Under the perpetual starlight, two Elves stared at the creature they’d cornered.

“What is it?” asked one.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen anything like it,” the other replied. He winced at the creature‘s enraged bellowing and said, “It’s certainly not worth keeping for the beauty of its calls.”

“The pelt’s too coarse to be much use,” said the first, puzzling over the bushy tail growing from the creature's muzzle, “but maybe the meat tastes good.”

“Let’s see.”

Thwock!

Thud.

“Funny about the clothes, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I’ve never undressed game before. What do you think - chops or roasts?”

“Just like old times,” says Pippin as we count shooting stars over Tuckborough.

I straighten suddenly, pointing to a figure on the road. “Who’s that?”

Pippin stares first at the road, then at me. “You have good night eyes, Pervinca.”

I almost tell him of the Bounders teaching us to look just above the horizon to spot movement in the dark, of moonless nights keeping watch so any attack would find all our menfolk well-rested. Just in time, I remember how pleased he is to think that nobody here really changed, and say only, “You should have eaten your carrots.”

“Fëanor, look! Is that a Silmaril in the bottom of that steamer trunk?”

Fëanor gave Námo a witheringly skeptical look but in the end, the lure was too great. Manwë, passing behind them, tripped unconvincingly and stumbled against Fëanor.

WHAM!

“Quick, lock it!” shouted Námo, flinging himself across the lid.

Manwë snapped the lock shut. Both Valar collapsed against the trunk in relief, ignoring the muffled thuds and curses.

“What possessed you to release him now?” asked Manwë.

“Nobody told me Gimli was coming - with three of Galadriel's hairs! Now where shall we hide the trunk until Gimli dies?”