he received in return.

~~~~

                Faramir jolted upright on the settee at the sight of Merry with his cloak on. “Where are you going?!”

                Merry ignored the urge to laugh at the lad’s sleep-sculpted hair.  “My wife is sending me to Buckleberry to pick up card stock for  proper Yule invitations.  And since we are asking questions, then tell me why you were sleeping in the sitting room and not in the bed where I left you last night?”

                Faramir blinked and looked profoundly confused.  “Because I wasn’t sleepy.”

                “You certainly seem sleepy now, though.”

                “I was up late.”

                “You may be allowed to stay up all hours of the night at Great Smials, Farry, but I won’t allow that here.  You will go to bed when I tell you.”

                Faramir rubbed his face and nodded in a way that his cousin suspected was merely patronizing.  Merry would have been annoyed had it not seemed so funny coming from such a young boy.  He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by Faramir, who seemed at last to be fully awake.

                “I don’t think you should go.”

                “But I have to.  It won’t take long.”

                “May I come with?”

                “No, love.”

                “I’ll stay hidden.  No one will see me.”

                Merry shook his head but watched Faramir carefully.  He had no idea why it would be, but he was certain the lad was on the verge of tears.  “What is the matter, Faragrin?”

                “Nothing.”

                “Something is the matter.”

                “I don’t want you to go.”

                “Why not?  It’s only a short errand.  I’ll be back before dinner.”

                “What if you’re not, though?”

                “Then I’ll stop for a bite to eat in Buckleberry, I assume.”

                “But what if you don’t come back?”

                “Of course I’ll come back.”

                “Da hasn’t.”

                Merry missed a beat at that but managed a quick smile to cover it up.  “But he will be back.”

                “Did he write and tell you?”

                “Not as of yet, but I’m certain he will if he’s to be delayed any longer.  Likely it’s just business talk that he’s gotten caught up in.”

                “It’s my fault.”  Faramir sat down hard on the settee and turned away.

                Merry hesitated then sat down gingerly beside him. He reached to Faramir’s shoulder and turned him to face him.  Faramir’s jaw was quivering and heavy gray ringed his eyes.  Estella had been right.  Of course she had.

                “What is your fault, Farry?  What has gotten you upset so?”

                But Faramir didn’t answer.  He tightened his face and shook the question away.  Then he looked at Merry with renewed determination.  “Please don’t go.”

                Merry sighed.  He had a defeated understanding that he would get no further today.

                “I have to.  If I do not go, Estella will not forgive me and that’s a state we cannot have for much longer.”

                “Is she angry?”   

                “Yes.  I would advise you to find your own entertainment this morning.”

                Here Faramir sighed, seeming to understand that he too would get no further.  “All right.”

                “Perhaps you should take a nap.  By the time you wake up, I’ll be back.”

                “All right.”

                Merry stood and lifted Faramir’s chin with a smile. “No more worries, then?”

                “Yes, no more worries.”

                How Merry would have liked to believe him.  He hesitated for a moment, pulled on his leather gloves and buttoned them snugly at the wrists.  “You know that it is all right to cry sometimes, Farry?”  He kept his eyes purposefully low, pretending to examine his gloves, “If you really feel the need to, it can sometimes be a useful thing.”

                “No,” Faramir shook his head firmly, “I won’t ever cry.”

                “Whyever not?”

                Faramir only shook his head again.  It looked for anything to Merry that the lad physically could not bring himself to answer.  Instead, he closed his eyes and seemed to shake away whatever thought had been causing the trouble.  When he brought his eyes back to Merry, they were glittering but fierce and paired with a false smile that brought a chill to his cousin’s bones.  “Uncle Merry?”

                “Yes?”

                “Will you buy a treat when you are in Buckleberry?  For my Da when he gets back?  I will pay for it.”  He produced then from his trouser pocket a handful of silver coins, enough to buy a suck-pig or pounds and pounds of sweets, and put them into Merry’s gloved hand.

                Merry had a brief flash memory of his father, old Scattergold, but then it was gone.  He cleared his throat and accepted the coins casually.  “What did you have in mind?”

                “He always buys a rum cake when we go through, in the bakery in the town square.  It’s dark brown and has gold icing on the top.”

                “This is a bit too much for just a rum cake.”

                The boy shrugged.  “Buy two then.  You can have one.”

                “You’re a generous lad.  I’m sure your father will appreciate the surprise when he returns.”

                “You’ll be back soon, though?”

                Merry smiled then and pulled up his hood.  “Before you wake.”