Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

“Hullo Rosie,” he says shyly, nervously handing me a small box wrapped in plain parchment.

He plants them outside my bedroom window, so I can enjoy them whenever I please. He comes twice a week, and they bloom under his expert hand. It is by those blossoming lilies he promises to love me always. I throw my arms around him. He holds me gently and kisses my cheek.

I’ve been waiting since Spring for Sam’s return. Hope has grown dim. The ruffians are brutal and the Shire is destroyed.

I’m outside, crying into my dying flowerbed when Jolly runs up. He’s excited and pulls me to the front of the house. I ask him what’s happened, but the words never leave my lips.

Later, after the fighting, he holds me tightly, reassuring. “Everything will be all right,” he promises.

I’m in the kitchen, cooking supper. I pause to stretch my back, my hands resting softly on my swollen belly. Outside, I can hear the children’s laughter ringing through the midday air.

His arms wrap snugly around my waist. Sam’s hands clasp mine as he presses a kiss to my cheek.

Elanor spies him through the window. “Dad’s home!” she cries. The children run inside to greet their father. He stoops down to hug them and listen to their daily adventures.

Frodo is 18, Sam has just turned 7 (or 11 and 4 ½ in Man years)
Astron, 1387 SR

Frodo yawned and stretched languidly, enjoying the pull and stretch of slumbering limbs as they awakened into the new day. He kept his eyes closed though, not quite ready to open them to the sun-lit room he knew awaited him. He snuggled further into his bed sheets and turned onto his side, enjoying the softness of the mattress and the silkiness of the sheets.

He was fighting off a doze when he heard his door open and close and the pitter-patter of tiny feet approach his bed. When nothing else happened, he opened his eyes to the sight of Sam Gamgee standing up on tiptoe, stretching himself as tall as he could to peek over the edge of the bed. Frodo couldn’t help but laugh at the sight.

“Morning, Sammy,” Frodo said. “And what might you be doing in here, lad?”

Sam’s eyes opened wide at being discovered, but he did not run away as he would have just a year before. Instead, he grinned and said, “Mr. Bilbo said I could come in and make sure as you were still breathing.”

Now Frodo laughed again and propped himself up on his elbows. “And why wouldn’t I be breathing?” he asked.

The lad faltered on his feet then, his toes getting tired of propping him up for so long, and he settled on stepping away from the bed far enough that he could see the young Baggins more clearly. “Acause it’s nearly luncheon and you’ve missed half your meals, so I thought as maybe you stopped breathing acause I can’t be thinking of any other reasons why’d someone be missing their meals,” Sam explained.

Frodo chuckled at the lad’s logic and with an effort, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. “Well, I’m awake now and more than ready to catch up on my meals. What do you suggest I eat first?”

“The blueberry hotcakes were very good, but they’re all gone now. I tried saving you some, but then Mr. Bilbo had them for second breakfast,” Sam said. “There’s cheese toast sandwiches now and some fruit with cream.”

“I suppose I should go and defend my food then,” Frodo said with a smile in his eyes.

Sam looked up at him, as serious as only a child could be. “I’ll keep it safe for you if you want. I won’t let him get it this time. I’ll take it with me to check the next time Elves come to the door.”

“Is that what he told you?” Frodo exclaimed, nearly bursting with laughter now but for the look of intent in Sam’s face.

Sam nodded. “But I was too slow and they were gone by the time I got there. Then I came back and your food was gone too.”

Frodo shook his head. Only Bilbo would play a joke like that on a child as trusting as Sam.

Frodo slipped off the bed and stretched again. He knelt before Sam and said, just as seriously, “I thank you for the attempt, Sammy, and the next time Elves come to the door, I suggest you take not only my food, but Bilbo’s as well. It’s rude not to offer treats to your guests after all.”

“Anything for the Elves,” Frodo said and patted the lad on his head. Then he stood and took the lad by the hand. “Whatever would I do without you here to look after me?”

But I am. I stole his faith in the nobility of Men. He disappeared rather than face me again.

Silence surrounds me. There is only the cold realization of what I have almost done. The silence continues after I return to camp and numbly tell of Frodo’s vanishing. It continues as his cousins race off blindly to find him, so desperate they are to protect their kin. We are similar in that respect; I cannot let them perish because of my folly.

Everard tells Pippin about his courtship with Pervicna. This follows the events in "The Trouble with Love."

Pippin turned from the pony he was stabling and stared at him blankly, then blinked. "Pervinca?" he asked, not quite sure he had heard correctly. "You're courting Pervinca?"

"Pervinca?" Pippin asked again, still every bit as bewildered. "The same Pervinca you once declared war on for an entire summer? The same Pervinca who once slathered you in honey and flour? The same Pervinca you used to sneak up on and throw mud down the back of her dress?"

Everard nodded. "Yes. I know this seems rather sudden, so I'm hoping that it is all right with you."

"My sister? Pervinca?" Pippin asked. He was simply refusing to accept this unexpected development.

Everard nodded again, getting a bit tired of this. "Yes, Pip, your sister. The only Pervinca Took that lives in all the Shire. The one who once nicknamed me Egg-hard. The same one to whom I once hid a garden snake in her bed sheets. That Pervinca."

"They say that the healer in Waymeet is also a witch, and she's known for her love potions. Did Vinca give you anything to drink recently that tasted funny?" Pippin asked, squinting up at his friend and scrutinizing him closely. "You seem a bit pale."

"She didn't poison me," Everard said. "I am perfectly well within my right mind."

"You would say that, if she gave you something," Pippin said knowingly. "Vinca likely thinks this a very funny joke, but those potions can be dangerous I hear. I think we should see the resident healer."

"I'm not ill," Everard insisted. "Just tell me, do you have a problem with me courting your sister?"

"Everard," Pippin said with sympathy. "You don't want to do this. Vinca's just having a laugh at your expense."

"I'm the one who seduced her if anything," Everard insisted. "Vinca didn't even have the slightest inclination."

Everard threw up in hands in defeat. "Oh bother, never mind. I'll take that as a 'yes' then. I'll give Vinca your good wishes." Then he turned and walked back to the Smials.

"Or maybe Gandalf would know an antidote!" Pippin called after him. "He's up at Bag End just now, I can be there and back again before the day is out. You can survive that long surely. ... Everard?"

GF 8/14/05

Summary: Frodo is recovering from a serious illness. The apprentice does what she can. Written for Pippinlives’s birthday. :)

I don't know where this ficlet exists in my universe yet, so I'm posting this as AU for the time being. Frodo is likely in his late tweens, possibly early thirties.

Marigold Puddifoot was on her own. Her Mistress had been called away to deliver Missus Overbrook’s baby and had left her in charge of caring for the young Baggins. Master Frodo had been one of ten hobbits in Hobbiton to contract the Shire measles. The others, children all of them, recovered quickly, but the older a hobbit is, the longer it takes him to recover. After two weeks of incoherency and fever dreams, Frodo was finally back on the mend and Marigold was to nurse him through the rest of the day until her Mistress returned.

Goldie kept watch on the fire and the water boiling, making sure she had enough herbs for the teas she might need to make to accommodate her patient. He was sleeping currently, so she moved about quietly, slowly stepping across the room and carefully poking at the firewood. She took the kettle off the flame the instant it started whistling and opened the top before the sharp, piercing noise could wake the exhausted gentlehobbit. The last two weeks had been most unkind to him and he needed whatever rest he could get.

Bilbo wandered in and out throughout the day, worried about his young heir. He offered the apprentice food and drink, offered to relieve her for an hour or two so she could rest. She refused the offer of rest, but enjoyed his company over a meal of rich soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. Bilbo told many tales of Frodo’s previous illnesses, managing to somehow make them seem mundane or even comical. But the apprentice caught the worried look in his eyes as he cast his gaze toward his cousin.

“He’ll be fine,” apprentice assured. “The worst of it is over. The fever has broken. We wait now only for him to rest. He must rest to regain his strength.”

Bilbo nodded. “I know, dear,” he said and smiled stiffly. “Well, I see you have everything in hand. I’ll leave you to your work. I’ll be in the den if you should need anything. Don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you, Mr. Baggins,” Goldie said and hoped the elderly hobbit would get his own rest. They were all tired, what with sitting at Frodo’s bed day in and day out, looking for the slightest sign that his symptoms might be getting better – or worse.

Frodo slept peacefully now, his breathing raspy still but calm. He would sleep for another hour or more, she figured. She fluffed his pillow and straightened the bed sheets around him, not too snug but tight enough to keep him warm. Then she returned to her chair next to the bed and bent her head down.

She awoke, not knowing how long she had slept, and found to her surprise that Master Frodo was not only awake, but was leaning over the bed and attempted to reach for the bed table. Goldie jumped up in an instant. “I’m most sorry, Master Frodo!” she exclaimed, horrified that she had nodded off and missed her patient’s awakening. “I was more tired than I thought seemingly. What can I get for you?” she fretted. She could imagine the words her Mistress will have for her, leaving her patient unattended to fend for himself.

Frodo smiled weakly and slumped back into his pillows, breathing heavily. A slight sweat was upon his brow from his excursion. “No need to be sorry,” he panted. “I was only reaching for my book. I don’t remember it being so hard to retrieve.” And he laughed ruefully, coughing slightly at the aggravation to his lungs.

Goldie opened the table drawer and pulled out the book. She glanced briefly at the cover before handing the book to him. “You need to take your medicine,” she said, attempting to appear professional after her lapse in duty.

“I figured as much,” he said, taking the book with gratitude. “That’s why I was trying not to wake you.” And he winked at her and laughed again.

Goldie laughed now also. “I see,” she said, feeling better for her transgression. She went to the fire and checked the kettle, which she had sat down near the hearth to keep warm. She poured the infusion into a cup and brought it to Frodo. “Drink this all, now,” she ordered and watched as Frodo crinkled his nose at the smell. “Healer’s orders.”

Frodo lifted his eyebrows at her, in part tease, in part conspiratorial. “As you wish,” he said and down the tea in two large gulps. To his surprise, it was not as horrid as he thought it would be. In fact, it quite good. He said as much.

Goldie smiled proudly. “I add mint to the infusion,” she said. “It not only helps settle the stomach, but it tastes good and helps cover the tastes of the other herbs.”

“You might want to teach your Mistress that,” Frodo said and handed the cup back to her. “What day is it?”

“It’s 15 Blotmath,” Goldie answered, anticipating Frodo’s shocked reaction. She nodded grimly. “You gave us all quite a scare. You’re still young enough, but not as young as most who get the measles. It gets worse the older one gets and for awhile we weren’t sure you would pull through.”

Frodo thought over this for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he opened his book and began to read, keeping his thoughts to himself.

“May I ask, Master Frodo, what the book is about?” Goldie asked. “Tales of Beleriand. It sounds magical.”

Frodo settled further into his pillows. The apprentice draped a cold compress across his brow and deftly rearranged his sheets again; they had become upset while he was attempting to retrieve the book. Frodo lowered the book and turned it slightly askance, so it was facing the apprentice. On the left page were elegant lines of script in a language she had never seen before. On the right page were words of the Common Speech, arranged in poetry.

“It is a book of Elvish poetry,” Frodo answered. “I’ve been translating it for Bilbo, or trying to. He thinks that by giving me something I enjoy that I won’t realize it’s a lesson. But I do enjoy it, so I suppose I can forgive him.” He had to pause then now, to suppress a cough and steady his breathing, which ran short whenever he spoke too much.

“Easy now, Master Frodo,” Goldie said softly. “If it’s your intention to start your working, I’m afraid I can’t allow it. You’ll not be able to lift this book too much longer, much less a quill.”

She was, of course, correct. Frodo insisted on at least being able to try, and after Goldie fetched a writing table, ink and quill, Frodo managed only to get a few stanzas written before the effort of raising the quill to the inkwell became too much. He had used his muscles little in the last two weeks and they were protesting the mild work. He frowned in frustration.

Goldie sighed. She had been warned that the Bagginses of Bag End could be difficult and stubborn patients, quick to tire themselves out. Finally, she took the writing table away and removed the book from Frodo’s hands. When he started to protest, Goldie held up a finger to stay him, then pulled her chair closer to the head of his bed. She sat down and held the book so he could see both pages.

“I’ll read what you’ve translated,” she said, “and you let me know if there’s anything that needs fixing. Then I’ll fix it.” And she placed the inkwell and quill on the bed table behind her, at the ready.

Frodo considered this for a moment, then shrugged. “Very well,” he said. He leaned back completely into his pillows and lazily drifted his eyes across both pages as Goldie read aloud. She purposely kept her voice soft and gentle, hoping to sway the young master back into sleep.

A king there was in days of old:
Ere Men yet walked upon the mould
His power was reared in cavern’s shade,
His hand was over glen and glade.
His shields were shining as the moon,
His lances keen of steel were hewn,
Of silver grey his crown was wrought,
The starlight in his banners caught;
And silver thrilled his trumpets long
Beneath the stars in challenge strong;
Enchantment did his realm enfold,
Where might and glory, wealth untold,
He wielded from his ivory throne
In many pillared halls of stone.*

Goldie continued with her reading, engrossed in the tale that unfolded before her eyes. Frodo drifted to sleep halfway through the story and she continued on in silence, wanting to know how the story ended. It was unlike anything she had ever read, strange and odd and all together wonderful.

When she finished, she placed the book upon the bed within Frodo’s reach and returned to her duties. She had to prepare food for the next time he woke, something light and easy on the stomach. More of Bilbo’s soup would do well in this case, but without the large chunks of vegetables and chicken. She would need to cut the food much smaller than that.

She left her patient and slipped silently down the tunnel to the den. Bilbo gladly agreed to watch over his cousin while the apprentice prepared the soup. She accepted, having no other option, so long as he promised to come fetch her if Frodo should awaken. All agreements made, she went to the larders and hunted for the items she would need, then went into the kitchen to prepare the meal.

She chopped, and minced, boiled and broiled, spiced and stirred, and all the while the words of the poem echoed in her mind, bringing forth images of far away lands in a time long forgotten.

* - The poem is an excerpt from The Gest of Beren and Luthien, from the chapter The Lay of Leithian, from The Lays of Beleriand, HoME Vol. III

Sam is 63, Elanor 22, Frodo 20, Rose 18, Merry 16, Pippin 14, Goldilocks 12, Hamfast 11, Daisy 10 and Primrose 8 (or 40, 14, 13, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6 and 5 in Man years)

Sam was in the study, surrounded by all but his very youngest of children as he read from a large Red Book resting upon a stand before him. Bilbo, Ruby and Robin were fast asleep and the bairn Tolman was being fed in the parlor by Rose as she chatted with her mother; they were too young yet to sit in on readings of their father’s great adventure with Mr. Frodo of the Ring.

Tonight was a special occasion, it being Merry-lad’s sixteenth birthday, and they were coming to the end of the Red Book for the second time in Merry’s remembrance, the first time being when he was nine years old.* Only Elanor had heard the book three times and she was also the only one to have read the complete story. Merry couldn’t wait until he was old enough to hear the full story but for now he would contend himself with asking as many questions as he could and see how much he could learn that way.

Sam closed the book with a thump and drummed upon the cover with his fingers before sitting back in his chair. “Well, that’s it,” he said. “That’s how Sauron was defeated by Mr. Frodo, how the kingdoms were reunited by King Elessar and how the Shire was reborn. … Yes, Merry? You have a question, lad?”

“Not a question so much,” Merry said, considering a matter that was apparently of great concern to him. “I just have to wonder why Sauron would make the Ring so hard to find if it meant so much to him. He didn’t seem to be a very smart Dark Lord. If I were a dark lord and had his kind of magics, I would have made it so I could find it more better.”

“More easily,” Elanor corrected from her seat next to their father, while Frodo-lad grinned and said, “It’s a good thing you’re not a dark lord then.”

“I agree,” Pippin said and had to duck a playful blow from Merry. “I mean I agree with you, Merry, not with Fro. He’s not very bright.”

“And by that, you better mean the dark lord,” Frodo-lad said, still smiling.

“Well lads,” Sam said, considering Merry’s comment carefully, “you have to remember that Sauron never reckoned on losing the Ring and he made it hard to find so as his enemies wouldn’t be able to locate it when he wasn’t wearing it.”

“I don’t know, Dad,” Goldilocks joined in now. “The lads are right. Sauron should have considered that, and more. Like, he had all those Ringwraiths whose job it was to find the Ring, but they could only sort of vaguely sense it even with it right under their noses, so they could never find it either unless Mr. Frodo put it on. You’d think they’d at least be able to find it more easily than that. And why make them dress up in black robes and ride about on black horses so that they’d stick out like a sore thumb? It just doesn’t seem that he was thinking things through. If I were a dark lord, I would make them dress more plainly.”

Hamfast chuckled. “If you were a dark lord, everything would be roses and daisies, and every meal would include brownies.”

Daisy frowned and spoke up now. “Why did the Ringwraiths dress up so? Now that’s going to bother me.”

Sam smiled down at her and answered, “Well, for starters, the wraiths weren’t trying to blend in. They wanted to be seen and to have folk fear them. They’d figured on they’d have less trouble that way.”

“But that hardly helped them,” Rose-lass said now. “They’d have got much more information quicker if they had dressed friendly-like.”

“You’re forgetting that they were apparitions,” Elanor said. “They had faded and there was nothing of them to see. The robes were the only thing to cover them up so as people wouldn’t notice the emptiness of them, for while they wanted to instill fear, they didn’t want people running away from them as if they were mere ghosts.”

“The story’s full of people saying as there was no face under their hoods,” Pippin said, “so I agree with Goldi. They should have worn something different. But I also agree with Elanor that it has to be robes. … Maybe they could have worn different colors, like blue robes, the color of the sky. That’s a nice color. Or maybe pink! That would have been much more friendly.”

Frodo-lad tried hard not to laugh and managed to say, “Ringwraiths in pink robes? They still wouldn’t have got any information as everybody’d be too busy laughing at them to talk.”

“Well, if I were a dark lord, I’d make them wear red, orange and yellow robes,” Rose-lass said.

“I don’t think the Dark Lord cared overly much for color coordination,” Hamfast said.

Merry grinned at Pippin and Goldilocks, then turned to Rose-lass. “What about the horses? What would you make them wear?”

Rose-lass considered this for a moment, thinking hard, her lips pursed slightly. Then she snapped her fingers and said, “Firstly, they’d be white horses because they’re prettier and each horse would have a riding blanket to keep them warm at night and to soak up the sweat during the day, and the blankets would be the same color as the rider’s robes but a softer hue, and they will have flowers in their manes and tails.”

Her siblings burst into laughter as they imagined that image, Merry, Pippin and Hamfast laughing so hard that tears sprang to their eyes. Primrose and Daisy clutched at their sides and struggled for breath. “It’s not that funny!” Rose-lass said. “Dad!”

Sam wiped the smile off his face and said as sternly as he could manage, “Now children, let’s be respectful or we’ll call it a night.” The children sobered immediately, with Primrose and Daisy still chuckling softly under their breaths. “That’s better. Now… yes, Merry?”

“I’ve been thinking about some other things,” Merry said, “and if I were a dark lord, I wouldn’t have trusted Saruman at all. First, he knew too much about the Ring already. Second, he turned too easily on the White Council, so it only stands to reason as he’d turn on Sauron too. Third, he was a Maia also, so he could have made things real difficult for Sauron once he got the Ring… if he had got the Ring.”

“I think Sauron was too trusting of Saruman,” Daisy added, “like Saruman was of Grima.”

Sam nodded and scratched his head. “Ah, that is a good point, but you’re forgetting that you already know what’s going to happen and that always makes it easier to say what should have been done and what shouldn’t have been. Sauron knew nothing about true loyalty and knew only how to rule by fear. He was counting on fear to keep his allies in their place.”

Primrose cocked her head to one side, her brow knit with confusion. “But didn’t we already say that fear didn’t work for the wraiths? So why would it work for him?”

“It didn’t,” Frodo-lad said. “That’s what Merry just said, Primmie.”

“Well, if I were a dark lord,” Hamfast said, “I’d’ve trained my troops to fight a fair bit more. I mean, if thousands of them could be defeated by a few of us, they couldn’t have known what they were doing. I would have made them smarter too. They were outsmarted an awful lot.”

Frodo-lad shook his head. “That wouldn’t work, the ‘them being smarter’ part. Imagine if they all understood about the Ring and knew what it was and how to use it. They’d wind up killing each other to try to get to it first.”

“They killed each other even without knowing about it though,” Hamfast pointed out, clearly thinking of the treason of Cirith Ungol for that was his favorite part of the story, when his father rescued Mr. Frodo from the tower. “If they did know about it, well, I don’t think it would have made any difference.”

“As for them not being trained, or trained as well as the Men were, there were more of them,” Merry said. “They were able to do their jobs by sheer numbers alone for a good long while. Training just would have taken longer.”

“Well, if I were a dark lord, I’d let my troops eat something other than maggoty bread,” Primrose said, scrunching up her nose with distaste. “That couldn’t have tasted very good and if they’d had better things to eat, they might not have been so grouchy and mean.”

“If I were a dark lord,” Daisy said, and hummed a bit under her breath as she tried to think of what she would have done different. She finally landed upon something and said, “I wouldn’t have built my tower so far away from the only thing that could have destroyed the Ring. As soon as the Ring went missing, I would have moved my home to the Cracks of Doom and posted guards at the door. That was very silly of him not to at least have guards.”

“But he didn’t think anyone’d ever try to destroy it,” Frodo-lad said. “He reckoned the Ring was too tempting for anyone to toss it away, and he was nearly right.”

“Oooh!” Pippin exclaimed, his eyes wide as he thought of something he clearly believed to be brilliant. “If I were a dark lord, I’d have made the Ring so that no one else would have wanted to keep it so that way, they’d just toss it aside like it was nothing, and then when I went to find, because I would have made it like Merry did so that I could find it, it would just be lying there in the dirt or wherever.”

“But if that were the case, Isildur would have tossed it into the fire long ago and none of this would ever have happened,” Frodo-lad pointed out. “Maybe, you could make it so that they still wouldn’t be able to destroy it, but still wouldn’t want to keep it for themselves.”

Merry grinned at Pippin and patted his shoulder. “That’s good thinking, Pip.”

Elanor laughed softly and shook her head fondly at her siblings. “If you were all dark lords, you’d do exactly the same thing that Sauron did, for even now it’s clear that you think yourselves much too brilliant to ever be foiled. Sauron’s downfall wasn’t his lack of thinking things through. It was his cockiness. He paid for that well enough, but not enough to make him more cautious the second time around and a good thing that was too, or Mr. Frodo and Sam-dad would have had no hope.”

The children considered this soberly and Sam stood with a sigh. “All right, children,” he said. “That’s enough for tonight. It’s time for bed for all of you but Ellie and Fro.” He held his hand up to forestall the protests he could see coming. “Bed. Now. Fro and Ellie, go to the kitchen and clean up. I’ll be in the parlor with your mother and grandma once I’ve seen the little ones to bed.”

The children filed out of the room one by one, the youngest heading for their rooms. Elanor was the last to pass through the door and she turned back to flash a smile at her father as she went.

* - According to “The Epilogue” found in HoME, Vol. 9 The End of the Third Age, Merry-lad was 9 the first time Sam finished reading the Red Book to his children.

This is inspired by “For Eyes to See as Can” by Larner, in which Frodo writes a story for Sam as a birthday present on the first birthday Frodo spends at Bag End after being adopted by Bilbo. Sam would be 10, Frodo 22.

There once was a garden that grew under a full-grown elm near the edge of town. Many flowers and plants lived in the garden and there was something that everyone could enjoy. Closest to the tree, where there was always shade, grew the blue hydrangea, white periwinkle, pink-with-purple bergamot, and spiky bushes of fern; spreading out from there, where the sun sometimes shone through the leaves of the tree and even blazed the ground to chase away the shade, were the scarlet cinquefoil, soft-pink and white abelia, sky-blue delphinium and grand bushes of lavender. Surrounding the garden were low-cut hedgerows that bore berries in the summer and all year long the many rose bushes bloomed with magnificence in every color of the rainbow.

The garden belonged to no one, but everyone who passed it would stop and enjoy it. If ever they saw a weed or an overgrown bush, they would tend it as if it were their own so the next person could enjoy it all the more. In that manner the garden was tended almost daily, for it grew off the main road going toward the marketplace and there were many hobbits who passed it every day. The garden has always been there from time out of memory, according to Holman Greenhand, the oldest hobbit and the first ever gardener to live in those parts, so he should know!

It was called Hobbits’ Garden, but hobbits were not the only ones who enjoyed its simple beauty. Bees, moths, ladybugs and butterflies visited there often, and there were many birds that lived in the branches of the tree and even a solitary squirrel resided in the bole, though he was allowed to stay only if he did not invite any of his friends to join him, to which he happily agreed. The earthworms of that garden were the fattest found anywhere, and the moles loved it so much that they dug holes deep beneath the soil so they could live there and never have to leave it. They all lived happily together, for their love of the garden united them when nothing else would.

Then one night, a heavy rainstorm blew into the Shire and the animals and insects were worried, for this storm was fierce and angry, and they feared what it might do to their home. Father Mole told Runner Squirrel of his worry, and Runner took the message to Mother Sparrow. Mother Sparrow braved the storm and flew up to the clouds to beg mercy for their home and the storm was so moved by her bravery that he agreed to spare the garden and all that lived in it. Mother Sparrow thanked him with a song and flew back down to the elm to convey the good news. She, Father Mole, Runner Squirrel and everyone else rejoiced and let their worries be forgotten.

Morning came. The Sun rose over the hills to awaken all her children and she was shocked at what she saw. The land was in waste. Everywhere there was debris and spoilage but for one little spot on the outskirts of the town, which bloomed more beautifully and proudly than it ever had before. She marveled at the sight and wondered how that could be, and just what Storm had been planning when he overlooked the little garden.

Hobbits awoke with the sun and began to repair the damage done. They were soon so busy fixing their own homes and gardens, not to mention stores, shops, inns, roads and even carts and carriages, that no one but the animals and insects had time to spare for the little garden. That was hardly the worst of it, for the storm also brought out the snails, slugs and caterpillars, and white flies were hatching in the many large pools of water left from the rainfall, and the weeds were popping up everywhere one looked. As the pests were dispelled from other gardens and crop fields, they looked about for a new home and began to invade Hobbits’ Garden with great zest.

It was a great and sad war. The moles ate the roots out of many weeds, but where one failed, ten more would take root. The birds flew down to carry away the snails and slugs, and gave the caterpillars to their hatchlings, while the squirrel ran up and down the tree and bushes to chase away the white flies, but no matter how many of the pests they dispelled, more always came. Ants began to arrive and eat away at the leaves of the plants, and the flies were so numerous that no other color could be seen. The plants began to fail. The bulbs grew a fuzzy white mold and the leaves became slimy and brown, or spotted and discolored. The animals and insects who lived there at last had to give up and they sadly left their home for the other gardens that were slowly beginning to bloom again in other parts of town.

So it was that many weeks passed as the hobbits fixed their homes and went back to their everyday lives, but the road that passed by the little garden was lost beyond repair and a new road was built closer to the center of town. No one walked by the little garden anymore and if they did, they would not be able to recognize it, for it was now overrun with pests and weeds. After a time, even the pests left, having nothing else to feed upon, and the weeds grew so big that even the hedges were in danger were being crowded out of their roots. A season passed and then another, then the cold of winter settled over the land, and when the snow melted and the gentle spring rains returned, there was nothing left of the garden but the tree and the bare stems of the flowers and bushes that would not bloom or sprout.

The Sun looked sadly upon this once beautiful garden and wondered what she could do to help. She spotted a young hobbit lad playing alone nearby, down the way on the old broken road. She sent Wind to whisper in the hobbit lad’s ears and the lad shivered at the feel of its cold breath. He stood and went in search of protection from the wind and spotted up ahead an elm tree. He headed toward it and when he came to it, he looked at the garden with shock and shed tears of great sorrow.

How could he have forgotten Hobbits’ Garden? How could they all? There was no excuse for it and he sought to make things right again. He ran home and grabbed a barrow and spade and returned to the garden for a long day of work. He soon found that it would take more than just a day to sort out the wrongs that had plagued this little plot of land for the past many months, and he spent every day there from sun up to sun down, uprooting weeds, shooing away stray or returning pests, and turning out the bad soil for the good.

Already, the garden was beginning to look better for his care, but he soon decided that the old plants and flowers had to be uprooted and replaced altogether. Not wanting to waste them, the lad turned the poor dead plants into mulch, so that it could cover the ground of the newly planted garden and help it grow, and in that way, the old garden could give life to the new. Once the plants were cleared, the last of the pests went away on their own, and the topsoil was dug up to be rid of the weeds for good.

He left the plot alone then, to let the spring rains do their work and refresh the ground before he planted. The poor elm tree would have been truly lonely then, but the hobbit lad made sure to visit every day and he would often sit against the tree’s bole and sing the afternoons away. His singing brought back the birds, and Mother Sparrow taught him many songs he had not heard before. Runner Squirrel came back and did the last of the clean up, emptying out his little hole in the tree and filling it with fresh leaves and sprigs – with the tree’s permission of course. Father Mole tunneled through the soil from a nearby field and came back to his old home, which had survived everything without harm. Now they all waited, wondering when the hobbit lad would begin replanting.

One day, the lad came with a bag full of seeds and he spread these upon the ground, with a stern word to Runner that all the seeds better be allowed to take root and that he would know it if even one flower failed to grow. Runner swore to behave himself, for he wanted his garden back as much as all the others, and they watched as the lad spread the mulch upon the ground. Then the rains watered the ground, and the next day the Sun shined right where it was needed the most while the tree protected the plants at its bole.

At first nothing appeared to happen, but Rain and Sun took turns with the garden, and every day, whether rain or shine, the hobbit lad would come to spend time with the residents of the garden. He sang and he laughed and he told the animals many stories to pass the hours, but still nothing grew or sprouted. The animals and tree were beginning to despair, but the hobbit lad was as joyful as ever, so they took heart in his cheer and hoped it would be enough.

Then one morning when the Sun came to wake up the land, the birds chirped with wonder, for there poking out of the ground all around the tree were so many sprouts that it almost looked like grass. The sprouts grew every day and soon bulbs began to form. Another week passed, and the flowers were breaking into bloom. The hobbit lad came back then to plant the bushes, hedges and ferns, and he let Rain and Sun do their work. To everyone’s joy, the garden was coming back to life.

Only a month after the last planting, the garden was in full bloom again and it looked better and grander than ever before. Hobbits began to walk past it again, not caring that it was out of their way now, and the bees, butterflies, moths and ladybugs rejoiced when they returned to find the garden even more glorious than they remembered it. Every day, the hobbit lad visited, making sure that the flowers and plants were truly rooted into their new home, and the birds, mole and squirrel always came out to greet him and pass an hour or two in song.

The garden was renamed Sam’s Garden, after the lad who had replanted it, and while Sam would always claim that the garden was no more his than anyone else’s, those that lived there knew the truth. He had given them back their home and had rebuilt it with his own hands, and so to their way of seeing things, it belonged to him, and even though he visited less often as the years went by, every time they saw him they sang him a song.

“You hear all sorts of things as you shouldn’t while you’re in the garden, specially if you keep real quiet like and don’t draw attention to yourself. Then folk just rather forget that you’re even there and you become no more’n part of the scenery, just another shrub so to speak. When that happens, they’ll go on and on with their talking and their playing and whatnot, and you can hear all sorts of things and learn things that you’d best not know at all for they ain’t none of your business, but they come in handy sometimes too.

“Take for instance that summer when I was thirteen. It were real hot that summer it was, and before the sun even rose over the hills come morning, it was already balmy and musty and so warm you could walk about in your smallclothes and still feel too covered up. We started early in the summers, my Gaffer and me, and usually took our first breakfast with us to eat standing as we gathered our tools and things as we’d need for that day’s work. We were busy working even before you all were awake and stirring, even on that day when you and Mr. Bilbo’d had guests from your Took and Brandybuck relations and young ones in the smial who were always into something, especially Master Pippin. Just three years old at the time and already he was a force to be reckoned with. Knew well enough what ‘yes’ meant but ‘no’ seemed to faze him to no end and he never paid it any mind.

“Mr. Merry was there also, though he were Master Merry back then, and he was the first one to wake up that day, and he came out to greet us good morning and chitchat a bit while we worked and he waited for the others to drag themselves out of bed. He’d just turned eleven a coupl of months afore and he said that morning as he couldn’t wait to be my age and how grand it would be to be a Teen. I told him as so far it weren’t no different than being twelve, but he insisted that it was a grand event in a young hobbit’s life to become a teen, and that only becoming a tween and later coming of age could beat it, but he didn’t reckon on coming of age very much because then he’d be old and too tired to do aught as was fun. He was certain that teens got to do all sorts of things that younger hobbits couldn’t do and I did have to admit that when I turned thirteen just that past Astron that Gaffer said as I could stay up an hour later at nights and he left me alone more often in the garden than he did afore, though he still checked on my work come time to head for home and asked me why I did this or didn’t do that, just to hear my answers more’n aught else.

“Then you came out after a time and stood listening as Mr. Merry rattled on about all the things he thought he’d be doing once he was a teen and now that I think on it, it was you as gave me the idea that if I could keep myself still and go unnoticed, I’d hear things as I normally wouldn’t, for as soon as you lost the battle and laughed aloud and Mr. Merry knew as you was standing there, he turned beet red and wouldn’t say another word on the matter. You taught me somewhat valuable in that small instant, Mr. Frodo, and so with that lesson fresh in my mind, I did something as I never did afore that day.

“It was just after luncheon when it happened and instead of getting up and stepping away or clearing my throat real loud like or clacking the clippers a bit harder than normal, I tucked myself away behind the hedge I was trimming and pretended as I was concentrating too hard to notice that Mr. Saradoc, Mr. Paladin and Mr. Bilbo had come around the bend and were sitting under the elm talking about you and how you were getting on in Hobbiton. Seems that even though you’d been there a few years now and that everyone could see how Hobbiton agreed with you and all, Mr. Saradoc still worried about you while he was living away in Brandy Hall and couldn’t see you every day to reassure himself that all was well.

“Now, I knew afore this that you had lived with your cousins Mr. Saradoc and Mistress Esmeralda and Mr. Merry afore you moved out to Hobbiton to be with Mr. Bilbo and become his heir and all. And I knew as you came to live there acause everyone figured as you’d do better with some one-on-one attention as you could get from Mr. Bilbo that your guardians simply hadn’t the time for. What I didn’t know was that you’d been a right scoundrel when you’d been living in Bucklebury. Now, I know as you had hinted at it afore, telling me about some of your less harmless pranks and all, but the things I overhead that day were a right shock and I couldn’t help but think they were over-exaggerating quite a bit, and it would be years later that I finally accepted it as the truth. It did make me take a closer look at you the next few times I saw you, just to make sure you weren’t going to go off a gallivanting or raising a storm or somewhat like that, but as you remained as innocent and polite as could be hoped for, I let it slip from my mind and didn’t think no more on it until you told me and Mr. Pippin about them dogs as the Farmer Maggot sent after you for stealing all his ‘shrooms.

“Mr. Saradoc, now, he stood there next to the reading bench as Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Paladin were sitting on and he gazed at the back of Bag End and looked like as he was musing on something, then he said, ‘Frodo’s absolutely glowing, Bilbo.’ And he sighed real sad-like and went on. ‘Esme and I should have sent him to you sooner, I think. It would have saved everyone a lot of trouble.’

“‘He wasn’t ready to come any sooner than he did,’ Mr. Bilbo said. ‘He needed you, Esme and Merry as much as anything else, and he wouldn’t have been any happier here if he had come before he wanted to. It needed to be his choice.’

“Then Mr. Saradoc said, ‘I know, but I still can’t help but think sometimes that if he’d been with you from the start, it would have been easier for him. He certainly never would have gone farm raiding to the extent that he did, taking so much it had to be paid for. He never would have disappeared for days at a time, and Esme and I never would have been reduced to shouting matches just to get him to listen to us.’

“‘And he’d never have learned to face the Brandywine again, and he would never be able to look at or think of Buckland without thinking of his parents,’ Mr. Bilbo said next. ‘He never would have known Merry so well, and that whole side of his family would be a mystery to him, a mystery shrouded in dark memories and grief. And it wasn’t always bad. There are many happy memories, if what Frodo tells me is true.’

“‘There are indeed. I’m glad that he remembers them. He’s still a bit formal with us; I thought maybe all he could remember were the fights and the punishments,’ Mr. Saradoc said and he looked off all sad again. Then he cleared his throat a bit and seemed to pull himself together a little and he said, ‘He’s still making friends here?’

“‘Oh yes, without a doubt,’ Mr. Bilbo answered straight away. ‘All the young hobbit children just adore him, and young Folco Boffin simply can’t get enough of Frodo. He’s here nearly every week while his aunt visits with Dora, and he and Frodo go fishing, exploring, racing, anything that comes to their minds. It can be a bit dangerous; Folco isn’t the most coordinated lad, but Frodo manages well enough and they never get more than a few scratches or bruises on them.’

“Mr. Paladin laughed then. ‘He still has a healthy appetite for mischief though I wager. Not all that he got up to in Buckland ended in disaster, Sara, though that is unfortunately all that he’s remembered for. Some of his pranks were just that and I believe I’ve seen evidence of that scamp’s dirty work more than a couple of times since he moved to these parts, though he makes sure nothing can be traced back to him.’

“Mr. Bilbo laughed then. ‘Oh indeed! That lad can be quite the rascal still, let me assure you, but not a bad one by any means. He’s learned his lesson about that at any rate and never does anything that will raise any ire most times, and he’s quick to realize his error and apologize when he does. He uses little Samwise the same way he did Merry, getting the lad to do all sorts of things that wouldn’t normally pop into his mind, but he’s such a darling that no one can really scold him, whereas they wouldn’t think twice about strapping Frodo across the bum had he done the same thing.’

“Now, I don’t have to tell you that at this point, I felt my ears burning right up at that. I hadn’t reckoned on overhearing naught about myself and I was starting to wonder if this eavesdropping business was such a good idea after all, but at this point I was past curious and was wondering what all they could be talking about, as you never got me into any trouble that I could be remembering. I didn’t have to wait long to find out what Mr. Bilbo was talking about as both Mr. Saradoc and Mr. Paladin wanted an example of just what kind of mischief you were causing.

“Mr. Bilbo laughed right hard then and it was some time afore he could get enough control of himself to talk and all the while he was talking, his voice was tight and high and he would still chuckle from time to time and when I peeked through the branches of the bushes I could see him wiping tears from his eyes. ‘Well, it was just a couple of months ago at the Spring Festival. All the tween lads and lasses were getting ready for the maypole dance and trying to figure out how to time their dancing so they would end at the same time as their would-be partners. The lasses are always better at that sort of thing and more than a few of the lasses had their eyes on Frodo and were getting ready to slip their flowers into his collar or behind his ear or wherever else they could reach. Quite a few of them were most determined in their endeavors and some of them were beginning to fight amongst themselves over who would be dancing with Frodo at the bonfires that night. Frodo overhead all this of course, and so he went about the lads and found out which ones were interested in which lass and then sent little Sam running up to the lasses with the flowers from the lads, and sure enough, as soon as the lasses got those, they forgot all about Frodo. But there were two lasses left and they were getting ready to start a brawl, so Frodo picks some flowers from a basket and sends Sam up to them to tell them that the flowers were from secret admirers and they were to meet with said admirers behind the elm tree after dinner. Then Frodo found two lads who were arguing over a lass, and had Sam go up and tell them the same thing! Luckily, once the four of them got together, they decided that they liked each other well enough to finish out the day together and so none of them thought to track down Sam and demand why he had done what he did.’

“Well, you can imagine that Mr. Saradoc and Mr. Paladin quite enjoyed that tale and they laughed at it all for a bit and then Mr. Paladin said, ‘And so Frodo got away without having to dance with anyone!’

“‘Well, no,’ Mr. Bilbo said then and he gets to chuckling again. ‘He found that lass the two lads had been arguing over and danced with her the whole night. He was a bit fond of her, turns out.’

“Now they were all laughing themselves to tears, and Mr. Saradoc even had to bend over and put his hands on his legs to keep himself from toppling over. I didn’t understand then what was so funny about it all, as it seemed to me that everything worked out for everyone in the end and no one was left wanting for a dance partner, but now I understand how sneaky you had been to do what you, or rather I, did.

“‘Lucky indeed, that they didn’t think to question Sam,’ Mr. Paladin said when he got his breath about him again. ‘Frodo could have found himself on the glaring end of two very angry lads, not to mention all those lasses.’

“‘I doubt very much Sam would have given Frodo up if he thought it would bring harm to him,” Mr. Bilbo said and I had nodded stoutly to that for it were the right truth sir. Even then, I was looking out for you. Now, most times when you would have me do things for you, folk found it funny or amusing and then I had no trouble telling them that it was you as suggested I do it, like that time I took Missus Rumble’s spare bits of lace trimming and fashioned a bow from it and tied it ‘round a bit of fur atop her cat’s head. She rather liked that she did, and she even started making little bows especial for her Misty after that. Every once in a while though, someone would be upset with what I’d done, like that joke I’d told once to Miss Dora about the cows and steers that I didn’t rightly understand at the time, and she went stark white and drew her lips together real tight when she heard it, and when she asked where I heard that joke from and why was I telling it to her, I just shrugged and gave her my best innocent-as-can-be look and said that I’d heard as she liked cows a whole lot and thought mayhap she might enjoy the joke. Then she patted my head and gave me a candy piece and told me to scamper off and to not go ‘bout repeating everything the older lads say. And when I told you what Miss Dora had done, you just snickered to yourself and congratulated me on a job well done but you wouldn’t tell me why she got so upset, so I figured as it was just because she didn’t have a sense of humor and hadn’t wanted to admit to it. I’ve figured out what that joke meant since then of course, and I was so embarrassed about it that I couldn’t rightly look at her those last few years she was living.

“Anyhow, that was the first time I ever eavesdropped a purpose but it weren’t hardly the last by a long shot, especially once you’d figured out as I’d learned that trick from you. Once you knew that I could eavesdrop, you added that to the things you’d ask me to do and they always seemed real harmless to me and for the most part they were. ‘Sam, go on down to market and stroll through the weavers’ booths. Missus Tuttle should be there, you know how she’s been trying to set me up with her daughter.’ ‘Sam, you’re working in the Tunnelly’s gardens today? I think that Lark lad was the one who busted Jay’s nose, but I don’t have any proof.’ ‘Sam, Folco and Fatty are planning to prank me back for that apple pie. When you go up to visit your cousin Hal, could you maybe try to find out what their plans are?’

“Lor’ but Gaffer did always say as you were a bad influence on me, teaching me things as I shouldn’t be knowing, but he liked you so much that he couldn’t begrudge me spending time with you, until I got older that is, but by then my education was near complete and you’d taught just about everything you knew there was to eavesdropping just by doing for you and all. I knew as it was wrong but as it was for you, then I figured as the good and the bad of it rather balanced itself out and came to naught in the end. And as I said, it did come in useful sir.

“Now, to be completely honest, every servant spies on his master, though to be polite and proper and all, we call it observing. ‘Tis part of our job, in a manner of speaking. Any good and average servant will tell you that you got to know what your master’s likes and dislikes are if you’re to serve him well, and a great servant will tell you that you got to be able to anticipate what your master might be wanting next, even afore he himself knows, and you can’t do that by keeping your eyes and ears closed, specially as most masters aren’t in the habit of telling their servants naught. So we got to observe, if you take my meaning.

“And being as I’m coming clean, I might as well tell you that this weren’t the first time as I spied on you. That’ve been just after Mr. Bilbo left and I found you sitting all by yourself atop Bag End, tears streaming down your face and you figuring as you’d always end up alone one way or another. Why, it near tore my heart out, it did, seeing you like that and I was that worrit as you’d go after Mr. Bilbo after all and leave us all behind. So I watched you, kept a real close eye on you for months after the Party, following you down to market, getting word from folks at the inns when you’d been there, even… even sneaking peeks at your journal – but only when you’d left it sitting open and I never turned the page! Anyhow, I kept on a watching you ‘til I saw as you were settling into your new role as Master of Bag End and head of the Baggins clan and all, which didn’t take near as long as I’d worrit it would. I can’t tell you enough how it eased my heart to see you settling in so quick and easy, like it fit you just right. Once I was sure you weren’t going to go traipsing off, I stopped my snooping quick as lightning.

“Mr. Merry though… Even if we weren’t all that close during most of those years, I could tell he were that worrit about you. He and Master Pippin came so often to visit, and more than a few of those visits being unannounced, like they were just checking in to make sure you hadn’t made off in the middle of the night and them not knowing about it. They were real careful not to crowd you too much, but there were times as they got into your hair, they did, like this one time as I was weeding the beds under the kitchen window and Mr. Merry and Master Pippin were visiting again, and even Mr. Fatty and Mr. Folco were there and getting in your hairs, and Mr. Merry and Master Pippin were pestering you near night and day about how there was no one to keep a proper eye on you and mayhap they should visit more often. You remember that surely? You went and clear lost your temper with them, though you kept a tight lid on it even then, and you said as why didn’t they just have me spy on you for them and save them the trouble. Well, seems as Mr. Merry remembered that and he thought it was a right good idea, he did, and—”

“Sam,” Mr. Frodo says, interrupting me in his quiet way. His lips are drawn real tight like and that’s never a good sign. He’s got his arms crossed in front of him even and he looks so small and out of place, or mayhap it’s Mr. Bilbo’s desk as he’s sitting in front of that looks small and out of place in this bedchamber here at Crickhollow.

“Are you honestly trying to tell me that your spying on me was my doing?” Mr. Frodo asks.

“Well, I know right enough as you probably reckoned as you were safe making that offer, seeing as Mr. Merry and I weren’t exactly on friendly terms at the time, and for myself I had no intention of taking it heart or naught but Mr. Merry now, he remembered that offer, he did, and so did I…

“Even if you did just say it as a joke, you did say it. Still, as I said, I weren’t going to do naught with it. But then this past Solmath came around and one day when I walked into the study to bring you your tea, I saw you sitting there with all them foreign maps spread out all over the place and you were tracing out paths on them with your finger and looking all wistful and far away, just like Mr. Bilbo afore he left. I tried to ignore it sir, I really did, but I kept seeing that look over the next couple of weeks and it sent a cold dread right through me, near to froze my blood. So I wrote to Mr. Merry, figuring as he’d drop by for one of his unannounced visits but he responded back saying as he was that busy and could I keep an eye on you until Mr. Pippin’s birthday, and I told him as I would because it was for you and so it couldn’t be bad, and you had said as I could.” And I try smirking at him a bit then but he’s still got that cold look about him, so I lower my eyes right quick to my toes and keep them there.

If it’s possible, I think I can hear Mr. Frodo’s wheels a turning in his head and after what seems as near to forever as I ever want to get, he lets out a big sigh and says, “What would your Gaffer say to this then, Sam? What goes around comes around? But you’re right. I suppose I can’t really act too surprised after encouraging you all those times. I just never thought you’d turn it against me.”

“Against you?” I look up real quick at that and shake my head. “Not at all sir. It was for you.”

“I know,” Mr. Frodo says. He’s a looking at the curtained window with that far off look in his eyes now, and with the wistfulness is mixed in worry and fear. “Just answer me one more question. Why do you want to come? In ten words or less.”

That last bit stumps me somewhat awful and I start to fidget as I try to think of ways to say all as I want to say in just ten words or less and it’s near impossible to be doing. I start counting out on my fingers the number of words I’m thinking on and I constantly have to start over and never getting anywhere near to just ten. I’m right flustered by the time I peek up and see that tiny little smile of his that he gets sometimes, where just the corners of his mouth go up and the rest of it is seen in his eyes, and they are that full of mischief. Oh, but he hasn’t changed for naught!

“Because… Because I can’t imagine the Shire without you and this way, I won’t have to.”

“That was a bit more than ten words,” Mr. Frodo says. He stands up from his desk stool and comes to stand just in front of me. He smiles at me in that soft way of his that just fills you up with warmth and knowing that you’re important to him. “Thank you, Sam. Merry was right. I can trust you to stick by me.”

His smile turns sad and he looks about ready to cry but he holds it back real stoic-like and it passes in a blink, so I don’t say naught about it. “To the very end, wherever that may be,” he says and after that there’s naught left to say.

About a year ago, I posted this song to my LJ and I thought you all might get a laugh out of it. Nilmandra was kind enough to give me permission to post it here. It's not perfect but hopefully you'll overlook that. ;)

If Pippin had been allowed to write letters home during the Quest, what would it have sounded like?

From the song “Hello Muddah, Hello Faddah (A Letter from Camp)” by Allan Sherman
[Music from Ponchielli's "Dance of the Hours" from La Gioconda]

Hello Muddah, hello Faddah,
Here I am at someplace I don’t wanna
Stay too long here, cuz it is scary,
And something has just come and bitten Merry.

We went hiking up a mountain,
It was snowing; we were frozen.
We took some wood up, but it was pointless,
As an avalanche fell and buried us to our noses.

Now I don’t wanna scare you silly,
But the pony, we named him Billy,
He ran off and was chased by wolves,
And he got a pebble stuck inside his hooves.

Did you know that Elves hate Dwarves-es,
And the lake has water monsters-es.
And there is something following us-es,
That likes to lisp a lot and always slurs his s-es.

I wanna come home, Muddah, Faddah,
I don’t like it here in this dark mine-a
There are orcs and there are goblins
And a fire monster that just may have wings.

I’m coming home and I promise I will
Not eat junk food or fall in the mill
I’ll be quiet and I’ll be so good,
I’ll even chop up all the firewood.

Dearest Faddah, Dearest Muddah,
How’s my precious, lovely sistahs?
Will you tell them I miss them often,
Cuz they would never force me to eat all this mutton.

Wait a minute, what’s this I see?
I’m being picked up by a talking tree.
I get it now, it seems so clear how
I’m just sleeping and will wake up any time now.

Now I have just ticked off Gandalf,
I carried his glowing Palantir off.
It was dreary and really awful,
I think I just tossed up my eggs and waffle.

Did you know that, there’s a city?
It’s in Gondor and it’s real pretty.
But the steward is kind of loopy,
He makes me stand here while he sits on his fat tushie.

My dear Muddah, my dear Faddah,
Did you know that trolls can squash ya?
And they smell so very horrid
Sort of like when Vinca’s cooking porridge.

Well it’s all over and I am tired,
I’ve been whip lashed and I’ve been mired.
I think this is enough fun for me,
I’m coming home, I should be there in time for tea.

Written for Marigold’s Challenge #28, which required at least one naked hobbit.

A/N: At the end of “The Usual Suspects”, Frodo confesses to some of his ‘crimes’ to Esme and Saradoc. This was one of those crimes.

The Brandy Hall Summer Feast of 1386 would go down in Shire history as the most unforgettable feast ever to be celebrated in Buckland for many reasons, but only one of those reasons would be largely remembered and retold year after year.

All the Brandy Hall feasts were worthy of remembrance in and of themselves, thanks to the custom begun by Gorbadoc the Broadbelt, who served so many victuals at all his feasts that it snowed food and rained drink, as they say. The feast of 1386, though Gordaboc had long ago passed, was no exception. Master Rorimac was determined that each feast be better and greater than the one before, and he kept to his father’s tradition of having only the best food and wines served to his guests. However, this was only to be expected, and so was not what made this feast so memorable.

There is also to be considered the fact that the Summer Feast was held on the eve of Lithe, and was looked forward to by all hobbits as the kickoff for the Mid-Year celebrations. It was well believed that the eve of Lithe held about it a special sort of magic, and that any promises of intention made that night would guarantee long and happy marriages. Any older tween or young adult ready to set their cap on that special someone would remember that night for that very reason alone, and as it so happened, a good handful of hobbits do remember it as the night they declared their love. Yet, this hardly explains why nearly all of Buckland and most of the Shire-proper would learn of this particular night and speak of it for ninety-nine days (and remember it for much longer).

Some say that it was so widely remembered for the costumes, and to a certain extent, that was true. Menegilda had decided that the traditional feasts had grown a bit stale and needed a bit of shaking up to make them more lively. So she announced two months prior to the feast, at the Spring Festival celebration no less, that this year’s banquet would be a masked ball. Not only were hobbits expected to dress in their best and finest, they were now also expected to create masks to wear so that people would then have to guess both who they were and what their costume was. This idea took a bit of getting used to, but after a couple of weeks, everyone was quite taken with the notion and were busily planning their attire. So this certainly did make that feast worth remembering, for it was the first masked ball ever to be held in Buckland, but as it wasn’t the last, most folk tend to forget that little bit of historical fact.

The day had begun normally enough and progressed the same way as any other feast day. Mistress Menegilda had all the servants and residents of the Hall hopping, cooking food to feed hundreds and setting up the pavilion atop the summit of Buck Hill and arranging the benches, tables and chairs, for the Summer Feast took full advantage of the warm weather and was held outdoors, under the evening sky. The matrons and masters of the Hall also had their assignments. They went through the tunnels making sure that the decorations were being put in place, that all the silver and surfaces were polished, that everyone would have a seat for the feast, and that all the residents had ample costumes. This last task took up quite a bit of the matrons’ time, for there were a handful of poorly unimaginative hobbits who had waited until the last possible moment to ask for help in deciding their costumes, and there was now a last-minute rush by said hobbits to the mathom closets, looking for anything that would serve as a mask to borrow for the night. This kept the matrons busy from sunup to feast time, and they had little attention to spare for anything else. So while the mayhem and frantic final preparations were a bit more harried than in previous years or feasts, that hardly batted anyone’s eye and isn’t even noted in any of the accounts for that night, save a spare few.

Even the children found nothing very spectacular about this day. Oh, it’s true enough that all children love such days, for while their mothers were out seeing to everyone else, and while their fathers were up on the summit setting things up and moving things about, the tweens and juniors were left entirely on their own to do as they saw fit. One would think that a receipt for disaster, but this was hardly ever the case, as the tweens, who were often the biggest concern when it came to unattended hobbit children, spent the majority of their day perfecting their attire, masks and hair, and speculating on who would be wearing what, who would dance with whom, and how they would go about getting their intended under the promise tree that grew at the far end of the summit. This left the juniors to fend for themselves. The nursemaids were employed to keep an eye on this remaining population as much as they could, but with only a dozen or so nursemaids and well over forty juniors, it cannot be surprising that some especially crafty and sneaky hobbit children slipped past their vigilance. Yet the worst these children ever did was raid the pantries, mathom rooms or their older siblings or parents wardrobes, and any innocent antics they got into were quickly forgotten.

I dashed from my room at my cousin’s call and into the study where she and Saradoc were busy preparing for the day ahead. All the elders were going to be busy today with one thing or another and so I had a pretty good idea what they were going to ask of me. Sure enough, as soon as I entered the study, Esme pointed right at Merry, who was fast asleep on his blanket on the floor, drooling slightly as he snoozed. I bent down over Merry and gently poked him in the belly. The faunt’s face scrunched up for a second, then smoothed back into deep sleep.

“Could you watch him today?” Esme asked. “The nursemaids are going to be busy enough looking after everyone else’s children. I’d feel more comfortable if you were watching him.”

I nodded happily, for I could never spend enough time alone with my little Merry Shadow, or Meadow as I’d been calling him lately. “Of course, Aunt Esme. What about Berry?” I asked, since I knew that Mac and Berylla also had things to see to and Berilac would only get in their way, for all that he was such a complacent child.

I sat on the floor next to Merry and looked fondly at my little cousin. “Of course not. I could take them to the gardens and let them play hide-and-seek.”

“I suggest you plan more games than just that, Frodo,” Saradoc advised. “They’ll soon get bored of the same game.”

“I’ll find things for them to do,” I said without concern. I was already thinking of several games to keep the children occupied. I knew all the games Merry liked to play and it was a safe bet that Berry would enjoy them also, as he was only two years older than Merry.

We ate first breakfast in the apartment, then I helped Merry into his play clothes. Since it promised to be warm out today, I dressed him in an old pair of breeches and a light shirt. He was happy to find out that he’d be spending the day with me and squirmed around a lot while I buttoned up his shirt. He was all smiles until I told him that Berry would come along also. Then his little face scrunched up and his brow furrowed.

“What’s with the frown?” I asked. “Don’t you like spending time with your cousin Berry?”

“He’s better at everything than I am,” Merry complained. “He always wins anything we play.”

“Well, he’s older than you Merry. He’s going to be better at certain things. I’m older than you also, and I can do all sorts of things that you can’t,” I pointed out.

“I know, but you’re old. You’ve had all sorts of time to get good at stuff,” Merry pointed out.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said with a grin. I tucked his shirt into his breeches and snapped his braces into place. “Ready Meadow?”

Merry nodded and slipped his hand into mine. I let Esme and Sara know we were leaving and then picked Merry up once we were outside in the tunnels. The whole Hall was bustling with hobbits running about and seeing to all the last-minute preparations and I was afraid Merry might get trampled if he walked.

It was only a short way to Mac and Berylla’s apartment as they lived just a couple of doors down along the West Tunnel. I put Merry down once we were there and told him to stay close, then knocked on the door. A moment later, Berylla answered and beamed at us. “Frodo dear! Merry-lad! How lovely to see you. Is there something I can help you lads with?”

“No, Aunt Berylla. I was going to offer to help look after Berry today,” I said. “The nursemaids have enough children to look after as it is, and I thought I’d take Merry and Berry outside to do some running about. I’ll wash them both up after luncheon and then bring Berry back here so you can get him ready for the tea and feast.”

“How thoughtful of you, dear,” Berylla said and let us inside. “I was just about to take him to the nursery. Just let me finish getting him ready. Have a seat.”

A short time later, Berylla was back with Berry in tow. His clothes were newer and less stained than Merry’s, and his hair was freshly brushed, whereas Merry had fought me and wouldn’t let me untangle his curls. Merry looked at his cousin critically, then down at himself and scrunched up his nose as he considered the situation. I could well imagine what was going through his mind: Berry looked much nicer, but Merry’s clothes had seen more playtime. He eventually shrugged; he must have decided it was a toss-up.

Berylla kneeled down in front of Berilac, turning him around and adjusting his clothes and hair just so. “You’re going to go with your cousin Frodo for the day, and you are to mind him and listen to everything he says, understand,” Berylla said and Berry nodded.

Merry tugged on my sleeve and I bent over so he could whisper in my ear. “Can you tell him to lose to me?” he said.

Once we were back in the tunnels, I stooped down to pick up Merry again, but he held back and said he could walk like a big lad. I insisted that they each hold my hand, but Merry only complied after Berry took my left hand. I sighed. If Merry was going to be like this all morning, this could turn into a very long day indeed.

I led them outside to the gardens and found Iola Bolger and Posy Goold already there with our cousins Merimas and Mentha Brandybuck and Gordi Burrows. They had the children painting on several large pieces of parchment, and Berry and Merry ran to join them. I didn’t stop them, figuring that at least this wasn’t something that Merry could compete over with Berry. I took a seat on the other side of the garden, under no illusions that the lasses would want to talk to me, and made sure that Merry and Berry were playing contentedly. I thought everything was going fine until it was nearly time for second breakfast. Merry stood up and walked over to me, pouting.

“His hand is bigger than mine and he filled up his page first,” Merry said, and pouted more. I thought his lower lip would fall off, he was sticking it out so much.

“Well, why didn’t you make a picture?” I said. “You don’t have to do everything he does.”

Just then, Berilac stood up and washed his hands in the bucket of water sitting nearby, then came over and handed me the picture he had made. I did have to admit (to myself) that it was very good for a six-year old. “That’s my mum,” he said and I nodded, for it had been obvious enough. Even though the lines were a bit distorted and the circle for her face was a little lopsided, the painting did look quite a lot like his mother. “I’m going to give it to her as a present.”

“I’m giving my mum my picture too,” Merry said then and added a bit smugly, “She hangs my paintings on the hope chest in the parlor – for guests to see.”

Berry nodded to that, then looked back up at me, completely unaware that Merry was attempting to challenge him. “I’m hungry.”

“Then go get your painting and we’ll go inside to eat,” I said and waited for Merry to return and hand me the parchment he had painted on. There was blue and green on it (the sky and grass, I assumed) and a brown line (a tree?) and then a big red and yellow blob in the middle. “This is wonderful Merry! I have never seen a painting quite like this.”

Merry beamed proudly and thankfully didn’t ask me to guess what it was like he usually did.

We went back to the Hall and I stored the paintings in the apartment for safekeeping. We entered the dining hall and the children ran to sit at the junior table with the other youngsters. I found a seat at the teen and tween table between Bordoc and Alcanas, two Brandybuck cousins of very little personality. Thankfully, their main focus was on eating and I wasn’t forced to talk to them.

After second breakfast, I took the lads to the stables and let them feed the ponies and bring them fresh water while the ostlers were out walking some of the beasts. Berry quickly found that it was easier to stack the empty feed pails together and take them in one go to the bins for filling, and then take the full pails one at a time back to the ponies’ stalls. Merry tried to do this also and I could see a little light flash in his head when he saw the way Berry was taking the pails back. Merry snickered to himself and set to stacking the full pails and carrying them back all at once, only the pails were now too heavy for him and he stumbled at one point, sending the pails careening to the floor and the oats scattering everywhere. Berry stopped what he was doing and helped Merry and me to gather up the oats and refill the pails.

The ponies fed, I decided that we might as well top off the water troughs too. Merry’s pout returned and only deepened when Berilac managed to fill up more water pails than him. It was a struggle for them both, and I had to go back and forth between them to lift the water jug and pour the water into the pails, but Merry only saw that Berry didn’t struggle as much as he did and could lift the water jug higher before requiring help.

After the ponies were all seen to, I took the lads down to the river and found some of the fishing rods that were kept in a storehouse near the ferry landing. I took them a little further downstream, to a place where we could sit with our feet in the water and keep cool under the shade of the birches that grew near the water’s edge. My plan was to occupy them in this manner until elevenses, figuring that there was no way Merry could find anything to compete over since there was little chance that any of us would catch any fish.

Merry soon became convinced that Berilac was able to cast his line further into the river than he could. I sat behind Merry and took his pole hand in mine. “Here, Merry, like this,” I said and demonstrated drawing the line back and forth. “Once, twice. Keep the wrist relaxed. Then on the third time, when your hand starts to move forward, flick your wrist and let the line go.”

Merry nodded and after a few more demonstrations, he attempted it on his own. Berilac watched him intently and shook his head as Merry’s line fell in the water just inches from the bank. “Relax your wrist,” he instructed Merry. “Like this.” And he demonstrated easily, his line landing a good three feet into the river, much to Merry’s chagrin.

Really, is there anything this child can’t do? No wonder Merry’s always trying to outdo him. Even I couldn’t cast a line that effortlessly until I was nine. Then I chuckled at myself for feeling jealous of a six-year old and reminded myself that Uncle Mac was, after all, a master fisherhobbit. Of course, Berilac would have more practice with fishing than the average child. I was in the process of quietly explaining this to Merry when Berry’s line caught a bite.

“I’ve got one!” he exclaimed, but he frowned as he started to reel in his catch.

“You got one?” I asked, incredulous. “It’s the wrong time of day! There’s no fish out right now.”

Berry looked up at me and shrugged, then went back to drawing in his fish. It turned out to be a little golden fish, which Berry instantly unhooked and tossed back into the river.

“That’s a swordtail. You don’t eat those,” Berry said, then lengthened his line before recasting it further into the river.

Merry threw me a look that said ‘See, I told you’ and went back to struggling with his line. Merry had finally cast a satisfactory line around half past ten, but he never caught anything on it. Berry’s catch was the only one any of us made.

I had brought snacks for elevenses, so we remained by the river until luncheon. When the lads tired of fishing, we walked along the riverbank looking for stones to skip across the river. As should have been expected, Berry picked up the skill with ease and was soon skipping rocks without thought. He even attempted to skip the rocks twice in a row and after a handful of attempts, he figured out the technique for that as well. Merry, on the other hand, couldn’t even get his rocks to skip once, even though I picked the stones myself and showed him several times how to do it.

Finally, our stomachs started grumbling for luncheon and we headed back to the Hall. Merry tried to race Berry the last hundred yards, but Berry was tall for his age and had longer legs. He reached the West Door well ahead of Merry and gracefully congratulated his younger cousin on a good race. The competition extended into the dining hall, as Berry even ate faster than Merry did. By the time luncheon was over, Merry was feeling thoroughly demoralized and Berry still hadn’t a clue what was going on.

I took the children to the bathing rooms and made sure they were scrubbed clean from head to toe. Berylla found us as we were leaving the bathing rooms and took Berry to have a nap before getting dressed. Esme and Sara were in the apartment getting ready when Merry and I returned. I settled him to his own nap, then let my guardians know that I was leaving for my own bath. I washed as quickly as I could and returned just as Esme and Sara were getting ready to leave; they needed to be on the summit to greet the guests.

“You look beautiful, Aunt Esme,” I said. “And Uncle Sara, you’re quite dashing.”

For they were. Esme was wearing a dress of deep scarlet with a long skirt, a white fur shawl wrapped over her shoulders. She had chosen a pony as her mask and it had a long mane of red-stained feathers down the back. Saradoc wore a white overcoat, black waistcoat and white shirt, his breeches a deep brown. His mask was a cow.

“Merry’s still asleep,” Saradoc said. “Get yourself dressed first, then wake him up and see him dressed. Don’t be late. The Master’s speech starts right at four.”

I had discovered early on that most people were going as either a pony, a pig, a cow or a deer. There were a few lasses going as cats and fewer lads going as dogs, but that was the end of everyone’s imagination. I had tried to convince Esme and Sara to let me go as a dragon or a wolf but they thought that was in poor taste. They wouldn’t let me be a fox or a crow either, saying that those animals pestered the farmers too much and such a costume wouldn’t be thought of kindly. Finally, I settled on being an owl and I found an old brown dress coat in one of the mathom rooms that Esme said I could paint feathers on.

After I was dressed, I went into Merry’s room to wake him up. I waited until he was finished yawning and could stand up on his own before helping him into his dress clothes. He would be wearing light brown and green, and his mask was deer.

“Berry’s going as a pony,” he announced. “I want to be a pony too. I’d make a much better pony than he would.”

“You’ve already got your deer mask,” I said. “It’s too late to change now.”

“Because the feast starts at teatime, which is just an hour away,” I pointed out.

“But I’d look much cuter as a pony than Berry and no one will know if I don’t go as a pony,” Merry said.

I sighed. “Look, Merry, it’s too late. You’re just going to have to make due as the cutest little deer there is. And as for this little competition with Berry, if you just stopped caring so much about outdoing him all the time, you’d have a lot more fun.”

“I just want to be able to do one thing better than him, that’s all,” Merry said, crossing his arms and pouting. “Da’s always saying how Berry’s so much more well-behaved than me, and how he’s already taking his lessons early.”

“He did start his lessons early,” I said, “but that’s hardly anything to be jealous of because while he’s stuck inside learning to write letters, you are outside playing.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t,” I said, then stood back, thinking hard. “Besides, there is one thing you do much, much better than him.”

“What’s that?” he asked, eager to know in what way he was superior to his older cousin.

Then I smiled as an idea formed in my mind, a horrible, terrible, deplorable idea that was just too tempting to pass up. I would be fibbing just a little, but Merry didn’t need to know that. He only needed to know that he could excel Berry in some way and then he would put this whole one-sided competition behind him. And if it just so happened that folk would talk about it for a while, then that was all the better.

“Well, you’re too young to remember this, but Berry has himself a sort of record, and I’m sure you could beat it without breaking a sweat,” I said and put my plan into motion.

Everyone was gathered under the grand pavilion atop Buck Hill. Merry and I were amongst the first ones there and everyone exclaimed over how adorable Merry was in his deer costume. All the matrons pinched his cheeks or squeezed his chin and all the fellows ruffled his curls and said how big he was getting. Thankfully, he didn’t notice that Berry was receiving the exact same treatment and he was able to bathe in the praise like a plant in sunlight. Everyone agreed that my costume was quite original and I received more than a few comments from cousins saying they would have to try my method of matching my clothes to my mask the next year. Everyone was dressed spectacularly and saying how wonderful everyone’s masks were.

Just before four o’clock, everyone lined up at the serving tables and got their food, then took their seats at the various tables. At the front of the pavilion were four long rows of benches for the elders and they arranged themselves so they sat next to their spouses and closest friends and favorite cousins. The two large round tables near the back of the pavilion were for children of all ages, and I found myself once again sitting between Bordoc and Alcanas. Merry set his plate down across from me; within a space of wink, he disappeared, dashing outside. I pretended not to notice.

Soon enough, everyone was seated and served, their glasses filled with their beverage of choice, their masks in place. It was quite a sight, all those hobbits trying to look like animals, waiting patiently for the Master to make the opening speech so we could eat. Aunt Menegilda sat at the head table with Uncle Rory beside her and she looked out over the multitude with pride. Despite everyone’s earlier protests, they were quite enjoying their costumes now, especially since they had all found ways of designing or wearing their masks that wouldn’t impede their eating. Uncle Rory stood up and clanked his glass with a spoon to get everyone’s attention, not that he didn’t have it already.

“Good day, my fellow hobbits,” Uncle Rory said and everyone cheered and raised their glasses, hoping that was the end of it, but Rory continued on. “Another Mid-Year’s Day is upon us and another fruitful year is half-gone. What a delight it is to be gathered here this afternoon to celebrate our good fortune. The Lithe Day Festival, as you all know, will commence first thing tomorrow morning out at Crafter’s Field and we expect there to be many wonderful entries for all contests. Last-minute entries for the produce and animal husbandry judging contests must be cleared by myself, Saradas, Dino or Dodi; last-minute entries for the home crafts contests must be cleared by Menegilda, Amaranth, or Asphodel, no later than nine o’clock tomorrow morning. I would also like to remind everyone that—”

At that moment, a loud screech sounded outside the pavilion, cutting off Rory’s speech. Everyone turned their heads to look in the direction of the yell and a half-minute later, Merry came dashing into the pavilion and right through it from one end to the other, wearing not a stitch of clothing and screaming cheerily at the top of his lungs the whole time. I quickly covered my mouth with a napkin and watched as everyone sat in silent shock. No one moved or blinked or even breathed. They simply stared agape at the spot where Merry’s bare bottom had exited, looks of complete bewilderment on all of their faces. Esme and Saradoc quickly shot glances at each other, then at the table where Merry was supposed to be sitting, then back at the spot where Merry had run from the tent, as if they couldn’t truly believe that that had been their son.

Well, if they didn’t believe it the first time, there was no doubt the second time. Merry dashed back inside, giggling uncontrollably, and weaved around one of the tables on his way back outside to where he had entered the first time. Now some of the hobbits were starting to laugh and chuckle, and more than a few of them, especially the younger teens and tweens, were blushing furiously. Saradoc had stood up during that second run and scowled after his exposed son, still too frozen with shock to actually take any action.

When Merry ran through a third time, this time stopping to grab some biscuits from the food table and sample the frosting on the cake, nearly everyone had got over their shock and were laughing their heads off. Rory was barely able to control himself enough to signal Dodi, Dino and Saradas to go chasing after Merry and pin him down. But the uncles got the command too late and Merry had run outside again, stopping just outside the tent flap to jiggle his little bum at everyone.

It was on his fourth run that things got out of hand. All the uncles and Saradoc lunged after him but Merry was too quick for them and sidestepped them all. Then he ran underneath the first row of benches, causing everyone seated there to jump up, and trip over each other and the benches on which they were sitting. The uncles tried to grab him again when he came out at the other end, but at this point, Merry had worked up a bit of a sweat, and his slick bare skin easily slipped out of their grasp, and it didn’t help matters that there was nothing for them to grab hold of. He went dashing for the other end of the pavilion, his little face alight with glee. He was enjoying this game!

Now others were joining the effort to grab hold of Merry, but he kept easily and lithely evading capture, by dodging and dashing under more tables. Finally, Seredic grabbed a tablecloth off one of the tables, inevitably sending food sprawling everywhere, including the hobbits sitting at the next table over. Edic bent over low and dashed after Merry at full speed. Merry bee-lined for the edge of the tent but there was no opening where he was heading. He told me later that he was planning to wriggle his way out under the tent, but just at the moment that he reached the canvas, both Edic and Uncle Dodi came at Merry from different directions. They collided into each other and went careening into a couple of the supports for the pavilion. The supports gave way and the pavilion started to cave in. Hobbits went running out of the tent, afraid it would come down completely, and Merry made his escape with the rush.

It was a good long while before order was restored. The support beams were reset and the tent was fixed in a wink. The spilled food was cleared away and the benches and chairs put back where they belonged. The hobbits whose food was spoiled were served anew while the other hobbits cleaned themselves off as best they could. Then everyone retook their seats, laughing and chuckling still. Or almost everyone. Saradoc and the uncles were prowling around and outside the pavilion looking for signs of Merry. Uncle Rory didn’t bother finishing his speech and everyone was too busy talking about the spectacle to eat.

After a few minutes, Saradoc and the uncles returned, and Saradoc was carrying a half-dressed Merry under his arm. Merry had been hiding behind the promise tree attempting to button up his shirt and tuck it into his breeches when he was discovered and finally captured by Uncle Saradas. The uncles came back in laughing heartily, but Saradoc was as red as Esme’s dress. Merry was grinning from ear to ear and he winked at me as they went past. Saradoc and Esme looked like they couldn’t decide if they wanted to laugh or scold Merry right there on the spot. In the end, they seated the lad between them and told him in no uncertain terms that he was to sit there and not move an inch for the remainder of tea. To his credit, Merry did just that.

After tea, as we were all making our way out of the pavilion to the dance area, Merry came running up to me and bounced up into my arms. “Did I do it! Did I do it!” he said. “Did I break his record? Was that ten times?”

I nodded and ruffled his curls proudly. “You obliterated his record! He’ll never be able to match it even if he tries for the rest of his life.”

“Really?” Merry said, grinning even more, which I hadn’t thought would be possible. Really, his face was about to split in two.

I nodded again. “But, we should be good sports about this and not gloat over it. I’m sure Berry’s already feeling bad enough about it as it is.” I also didn’t want to explain that Berry had not actually streaked through last year’s summer feast, that streaking was not a real tradition, and that Berry had likely forgotten about his real flash run down the tunnels of Brandy Hall three years ago.

I shook my head. “Afraid not. It’s one of the rules. You can only streak once in your life.”

“Oh.” Merry settled his head on my shoulder and yawned widely. “Maybe next year, you can do the streaking.”

I laughed nervously and tried not to blush. “Oh, but I’ve already done my one time, before you were even born,” I lied quickly and hoped Merry never found out the truth. The last thing I wanted to do was bare my nether regions for everyone to see.

For Mother’s Day I was originally going to write four drabbles from the POVs of the hobbits’ mothers, but the moms just wouldn’t be limited to 100 words. In the first one, Frodo is about 9 years old. In the second one, Merry is about 18. In the last one, Pippin is about 25. (Ages in Man years: 6, 11, and 16)

Companion piece of sorts to “A Mother’s Work” in my “Number Three, Bagshot Row” series.

I look up from my book and search the courtyard for my son. I find him sitting on the ground, his knees drawn up to his chest. He’s beaming at me, waiting for me to watch him perform his latest trick. “Look what I can do!” he exclaims, then starts rocking back and forth, once, twice, three times, getting a little more momentum with each rock. Then he tucks his head down into the cross of his arms and rolls over forward, a veritable hobbit-ball. His limbs come undone as he comes out of the roll and he finishes spread-eagle on the ground, laughing up at me.

I gasp with delighted surprise, even though this is the seventh time I’ve seen him accomplish this trick. I put my book down on the bench and jump to me feet, clapping wildly. “Wonderful, Fro! Marvelous!”

He beams even more brilliantly, then scrambles to his feet and runs over to me, throwing his arms around my waist with all his might. I hug him back, just as fiercely, and kiss his curls.

“I can see that,” I say, my pride evident. “What a clever son I have. Why, I do believe you’re the most clever hobbit-child ever. How lucky I am to be your mother.”

He squeezes harder and giggles into my dress as I begin to wiggle him back and forth. I straighten up and fix his curls and he lifts his head to gaze at me. “What else have you been practicing, Fro?”

“All sorts of things,” he says and lets me go abruptly to dash back to his ‘stage’. He shows me how he can stand on his head and walk on his hands and hop backward on one leg, and I clap enthusiastically with each trick, whether it’s performed successfully or not. When he finishes, he dashes over and hugs me again.

“I must say, Frodo my dear, that you’re the most well-balanced, sure-footed hobbit I’ve ever seen. I could never walk on my hands,” I say.

“Really?” Frodo says and looks up at me, considering. Then he beams again and he jumps a bit at some idea he’s thought up. “I’ll teach you. It took me a long time to learn to, but I bet you’ll learn real fast. You’re very clever too, Mama.”

“Clever, I may be, but I’m too old for such tumbling about,” I say. “Now, you have been working very hard to perfect your talent, and that deserves a treat. Help me make cream puffs?”

His face scrunches up and he mulls this over, giving the matter much weight of thought. “I suppose you can have some, since you’re my mum.”

“Oh, that’s very kind of you. You’re such a thoughtful young lad,” I say and laughing again, I lead him inside, his arms still tight around me.

I find Merry playing outside in the courtyard behind to the stables. With him are Berilac and Merimas, along with the other teen and younger tween lads. They are vigorously playing some form of kick ball where the targets aren’t the goals but are instead the other players. The old burley sac stuffed with sand that they’re playing with is zooming past limbs and heads with far too much speed. All I can imagine seeing is Merry lying on the ground in a bloody heap, but I try not to fret, knowing how Merry hates that.

“Merry!” I call instead. He looks over at me and grimaces. “Can you come here for a minute?”

“Go to your mummy, Merry,” a lad named Merle teases. The other lads snicker and a few mimic the first. Berry gives Merry a sympathetic pat on the back. I pretend not to notice any of this and wait for Merry to drag himself over to me, looking sullen and glum where just a moment before he was laughing and grinning.

“Don’t take that tone with me, young lad,” I say, putting my hands to my hips. He at least has the sense to look abashed, and I’m relieved to see that the blood had come from a small gash in his arm that is already closed. “Your aunts are going to be here shortly. I want you to look respectable when they arrive. They don’t visit that often, it’s not going to kill you to spend an afternoon with them.”

“But Mother,” Merry says, a whine in his voice, which he is still keeping under his breath. He doesn’t want the other lads to know he’s whining. “The Aunts are mean to me.”

“Why do you say they’re mean? Because they want you to act like a gentlehobbit rather than a charlatan?” I say and tisk at him. “You may finish playing this round, then you must come inside and wash up. It’ll be far worse for you if they arrive to find you looking like a scoundrel.”

“All right,” Merry agrees, but he isn’t happy about. “I’ll make it quick.”

“Good,” I say, I then do the worst possible thing I can do. It’s a crime that isn’t to be tolerated, but I forget that and take out my handkerchief to wipe away a smudge of dirt on his cheek. The other lads roar with laughter and Merry blushes bright red and beats my hand away.

“Sorry, sorry,” I say, backing away. “I forgot I’m not allowed to touch you in front of your friends.” Or hug you, or kiss you, or ruffle your curls, or tickle you. No, those things are off limits now.

Merry lifts his head high and bravely returns to the game, completely ignoring the fact that I’m still there. His friends tease him mercilessly but he keeps his head high and instantly kicks the ball right at Merle, hitting him square in the chest and taking him out of the game. I cringe and fight the urge to tell him to be careful.

I go inside to see that tea is ready for when my sisters arrive, ignoring the pang of hurt in my heart that my son doesn’t need me so much anymore. He’s growing up too fast, and far too soon he won’t need me at all.

I’m in the study balancing the household ledgers and enjoying some peace and quiet, when the study door creaks open. Pippin peeks inside, then slips through the door opening and slumps onto the dais along the far wall. He’s been moping around the apartment for the last several days but I learned long ago not to ask him what’s bothering him. He’ll just roll his eyes or sigh dramatically and insist that nothing’s wrong. If I leave him be, he’ll either figure out on his own whatever is bothering him, forget about it and move on, or do this: come to linger around me for no particular reason. Now he’ll pretend that he has no interest or purpose in being here. He’ll finger the pattern in the upholstery of the dais, he’ll get up and roam about the room, picking up the trinkets and turning them over, or running his fingers along the bookshelves and tabletops looking for dust that isn’t there. Then he’ll sigh and fiddle about some more. Then he’ll sit back down, but closer than before, in the chair next to the desk where I’m sitting. He’ll start to speak several times, only to say nothing at all, then he’ll get up again and come to stand behind me, pretending to read the titles of the very books and annals that his father has to force on him for his Thainship studies night after night. Then he’ll talk, but only if I don’t attempt to talk first myself or make any form of eye contact until then.

I keep my head down and go about my adding and subtracting. I watch him from the corner of my eye, watch him as he fingers the dais and then looks around the room, studying it as though he has never seen it before. I ruffle through some papers when he stands up and starts to poke about the room. I find the invoice for the retiling of the kitchen floor and add that to the ledger. Then I remember that Pervinca needs more material for a dress she’s making and add the cost of that as well. Pippin plops down in the chair next to the desk and twiddles his thumbs. I look up, briefly, to acknowledge his presence then go back to my work.

I’m finishing up my sums when Pippin stands up again and comes to stand behind me. I tidy up as he hums thoughtfully at the books and fingers the spine of one of the thicker ones. I open the desk drawer and put the ledgers away, then cork the inkwell and put the pen and ink away.

“Mum,” Pippin says then. He’s still looking at the books and I know he won’t turn to face me until he gets to the heart of the matter.

“Do you think it’s true that if a hobbit hasn’t hit his growth spurt before he’s twenty-six, that he’ll never grow another inch?” Pippin asks the book about property laws.

“Well, it is unusual for a hobbit to grow after a certain age, but everyone is different,” I soothe. “Your father didn’t reach his final height until he was nearly thirty. Don’t tell him I told you that, though.”

He smiles weakly before turning serious again. “Do you think that it’s true that the size of a hobbit’s hand determines how many lasses he’s going to court?”

I take a moment to prevent myself from sputtering before answering. “The one has nothing to do with the other, dearest.”

“Well, then,” he says to the book about the topography of the Green Hill Country, “do you think that it’s true that a lad who’s short and has small hands will be thought of as girlish?”

I start to seethe at the unknown bully who’s been telling such ridiculous things to my susceptible son. I take a deep breath and say soothingly, “Of course not, Pippin. There are plenty of lads who are smaller than average and no one thinks the less of them for it. They certainly would never think that a lad is a lass.”

“So then, lasses won’t think that either, and they won’t treat the lad like one of the lasses, and that wouldn’t be the reason why they wouldn’t want to kiss the lad or anything?”

“No. Pippin, none of that is true. It’s absolutely absurd to think that it is,” I say assuredly.

“Well, then…” Pippin says and glares at the book on negotiation rights before turning to me and asking, “then why does Cedric always have a lass on each arm? They’re always swooning over him and fighting each other to be his lass, and always saying how he’s so tall and his hands are so big and how he’s such a strapping lad. They look at me and tell me I’m blocking the sun, or can I fetch a servant for them, or tell me I would look good in teal, and I don’t even know what teal is. Aidan and Everard said that I’m small like a lass and he’s not and that’s why.”

So it is Everard Took and Aidan Chubb who are responsible for this little outburst. I turn in my chair to face Pippin directly, and I place my hand on the bookshelf next to his. He fingers the edge of the shelf for a moment or two, then shyly wraps his hand around my index finger, barely touching. He looks at me miserably.

“Everard’s tall,” he goes on. “He’s the tallest hobbit in the Smials and his fingers are really long, so he has big hands too. Aidan’s tall, and he has a ‘good sturdy back and nice strong hands’. They also have lasses following them about.”

“First of all, any lass setting her cap on Cedric Briarmoore is asking for a broken heart, and quite possibly more trouble than she’s prepared to admit to her father. Second of all, those lads are years older than you, Pippin, as are the lasses who are chasing them. And let me tell you something: they were no bigger than you when they were your age,” I soothe.

“And again I say, more trouble than they’re prepared for.” I dare to move my hand to cover his and he doesn’t move away. I give his hand a little squeeze. “When I first saw your father, he was just like you: small for his age, shy around the lasses, uncertain about his appeal. I loved him instantly.”

I nod. “Oh yes, I did. Gaining a lasses affection isn’t a race, Pippin, nor is it a game. If those lads want to tease and jest, let them, but don’t be pulled in by them. One day, that special lass will look at you and she’ll fall in love with you for just being you. That’s all that matters. Hm?”

He smiles weakly again, but there’s a lightness to his eyes now and his face is not so drawn in as it was before. He looks down at our hands and shrugs. “I guess so.”

“Good. Now that that’s settled, move out of the way. You’re blocking my light. Oh, and can you fetch the serving lass for me?” I say and grin mischievously.

Pippin fights to keep from smiling fully but soon loses the battle. He snickers, then chuckles and finally laughs. He steps back, breaking contact, and shakes his head at me. “Thanks, Mum,” he says. He leans over and pecks me briefly on the cheek, a whisper of a kiss. He’s across the room and at the door before I can blink.

“Oh, and Pippin,” I call before he can retreat fully back to his elusive and secretive tween self.

“Teal is a dark bluish-green, and you would look very appealing in it,” I inform him.

A series of drabbles in the POVs of Sam’s children. Their ages at the time of writing are undetermined, but I believe most of them are in their tweens or early adult years. Primrose’s seems to be from her teen years, and Robin’s might be from the time after Sam sailed over the Sea.

When I look at my father, I see his love for his family and his joy in his homeland. I see the wisdom of his actions, his solid practicality, his thoroughness and diligence. I see his confidence by the way he can walk into a room and take command with a soft word and a gentle smile. I see the reflection of his courage and sacrifices in the depths of his eyes, mingled with a sadness and longing that pull him ever toward the Sea. I see a whisper of golden light illuminating him from within. I see hope unquenchable.

My father does everything with ease and calm. He can do more things in a day than most people can accomplish in a week. He can trim the hedgerows, cut the grass, attend a wedding banquet, preside over a meeting between family heads, take Tom to the healer for more asthma medication on his way into town to do the marketing and pick up Ruby and Primrose from Aunt Marigold’s, and still have dinner on the table on time. Anything he puts his hand to, he can master almost instantly without having to think. But he can’t say my name.

Dad can fix anything with just a kiss and a laugh. He once stopped Bilbo from crying by kissing his scraped knees and palms, and giving him a tickle. When Hamfast and Goldilocks were arguing, he told them funny stories until they made up, and when Pippin found a hurt coney, he kissed Pippin’s forehead and told him everything would be fine. By the next morning, the coney was hopping around the pantry, munching on lettuce and celery leaves. But when Timmy Sandheaver broke my heart, Dad hugged me while I cried and somehow that made me feel better too.

Once a season, my dad takes Sting from its display plaque on the study wall to polish it. He buffs the blade gingerly, taking special care with the runes, a far off look in his eyes. He tells us how Mr. Bilbo found the sword in the Troll Shaws, how he gave it to Mr. Frodo, who gave it to Dad in Shelob’s lair. He lets me touch it today and it feels like liquid silk, and he says it even sings when you draw it from its scabbard. Then he says he never wants to hear it sing again.

“Sometimes. Most times we compromise. We find a solution that makes us both happy.”

“We both agree to give up something we want for ourselves in place of something we both want together.”

“Then someone has to give up everything, but it shouldn’t always be the same someone. The same goes for you children. You have a voice, Pippin. Don’t be afraid to use it.”

Master Meriadoc and Thain Peregrin say that my father has the patience of the Valar. Mr. Frodo said in the Red Book that Dad would become a wizard or a warrior, and that by the end, he became a bit of both. Ellie says he glows sometimes, like a candle but softer, harder to see if you’re not looking the right way. Mom says Dad is the best hobbit in all Shire, and the best Mayor, and lots of other folk say that too. Dad says he’s a gardener. “Everything takes root and blossoms if you give it enough care.”

I watch from my perch on the other side of the hedgerow as my dad weeds the garden and plants the annuals. Frodo usually does this now, but Dad still likes to get his hands dirty from time to time. He handles the seedlings with the same care as he did the youngest children when they were bairns, how he handled us all. As I watch, I begin to understand. The garden is his gift to us, and we are his gift to the garden, for we’ll tend it long after he’s gone and it will remind us of him.

Being the Mayor’s daughter can be arduous. People expect to see a certain amount of pedigree I do not possess. Working hobbits call me Miss, and I don’t fit in with the gentlehobbits either. I’m torn in two, a Gamgee curse it seems. I ask my dad how he managed it all those years, before the War, being neither here nor there. “It wasn’t as bad for me,” he says. “I was just the gardener’s lad, too big for my breeches. And I was Mr. Frodo’s lad, right where I belonged. Find out where you belong, and naught else matters.”

“Well, in part you’re named after your mother, and in part, you’re also named for Mr. Frodo’s mother.”

“Aye. Primula means primrose. Mostly you’re named so because as soon as your Ma and I saw you, we couldn’t imagine living without you, and that’s what primrose stands for.”

“When Ruby was first born, she was pink-skinned, and the birthmark on her ankle was bright red.”

It’s hard to be noticed in a family of fifteen. Most times, everyone forgets I’m here and I’ll wind up off by myself, digging in a corner of the garden or sitting on Mr. Frodo’s reading bench listening to my other siblings playing. Then Dad’ll come and he’ll show me a dandelion he just uprooted and tell me everything about it, like when they sprout and what healers use them for. He’ll take me to where he and Frodo are working and show me how to tend the roses, telling me why each and every one reminds him of Ma.

Dad is the kindest, gentlest, most generous hobbit there ever was. Don’t believe his name though; he’s no fool and the look he wears now proves it: cunning and evaluating, a level watchfulness that misses nothing, not even the minutest detail. It’s a look I’ve seen many times before, aimed at Merry or Hamfast when they are foolish enough to lie to him about something they’ve done. They thought I could get away with it, that he’d be easier on me because I’m a lass. They were wrong, and I never want to see that look directed at me again.

In my earliest remembrances of my dad, he was already greying and wrinkled, his back slightly bent with years of garden work, his hearing beginning to fade, a hard thing for a former spy. My older siblings tell stories of him from their youth, how he used to toss them high into the air and spin them around until they were both dizzy. What I remember most is how he’d sit us youngest ones down and give us hints on how to outsmart our older siblings. Sometimes, he’d sing Elvish ballads or read poems that he’d written just for us.

Dad loves to tell the story of my birth, how he and Ma found out she was pregnant again when they reached Rohan, how the dignitaries of Rohan and Gondor had showered gifts on them both, how they had turned my name-giving into a grand party for all of Minas Tirith. He’ll sit by the hearth in Bag End, his eyes shimmering with firelight, the orange glow making him look both older and regal as he spins his tale. He’ll look at me and wink, and say how the dwarves had it wrong all along. Thirteen is a lucky number.

A/N: This story takes place shortly after the events of “A Tale That Grew in the Telling”. That is, the ‘present-day’ events of the prologue and epilogue that bookend Sam’s tale. It was inspired by Frodo’s drabble in “The Master of Bag End”, which was in turn inspired by “A Tale”.

“You’ve been thinking about somewhat awful hard, Sam,” Rose said, coming up behind her husband as he stood in the study, staring out the window at the warm autumn day. Sounds of the children playing somewhere in the garden drifted in through the window with the whispering breeze, and over Sam’s shoulder she could see Frodo hunched over the flowerbeds, Bilbo at his side. “What are you fretting on, dear-heart?” she asked.

At first, she had thought Sam’s silence was nothing more than exhaustion from his long night of story-telling. Certainly Daisy hadn’t been very chipper the day following Sam’s tale. Not until that night, when Sam and Frodo came to table late for dinner, did Rose begin to suspect there was something else amiss. They had acted normal enough, but Rose could tell that her son had been crying and Sam was pensive. That was three days ago and though the days were as sunny and warm as could be hoped for, a dark cloud continued to loom over Sam’s head.

Rose wrapped her arms around Sam’s waist and he covered her hands with his own. He leaned back only slightly into Rose’s embrace, so as not to put too much weight on her. Rose rested her chin on his shoulder and followed his gaze to their sons digging in the dirt.

“Is it Frodo then?” she asked. If it wasn’t that then it was something business-related and Sam wouldn’t necessarily tell her about that.

Sam nodded, the curls at his nape tickling her cheek as he did so. “Fro asked me if I love Mr. Frodo more than I do you or the children. He seemed so resigned to it when he said it, like he’d known all along and was just now admitting it to himself. I’m not sure if he really believed me when I said I didn’t, that I love you all the same. You don’t think all the children wonder that, do you? You don’t think that?”

Rose tightened her embrace for a moment, reassuringly, before answering. “Oh, I know you were Mr. Frodo’s lad long before you were mine. But to ask if you love him more than us, that’d be like asking if you love breathing in or breathing out more. Some things just can’t be thought on like that. The children know you adore them to no end, and so does Frodo.”

“Then why would he ask such? Why would he even think it? He must have doubted it for some reason, and if he has, it’s been for a good long while,” Sam said.

“I don’t know the answer to that, dearest. You’re going to have to ask him,” Rose said as down the tunnel in the kitchen, the timer sounded. “That’s the biscuits for half-tea. Call the children inside, will you?” She turned her head to the side and kissed him lightly on the neck before letting go. She was at the door before she thought of something and turned about. “Wait until I fix up a tray for you and Frodo. You can talk outside while the rest of the children are in here.”

Sam nodded and smiled at her appreciatively. “Whatever would I do without you, lass?” he asked, smiling for the first time in days.

After a time, Sam left the study and made his own way to the kitchen, where Rose was deftly preparing half-tea, a special Gardner meal served half-way between luncheon and teatime. After half-tea, the youngest children would have naptime and the others would help with chores. It was the perfect time for Sam to have a private word with his eldest son.

He waited as she prepared the tray with a pile of warm, gooey sugar biscuits, cucumber sandwiches, diced apples and a couple of glasses of cold tea. She handed the tray to him and quickly went about fixing glasses and plates for the other children. Sam knew she would have all eleven places set and ready for the stampede before he even set foot outside. Still, he helped her load the rolling tray and led her way to the dining room. They rarely used the kitchen table for it was too small for their large family, and they employed the dining room for all their family meals. Sam was suddenly struck with the irony of it, how his family would make a fuss if they had to eat in the kitchen whereas there had been a time when Sam was petrified to even set foot in the dining room.

He chuckled at the change and exited the smial through the back door. “Children! Half-tea!” he called at the top of his lungs. He then made his way to the flowerbeds where Frodo and Bilbo were. Bilbo was already on his feet and running; he dodged around his father effortlessly, hardly pausing to acknowledge his father’s presence. Sam could hear the other children coming up from the lower gardens or down from the roof, but he paid them no heed. He stopped beside Frodo, who was wiping his soiled hands on his breeches.

Frodo blinked up at him. “Hullo, Dad,” he greeted back, his expression showing his confusion. “Are we eating out of doors?”

“You and I are,” Sam said as Frodo stood. “I thought we could sit under the elm and have a bit of a chinwag.”

“Why?” Frodo asked and rightly so. His father didn’t often play favors with any of the children, and when he did it was usually because they needed to ‘discuss’ something. Frodo quickly racked his brain for any hint of misbehavior on his part that would justify a special audience with his father. What had he done?

“I want to talk some more about what we were speaking of the other night,” Sam informed. He nodded toward the back of the garden. “Come along.”

Frodo followed his father around the smial to the back of the property. Sam set the tray on the reading bench and sat to one side. Frodo sat to the other side and grabbed a biscuit to munch on. “Meal first,” his father said and Frodo meekly took a sandwich and wolfed it down in three bites. He popped a handful of apple slices in his mouth, devouring those in a wink, and followed it with some tea. Then he returned his attention to the biscuit.

“Do you even taste your food?” Sam asked, a fond smile on his face. Frodo ate just like his Uncle Halfred at that age.

“What is this about Dad?” Frodo asked instead. He had hoped that their discussion from the previous night was ended and he couldn’t fathom why his father would feel the need to bring it up again. The last thing Frodo wanted to do was talk again about his father one day leaving them all for the Sea. He wanted to think about that as little as he could.

“You said somewhat that night as got me thinking and I don’t much like what I’m thinking either,” Sam said.

Frodo made no comment, but he was glad that he wasn’t the only one not enjoying his thoughts of late. Still, he worried about what his father was fretting over. Whatever it was, he couldn’t imagine it would be anything he wanted to talk about.

“I was just being silly,” Frodo said. “I see that now. It’s like what you said. He’s your family too, and if it were one of us over there, you’d come to us just the same.”

“Indeed I would, and a whole lot sooner at that,” Sam agreed. “You see that truthfully now, do you?”

Frodo nodded again. “I do. It still hurts, knowing you won’t always be here, but then you always would be leaving us someday, one way or another. It just seems more definite now, somehow. But I guess, so long as I know you’re with him, I’ll be glad for you.”

“Aye, I can see as it would seem more real to you now,” Sam said. “It's still a long way off, and I might not even go, not if I pass afore your mother.”

Frodo winced at that. Something else he didn't want to think about just yet. “Is that all you wanted to talk about?” he asked.

Sam shook his head. “No, but that was part of it, and I’m right glad to hear you’re accepting of it, for all I know it must tear at you a bit. No, what I really wanted to talk about was why did you think that in the first place? This couldn’t have just popped into your head all of a sudden,” Sam said. “Now what started all this?”

Frodo gazed down at the grass beneath his feet and fidgeted. “I don’t know,” he said with a shrug.

“Yes you do,” Sam said gently. “Come, now, lad. What’s going on in that head of yours?”

Frodo didn’t answer right away and continued fidgeting as his father finished his meal, giving him time to gather his thoughts. He wondered how long he could delay answering before his father pressed him to do so. This was a conversation he wanted to have even less than the other.

All his life, he’d been weighed down by this knowledge he held, weighed down because it placed such a doubt on his shoulders he could hardly look up to see his way clearly to a resolution. He had thought about revealing to his father that he knew, that he had figured it out, but he could never bring himself to do so. Truth be told, it scared him, the thought of putting that weight down now. It would feel like tossing away a part of himself, a part he’d held close to protect both himself and his father, and that would hurt no matter how glad he would feel to be rid of it.

Frodo’s time was up. He sighed deeply and kept his eyes on his toes. “You never say my name,” he said. “You say, ‘Fro, come to dinner’ or ‘Did you weed the petunias Frodo-lad?’ but you never say my name by itself. You say everyone else’s name but mine,” Frodo said, his voice breaking as the emotions, suppressed inside him for so many years, came to the surface. “You say everyone else’s name but mine, and that can only be because I’m not like him. I’m not good enough to have his name. I’ve shamed you somehow and I don’t know why.”

Tears spilled down his cheeks unheeded and he barely noticed when Sam moved the tray to the end of the bench and slid over to sit beside him. His father’s arm pulled him into a warm, comforting embrace and Frodo sagged into his father’s side, just as he had done three days before.

“Oh, Fro,” Sam said, his voice breaking also and Frodo felt his father’s breath hitch in his chest as he struggled with his own emotions. “Is that what you think? No, love. No, it isn’t that at all. I couldn’t be more proud of you and if Mr. Frodo had known you, he’d be just as proud to have you for his namesake. You’re the best hobbit to carry his name there ever was.”

He felt his father’s weight shifting and realized why when a handkerchief was suddenly pushed into his hand. Frodo sat up and wiped his eyes. His father kept a reassuring hand on his knee as Frodo struggled to compose himself, and silently he admonished himself for crying so much. He was making a habit of this and it was a tad embarrassing. He was grateful that none of his siblings had been present to witness either of his displays.

He dabbed at his tears and sniffled, forcing himself to take deep, slow breaths until he thought he could look at his father again. When he did finally meet his father’s gaze, he saw that his father was equally as shaken, though he held onto his tears still.

“Why?” Sam repeated. “That’s a bit of an answer, but you deserve to hear it. Maybe telling you will make up for how utterly I’ve failed you all these years.

“Now, I did say your name at first. Your mother and your Uncle Meriadoc and Uncle Peregrin will tell you that. But something happened, something I hadn’t expected. It took me by surprise one day, when you was a faunt and starting to get into things. You were poking about in the library and were near to toppling a pile of books atop your head and I called out to stop you, and that’s when it happened.

“You got to realize, that before you were born, I’d been saying ‘Mr. Frodo’ for years, to the point where I didn’t hear the title no more and thought of it as one word rather than two. I started calling Mr. Frodo by his rightful title when I was in my teens and by the time I reached my tweens, I’d made a habit of it. From that time on it was always ‘Mr. Frodo’. I couldn’t imagine calling him aught else, could hardly remember a time I didn’t address him formal-like. Even so, there are two other times afterwards as I can remember calling him ‘Frodo’: Cirith Ungol and Mount Doom.

“You know how black all that time was, so I don’t got to be explaining that to you now. What I need to explain is that when you were playing with them books and they were getting ready to fall, and I in my panic cried out to you ‘Frodo! No!’ it took me back to that time. I’d had the memories afore then, plenty often enough while we were in Minas Tirith, and more times than I care to remember once we were all home and the Shire on its way to being rebuilt. Dreams and such as leave you shaking and sweating. But it had been a good few years since my last one and I’d thought they were over for me. I’d even got to the point so as I wasn’t expecting them, not even when I was especially tired or during the month of Rethe, which was when they usually happened. On that afternoon, I was wide awake and it was a warm summer day. So you can imagine how it knocked the wind out of me when I called to you and I was suddenly right back there on that mountain, seeing it all over again, and it was so real. It was the worst turn I’d ever had and even to this day, if I think on it too long, it gives me shivers straight to my heart.

“After that, I just couldn’t say your name anymore. I tried, I did, but every time I started it reminded me of that tower and that mountain, and I just couldn’t. Rose kept saying as I’d get use to it, I just had to keep saying it and be done with it all. She was right in a way. I can hear your name now without any trouble, but to say it… I took the coward’s the way out and that’s that.

“So now you know the truth, son. Your old dad’s just too scared. What do you think of me now?”

Frodo didn’t know what to say. During the course of his father’s confession, the weight had lifted from him and he felt a freedom he had never thought he was missing. Yet now that he knew the truth, he could see the weight that sat upon his father’s shoulders and he wished there was something he could do to relieve him of it. Not knowing what else to do, he returned his father’s earlier hug, fierce and protective.

Sam kissed his brow and sat back, smiling fondly again through his tears, now spilled. “You make me proud. Did I say that already?”

“You did,” Frodo said. “And I understand now. It’s all right if you don’t say my name.”

Sam shook his head. “No, it’s not. I should be able to say your name and not cringe at it. To honor you, as well as your name-father. If you’ll be patient with your old dad, I’ll try to start saying it. I want to,” he added the last when it looked like Frodo would protest. “I’ve been hiding from my memories long enough. You can’t vanquish your foe by hiding from it. I’m not going to hide anymore.”

“My lad,” Sam said and hesitated. He drew in a breath and let it out slowly before cupping Frodo’s face and saying softly, almost whispering, “Frodo.”

Frodo couldn’t help beaming. He had meant what he said and if this were to be the only time he’d hear his name pass his father’s lips, that would do. But he was pleasantly surprised again when his father instantly repeated it, more strongly and a bit louder, though still timid, as though he were getting himself used to it again. “Frodo,” he said and beamed himself. “I like the sound of that.”

Then Frodo laughed, and his father followed his lead, and they embraced for both joy and comfort.

From the dining room window, Rose smiled at the embrace. She would find out tonight what had passed between her husband and eldest son, but for now she was content to know that whatever had stood between them was resolved. She let the curtain fall back into place and went to put the little ones to their naps.

Written for this month’s Wee Hobbit LJ challenge, which requested hobbits and food. Be warned, I suck at poetry, even when I have the genius of Poe to work off of. Thankfully, it’s not long. :)

Once upon a spring day hour, while I chopped and diced and scoured
In the kitchen and pantry of the Whitwell farmhouse stores,
While I cured meat from the rumping, suddenly there came a thumping,
As of someone desperate slapping, slapping at the kitchen door.
“Tis some caller,” I muttered, “slapping at the kitchen door,
Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, so distinctly I do recall, in that warm and sunny hall
From whence I firstly heard my dooméd fate upon the door
Curious, I wiped my hands long, lamely thinking nothing so wrong
Could come of answering the call, the call that beat upon the wall
That led to that roundéd door that hid the source of thrall
Thoughtless always, forevermore.

Stupidly, I stretched my hand out, thinking only just to find out
Who was there entreating access to my quiet glorious kitchen.
I put a hand upon the doorknob and opening it I had to sob
For standing there so sweetly and peering up so meekly
In his breeches that were slippin', “I am hungwy,” quoth the Pippin.
And I knew I’d be resting nevermore.

Written for Grey Wonderer, who requested an encore for "The Pippin". Originally posted at the Wee-Hobbits LJ.

There once was a lad from the Took-side
Whose mouth he could open up quite wide
And whatever went in
Was seen ne'er again
For there was naught that won't fit inside

There once was a hobbit named Baggins
Whose love of mushrooms was legend
He was chased by a dog
Through the thick river fog
And soon after went to live at the Bag End

There once was a Brandybuck Merry
Whose feet were perfectly hairy
He was clever of wit
And even could fit
Both hands in a jar full of berry

There once was a hobbit of sensible calm
Who held the world’s hope in the cup of his palm
He was sunny and fey
As a brisk summer’s day
And could chase away dark with a psalm

Young Boromir and Faramir spend a morning playing outside. Based on an incident hinted at in “Tea With Hobbits” from “Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Hobbits”.

The Citadel was quiet in the damp cool morning, the rising sun bathing it in a cold pink light that filtered down through steel grey skies. Small puffs of cloud dotted across the sky behind a lone soaring hawk, and standards of the Steward whipped and snapped in the strong wind before the White Tower’s main entrance.

Inside the Steward’s House, sunlight filtered pale through eastern windows as down the marbled halls small footsteps echoed softly off the stone walls. A young boy in a crisp tunic and pressed trousers shuffled through the corridors, dragging behind him a tattered blanket of sable and silver. As he walked, he looked up at the sculptured busts of Stewards past displayed in alcoves dug deep into the stone walls. At the end of the hall, he stopped by the turn in the corridor and looked into the empty alcove where one day his father’s face would sit immortalized by hard stone. So it was that his brother found him minutes later.

“There you are,” Boromir said, running up, his countenance alighted with joy. “A merry hunt you’ve led me on, but I have caught you at last. Didn’t I say you were too old to be dragging this coverlet about?” Boromir reached down and took the blanket from his brother’s hand, rolling it up sloppily to stuff it under his arm until he could find a better place to store it.

Faramir did not move or blink, or turn his head to acknowledge his older brother, who even at such a young age it could be seen would be stronger of might than his younger sibling, or so their father always said. Yet Faramir was already more clever than his brother had been at his age, and Boromir waited now for some witty response. Many moments passed in silence as Faramir continued to stare up solemnly at the empty recess in the wall.

Boromir’s joy dissipated into concern. This grave expression had become familiar to him in the years since their mother’s death. Such forlorn silence could only mean one thing. “Faramir?”

“About the wave or one of the others?” Boromir asked, a brief chill raising the hairs at the back of his neck. He shivered involuntarily and brushed the chill off the back of his neck with his hand. Attempting jest, he said, “Now did I not tell that if you wish for the dreams to cease, you must remain awake at all times?”

“It was of mother that I dreamt, and it was different,” Faramir said, his mood fixed on despondency. “She was weeping.” Now he looked at his brother with expressionless, far-off eyes. “She was weeping for you, for what she now knows will happen if you follow your path to its end.”

“My path?” Boromir repeated, feeling now the heavy cloak of dread settling over him. Again, he attempted to shake it off. “Am I destined to go on some grand hike then?”

Faramir nodded, though he appeared uncertain. “It was unclear. She does not wish for you to wither young as she did but she fears it is your fate to perish far from the home that you love.”

Boromir laughed for the nervousness he felt spreading through his limbs. He worried more than he could put into words whenever his brother dreamt such visions. Some small part of him hidden deep at his core, away from his outer skepticism, believed what his brother said. He believed at least that his brother believed what he saw in his dreams but he did not like for Faramir to linger over them too long. He would rather not speak of such things himself, and he much preferred to see Faramir laughing and jesting, or even poring over his books, than looking up at him as he was now.

Hoping to both lighten his brother’s mood and his own fears, he clapped Faramir on the shoulder and pulled him into a sideways hug, ruffling his hair. “Honestly, little brother, I must say you do take your dreams too literally. There is no need to be so dour. Besides, how I can I die missing a home I’ve never left?”

“Faramir, it was but a dream, nothing more,” Boromir said. “Would you like to hear of what I dreamt last night? It’s horribly embarrassing.”

“I dreamt that I was late for sword instruction, and that when I arrived I was not only naked and carrying a tin sword but I was also in the wrong class. Do you want to know in which class I found myself?”

“Which one?” Faramir asked, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“In old stodgy Madam Minora’s crafts class with a gaggle of older girls staring at me as if I had grown a second head. You can imagine Madam Minora’s reaction.”

Faramir giggled at this idea. Madam Minora was formidable under the best of circumstances. “You’re lucky it was only a dream then, or you would be writing lines until you are a hundred.”

Now Boromir laughed, fully and heartily. He released his brother from his half-embrace and began down the adjoining corridor. Faramir, no longer soaked in the stupor of his dream, followed happily. “Ah yes, Madam Minora and her lines,” Boromir said. “She’s nearly as bad as Master Amarlicus, though she is more inventive. What directives would she have me write I wonder? How about: I shall not arrive naked to class.”

“I shall have the proper learning tools when I arrive to class,” Faramir said, joining in. “I shall wear the appropriate attire.”

“I shall be on time. I shall not frighten the girls,” Boromir said and the brothers stopped to laugh, stooping over as tears of mirth sprang to their eyes. When their laughter was reduced to breathless hiccups, Boromir continued down the hall. “Come along. The mud upon the training grounds has dried enough to build sand houses. Vaclar is awaiting our arrival to begin. We only have until the end of the council meeting, so we must hurry.”

“What if we soil our clothes?” Faramir asked, following his brother toward the main rear door of the Steward’s House that led to the courtyard where the Guard practiced their drills.

“What of it?” Boromir asked, unconcerned. “The soldiers are always dirtying their uniforms. It means you are training correctly.”

“I’ll speak with Father if it comes to that,” Boromir said. “Now come along, or Vaclar will begin the contest without us.”

The brothers ran through the empty halls, their footfalls echoing behind them in a scattering of heavy thuds and skids.

The training courtyard was located on the southern edge of the Citadel behind the Guardhouse, which stood between the Houses of the King and the Steward. The wall of the courtyard rose high here, towering over them at twenty feet. The floor was barren of plants or grass of any kind for it was much trampled upon, and it was now no more than a blanket of dirt and small rocks. The Guard of the Tower trained there no matter what the weather, for war and battle could come at any time, and the muddy floor was littered with many boot prints.

The children of the Guard and the Steward’s House used the training grounds as a playground when it was not in use by the Guard. The most popular activity was to attempt to run the obstacle course. After heavy rains, the children would often enjoy mud fights or wrestling, an activity that Boromir and Faramir could only participate in when their father was far afield on business. The guards posted at the White Tree would keep watch for Denethor’s return and send warning ahead, giving the boys the time they needed to run into the showers in the guardhouse, clean up, pull on fresh clothes left there for just that purpose and dash to their living quarters just in time to greet their father when he returned home.

When their father was at home, as he was this morning, the most the brothers could hope to do was supervise the games, playing as general or admiral. On mornings when the councils were held, they could often become more involved, but only with the less messy activities such as building sand houses.

Several boys and a handful of girls were already in the courtyard by the time Boromir and Faramir arrived. They called and waved hello to everyone there, then went to the far southeast corner where a young teen boy of fair hair and eyes the color of honey was busy packing wooden buckets with sandy mud. Just a year older than Boromir, he already showed the promise of the valiant and sturdy man he would one day become.

“At long last,” Vaclar said, standing up and brushing his hands on his trousers. He looked down unfavorably at Faramir but held his tongue. He learned long ago, after the death of Finduilas, that the brothers would not do anything without the other, and Boromir would brook no teasing of Faramir if it was of ill intent. To Boromir he said, “Are we having a picnic afterwards?”

The younger boys looked at the blanket still stuffed under Boromir’s arm. Boromir shoved the blanket at Faramir, who hurried to hug it to his chest before it could fall to the ground. “Put that in the guardhouse with our clean clothes, then come back out,” Boromir instructed. He watched until Faramir disappeared into the guardhouse that stood just north of the Steward’s House before asking, “Where are the others?”

“They grew tired of waiting,” Vaclar said and pointed to the towering parapet were several boys were trying to climb up the wall while others waited on the ground, watching and coaching. “Atandil already took his turn. He was just at the halfway mark before he slipped. Eradan is next to go.”

“Belendor is doing well,” Boromir said of the boy currently scaling the wall. He was one of the older boys, and so was already receiving his combat training. He was higher than all the others and was nearly at the halfway mark himself.

The halfway point was marked by a long overhang perpendicular to the ground below that protruded out from the wall for four feet. Even the most accomplished guardsman could have trouble conquering the obstacle, and it was at this point that most boys slipped or became otherwise impeded. Very few have managed to climb beyond that point, an accomplishment, it was said, to mark the climber as destined to shine in battle. As Belendor’s grip on the wall failed and he swung out on his harness to fall harmlessly to the ground, Boromir vowed that he would not only pass that overhang himself one day but he would also be the youngest to achieve the feat. Heroism on the battlefield was not enough for him; he wanted to be legend.

Faramir returned then and the three boys stooped over their buckets. Boromir tested the consistency of the soil in his and Faramir’s buckets and nodded. The soil was damp enough to hold form and dry enough to be easily wiped off hands and clothing. “You have done well, Vaclar. This should prove a most hardy race.”

“This will prove to be the day of yet another defeat for you,” Vaclar said. “I do not know why you torture yourself so, but I do enjoy the outcome.”

“I will not be so easily defeated this morning. I’ve been practicing,” Boromir informed.

“Then let us test your finely honed skills,” Vaclar said. The boys grasped the sides of their buckets and turned them upside down. “Go!”

A few well-placed taps loosened the tightly-packed dirt within and the older boys lifted their buckets to perfectly formed sand piles. Faramir’s pile cracked and crumbled along the upper edge but he was not concerned. He knew as well as Boromir and Vaclar did that he was here only to be within his brother’s keep and would not be part of their competition. He had the luxury to take his time. He sat back on his heels and studied the slant of the crumbled edge, picked up his adze and made his first cut.

Boromir was carving out the archway of the front entrance and Vaclar was forming the stairway when Belendor approached. The older boy laughed at the other three and all but leered at the building Faramir was sculpting. Rather than making a grand House, he was carefully crafting a simple farmer’s cottage.

“Leave him be. He can build whatever he wishes,” Boromir warned, instantly tensing though he continued to go about his work as though he was unconcerned about Belendor’s presence. Beside him, Vaclar pretended to sit back to examine his house so that he was in a crouching position, ready to stand up and step between the older boy and Boromir if needed.

“Typical pastime for the Steward’s sons,” Belendor continued. “Playing in the dirt like pigs in the sty, rather than practicing for drills. Perhaps you think that your father’s position allows you to be lazy.”

“I said leave him be,” Boromir said, ignoring that the comments were now aimed at himself as well. He gave up all pretense and stood but not before Vaclar could wedge himself between them, more to keep Belendor at bay than to prevent Boromir from attacking. Boromir glared over his friend’s shoulder at his brother’s tormentor, not caring that Belendor was twice his size and three years his senior. Vaclar joined him in glaring at the older boy.

“Don’t be jealous because I got further along the wall than you did,” Vaclar said. “It’s really rather petty and trite.”

“Jealous? Hardly. Your little victory will be short-lived and therefore soon forgotten. However, I find that I can no longer abide certain kids being handed whatever they want simply because of their parentage. You should be running the course, Boromir, not babysitting, especially as there are plenty of nursemaids who would gladly do the job for you.”

“I am not a baby,” Faramir said, speaking softly. He was not challenging Belendor, only stating fact.

“Is that so? Then you won’t cry when I do this,” Belendor challenged and promptly stepped on the sand house, destroying it.

Faramir said and did nothing; he would have destroyed it similarly once he was finished, so he wasn’t quite sure what sort of point Belendor was attempting to make. Vaclar leered at Belendor and stepped to the side a half-inch, enough to allow Boromir to pass him without hindrance. Boromir clenched his fists and said through gritted teeth, “I told you to leave him be.”

“I did nothing to him,” Belendor stated with a smirk, “as I will do nothing to you.” He lifted his foot and kicked in Boromir’s sand house with ease.

The next instant, Boromir launched himself at Belendor, knocking the older boy down before he could ready himself for attack. The other children in the courtyard gathered around, either cheering Boromir on or shouting for Belendor to stop. Belendor threw no punches or slaps, and rather allowed himself to be hit a few times before he rolled, pinning Boromir beneath him. He held the younger boy’s hands down to his sides while Boromir struggled for release. “What do you hope to accomplish by this?” Belendor asked innocently.

“Yes, Borry-my-boy. We wouldn’t want Daddy to become cross, would we?” Belendor teased.

“That is enough, Belendor,” Vaclar said and pulled on the older boy’s shoulder. “Let him go.”

“Very well,” Belendor agreed. He let Boromir go and stood, ready to let the matter drop, but Boromir would not have it. He kicked his leg out, tripping Belendor. The older boy caught himself mid-fall but by then Boromir had already scrambled to his feet and gathered a fistful of dirt. When Belendor looked up, Boromir smashed the dirt into his face.

“Boromir,” Faramir warned but it was too late. He no sooner spoke than an angry shout filled the air, causing everyone to freeze in their spots.

Denethor stormed into the courtyard, scaring the children away. A few short seconds later, only the three that could not run remained. Faramir quickly checked his clothes for dirt, regretting there was nothing he could do about Boromir’s soiled clothing. Belendor wiped the mud from his eyes, doing his best not to growl at the younger teen while in the Steward’s presence. Boromir stood proud, his head lifted high, refusing to be ashamed of his actions. Denethor stopped in front of his sons and Belendor and glared down at them with enough fire in his eyes to melt solid steel. By contrast, the calmness in his voice when he spoke made the glare all the more frightening. “My private chambers. Now.”

A half-hour later, Boromir stood alone in the center of his father’s office while Faramir sat waiting outside. Belendor had been dealt with for his bullying and sent to his father for punishment.

Denethor circled his eldest son, scowling at him with disapproving disappointment. For many long minutes, he remained silent. It did not go unnoticed that Boromir fidgeted and trembled despite his cool appearance.

“Your behavior this morning was appalling,” Denethor began. “Defending your brother is a valiant deed and would be commended had this been the battlefield. However, this childish display hardly equates. We have rules, Boromir, both on the field and at home. You are to follow those rules at all times and one of those rules is that you do not instigate or participate in street fights. Humiliate me like this again and you will know what a real punishment is.”

“You will be polishing every sword in the Tower armory to a sparkling shine. I want to be able to see my reflection in every blade. You will begin tomorrow at sunrise and you will not stop until sunset. You will pause only for lunch. You will return every day until the job is complete. For today, you are restricted to your rooms.”

Boromir slung an arm over Faramir’s shoulders and pulled him close. “He said that defending you was valiant.”

Written for Marigold’s Challenge #31, which was to write something about Bilbo.

Included in the envelope with Bilbo’s ring, Will and other documents was this poem.

My greatest adventure came not at night
In the glow of the trolls’ campfire light
Neither does Rivendell come even close
To the time of my life I value the most

Outwitting gollums and strange magic rings
Are small and trite next to much grander things
Sneaking past goblins and vanquishing foes
Could not even curl the hair on my toes

It came not when Eagles swooped from the sky
As goblins and wolves tried to claw at my thigh
Nor did it come when a man turned to bear
And lobs in trees slung my friends in midair

Fleeing from Mirkwood on river-bound barrel
Does not even earn but two lines in this carol
And neither does Smaug with his pile of jewels
And certainly not those war-happy fools

Hold anything up to my greatest treasure
That came to me in my years of leisure
It came not with promise of jewels or of gold
Nor anything else of which I’ve just told

Your promise was humble, fragile but true
Held in the eyes of the purest bright blue
All you could offer were simple delights
Long summer rambles and warm autumn nights

Digging in dirt for the seeds of a bloom
Hiding while I sought through every room
Staying up late to listen to stories
Of a crazy hobbit’s unusual glories

Trailing behind me through the market square
And pouring honey all over my hair
Giving me gifts for no other reason
Than wanting to mark the changing season

Not even grief could dampen your spirit
You sing with love for all who can hear it
Hearing you laugh and seeing you smile
Will always make my heart glow a long while

If there’s still any doubt I’ll say it plain
In all of my travels I never did gain
A treasure so dear to me, for it is true
My greatest adventure has always been you

Frodo stood before the mirror in his room. He was having a rare moment to himself but he couldn’t say he was enjoying it. Indeed, he couldn’t say that he thought or felt anything on the matter; whether he be alone or surrounded by his friends or the grand courts of Gondor, none of it changed the empty hollowness that had become his existence. The days seemed to pass by him in a blurry haze of half-realized sounds that echoed towards him from far away, of unfelt touches of concern upon his shoulders and back, of food void of taste so that it felt like ash in his mouth.

Frodo stood before the mirror and looked at the reflection he saw there. He vaguely remembered doing just this in Bag End, a lifetime ago on the night the Quest had begun, and again in Rivendell before the Council of Elrond. If he closed his eyes, if he concentrated hard enough, if he could concentrate at all, he could almost see himself as he was then.

In Bag End, before any hardship had befallen him. Oh, certainly he had been worried and weighed down with doubt and fear, but he had only been going to Rivendell then, to deposit the Ring into the hands of the Wise and then return home, to live with Sam in the little house in Crickhollow that Merry had acquired. Did he ever really believe that, he wondered? Why then sell Bag End and to the Sackville-Bagginses of all people, if he would be coming directly back? Did he really think he would return? He could not now remember but…

Ah, now he could see himself, standing in his bedchamber, which had been stripped of all furnishings but the wardrobe and the bed. The room was bare and he was dressed for his journey to Buckland. Silk waistcoat and shirt, suede pants and overcoat. His eyes had been cheerful, despite his worries, and his face was smooth of lines and as youthful as it had ever been. His hair had been freshly washed and groomed, curls soft and in order, even his foot hair had been well-combed. His belly then had been as round and well-fed as any other hobbit, though not ever as rotund and healthy as others had felt it should be.

Wise he had thought himself then, though he had known nothing more of the Outside than what he had heard in Bilbo’s tales and Gandalf’s musings. He had been ready for a journey to Rivendell, a small little adventure, and while not as notable as Bilbo’s had been, at least he would have Sam with him to make the way less lonely, and Sam would get to see his Elves at last. All they had to do was get to Rivendell.

Rivendell. How could he describe such a place? Sam had tried once and got no further than Bilbo's description of long ago: the perfect place, whether you like food, or sleep, or work, or story-telling, or singing, or just sitting and thinking best, or a pleasant mixture of them all.* Yet there was so much more to it than that and Frodo had promised to help him, promised and failed. It was a puzzle he had mused over during that first stage of the Quest, during the quiet hours before sleep, before Moria. Before shadow and flame.

Frodo shook his head. No, don’t think of that. Think of Rivendell. Why think of Rivendell? What was the purpose? Oh, yes, the mirror. But there had been a mirror in Moria also, or after it, beyond its gates, the lake of Mirrormere. He had seen nothing in it, nothing, not even himself - a premonition, perhaps, that he would have been wise to heed. But in Rivendell…

The room there was sparsely furnished with only what was needed: bed, wardrobe, mirror, chair, changing screen, table. Nothing more. Yet all the furnishes were beautiful, lovingly crafted, each one a piece of art speaking the sculptor's heart and ease. Smooth curling lines everywhere he looked reminded him of the curves of Bag End. Silken rugs and sheets felt like the softest, smoothest cream. The room invited light and fresh air and bird calls, and far off in the distance, the sound of the waterfall was ever-present and soothing.

The gilded mirror reflected it all, including himself. He had lost some weight on the journey from the Shire and in his illness from the Morgul blade. He was then as thin as he had ever been in his tweens and he could imagine that Sam was off in the kitchens, making sure enough food was prepared to start fattening him up again. The thought had brought a smile to his face then. He had looked pale, or paler than normal as such things go, and there had been hollows under his eyes, eyes which had looked back at him with a bemused and humbled understanding.

Perhaps it was then, before the Council, that he first began to realize that his adventure would not end in the Last Homely House but would continue on to a future he could not fathom, and didn’t want to fathom even if he could. Perhaps it was then he began to realize his doom, as he stood in that grand and stately room, fairer than any he had ever seen before or since, with the late autumn winds blowing cold through the terrace to ruffle the light Elven shirt that they had clothed him in and sweep through his freshly washed curls, longer now, hanging below the nape of his neck. His hair was now brushed and bouncy when just a week before it had been matted down by dirt and grime. If only the stains on his heart could be washed away as easily.

He had been bereft of anything familiar, other than the weight of the Ring hanging around his neck, and even that was new, for the Ring had always been kept in his pocket before then and he had never noticed its weight until that moment. How strange that it felt right, perfect even, for the Ring to be placed so. At once, it felt as though it had always been there, and there it would forever remain. They had removed a poisonous blade from working its way into his heart, only to hang the Ring right next it. Why hadn't he realized then what that meant?

Yet for all his adventures and trials, he was still himself, he was still Frodo Baggins of the Shire, son of Drogo and Primula. His fears had been realized far beyond his wildest imaginings and he had seen and felt things he’d rather not think back on just yet, but he was still himself. He could still laugh and even managed a convincing smile when Sam entered the room to fetch him to dinner.

Then came Moria, and Lothlorien after that. The Great River followed and on the high seat at Parth Galen, he had made his choice. Sam had saved him from having to go alone.

And now here he stood, before another mirror, in a room fully furnished of every comfort one could wish for: a wash basin; a soft mattress with a lovely feather pillow, dressed in satin sheets; wardrobes and chest-of-drawers stuffed with clothing, provided by the tailors of Gondor; a desk at which to write and idle the hours away, and stare out the window at the sun and blue skies and the plains stretching out west of the city. On the walls hung paintings of lush landscapes behind gallant warriors, and in the corners were small, thin tables upon which sat sculptures of seagulls, ships on violent waves, or vases full of blooming flowers.

He stood before the mirror, stripped down to nothing, and looked at the reflection he saw there. The hair was so long now it was nearly a lass’s short length; he kept saying he would go to get it cut, one of these days. A body now beyond thin, mended of its wounds but scarred forever after: the lash of the whip across the ribs and back, the silvery mark of the Morgul blade on the upper left shoulder, the scars about the neck where the weight of the Ring had driven the chain into flesh, the wound he would never see but could feel if he rubbed fingers on the back of the neck, the missing finger, bitten off by Gollum at the last moment. And the eyes, could those be considered scarred by the trials they have seen? They looked back at him but did not see him, for they were empty now and saw no more than what they needed to in order to get him through the days.

He leaned in closer, trying in vain to find some proof of his former self, some lingering imprint of who he used to be. He looked at the reflection, and it looked back at him.

For Gryffinjack and Dreamflower, who inspired this little plot bunny. This is an expansion on Tom’s drabble from “The Master of Bag End.”

They had planned everything perfectly, crossed all their t’s and dotted all their i’s. Tom Cotton would act as deputy mayor in Sam’s absence, an interim assignment approved by Thain Peregrin and Master Meriadoc. The children were split up appropriately amongst their aunts and uncles. Baby Robin would stay with Nibs and Oliana, for they also had a bairn and Oliana could feed Robin in Rose’s absence. Frodo-lad would go with the next youngest, Ruby and Bilbo, to Tom and Marigold’s; and Rose-lass would go with Primrose and Daisy-lass to stay with Jolly and Calla. The middle children were split in pairs, Pippin and Hamfast staying with Nick and Daphne, and Merry and Goldilocks staying with Daisy and Harman. Robin Smallburrow and his wife Lilah would go to Bag End every few days to air it out and Frodo-lad could easily enough walk from Tom and Marigold’s house to tend the gardens.

Sam, Rose and Elanor had everything packed and loaded onto the pony trap: all their provisions and cooking equipment for the journey; cases of clothing and necessities for their stay; boxes and parcels of gifts for their friends; a tent in case of rain; sleeping rolls; spare firewood and tinder; feed for the ponies, Young Bill and Strider II. They even had a barrel of water just in case, and still had room to spare.

Their itinerary was planned to the day. They would arrive in Bree in three days on 3 Astron and would leave Bree on the morning of 4 Astron with the merchant convoy heading with supplies and trade to Minas Tirith. They would travel down the Greenway, through the Gap of Rohan and reach Meduseld near the middle of Thrimidge to stock up on supplies and visit with Éomer King and their friends there for a day. They would push on toward Gondor and come to Minas Tirith by the beginning of Foreyule. They would stay for the summer in the little house the Travellers had stayed in after the War and at the first sign of autumn in Halimath they would set out for Bree with the return merchant convoy, arriving at Bag End’s front porch near the end of Blotmath and, with luck, just before the cold weather.

“I knew we should have turned back in Bree. I had a feeling, didn’t I tell you, love?” said Rose.

Sam nodded. “Well, it’s too late now. Nothing for it but to keep on to Minas Tirith. Everyone’s expecting us. This’ll put a hold on us returning in the fall though.” For it was now the tenth of Thrimidge and fall was still four months away.

“Oh yes, I’d say you’re nearly two months along already,” Hazel assessed. “You should be fine to travel to Minas Tirith, but I wouldn’t advise you traveling back to the Shire so late in your term.”

“Maybe we could shorten our stay and come back in the summer,” Sam suggested.

“If you think I’m going to be traveling through Arda during the high heat of summer while I’m pregnant, you’ve got another thing coming to you Samwise Gamgee,” Rose said, light-heartedly.

Hazel agreed and supplied Rose with morning-sickness herbs. “The healers in Minas Tirith will take good care of you, Lady Rose, and the baby too when he or she is born, which should be around mid-December. You’ll want to wait another five to six months at least before you set out for home to avoid the cold weather.”

Tolman Gamgee was born at dusk on 25 Foreyule, 1442 SR, exactly twenty-four years to the minute that the Ring-bearer set out from Rivendell on his Quest. The day was one of high honor and celebration in Gondor, and Lord Samwise and Lady Rose were to be guests of honor at the Grand Banquet, but they never made it to table. Lady Rose went into labor shortly after luncheon, and she was attended by the best healer of the Houses of Healing and by Queen Arwen herself. By the time the citizens of Gondor were sitting to their feast, King Elessar was announcing the happy news of the arrival of the youngest Gamgee child, a bright and healthy boy.

A week later, another feast was held, a name-giving feast for little Tolman Gamgee, and the King gifted him with a silver broach in the shape of an eagle and for the eagle’s eyes were two small emeralds. All of Gondor loved Young Tom, for they had never seen a bairn so small and precious to behold. Gifts poured in from everywhere and soon the apartments in which the Gamgees lived were overflowing with a crib, a buggy, a high seat, rocking chair, clothes and bonnets and nappies, and strange little garments called socks and shoes, rattles, toys that made noise or rolled across the floor on their own, rag dolls soft and limp for the bairn to chew on or big and firm for the bairn to sleep with. There were blankets and towels, tiny little hairbrushes and nail clippers, and too many other things to remember.

Guests came and went. The guards of the city found excuses to come by during their breaks or after their duties. Prince Faramir and Lady Éowyn came for a visit, and even Legolas and Gimli made the journey to see the little bairn. Stern and hardened men of war melted at the sight of him, and they made as many goo-goo and ga-ga sounds at the bairn as all the ladies of the court, and they especially loved tucking Young Tom into their boots (when his mother wasn’t around to see them at it, that is), for he fit in them perfectly and he squealed for joy at the game.

The winter was long and happy and full of bliss, and everyone was sad to see the approaching spring, for they knew the Gamgees would soon be leaving.

So it was that on the morning of 1 Thrimidge, 1443 SR, Sam, Rose, Elanor and Young Tom walked down the streets of Minas Tirith amid crowds of friends and spectators. They were personally escorted to the Gate by the King and Queen, and there they said good-bye to their generous host and hostess. They also bid farewell to Prince Faramir and Lady Éowyn, Legolas and Gimli, Captain Beregond and Bergil, Lady Ioreth and all of their other dearest friends.

Queen Arwen placed a wreath of golden elanor and white niphredil on Elanor’s head and bid her maid a safe journey home. Then the Queen bowed to Lady Rose and Lord Samwise and in Rose’s arms was safely tucked Young Tom. The Queen kissed his brow and for the briefest of moments, to those who could see, Tom’s face lit up with a gentle white glow. To Rose she gave a golden chain dangling with thirteen small gems, one for each of her little jewels. To Sam she placed her hand upon his brow and let him see a brief but vibrant glimpse of the land beyond the Sea. He saw an endless shore of white sparkling sand and clear blue waters that melted into sky, and a single lone figure walking away toward the horizon, his steps light and carefree.

“He is healed and he is well,” the Queen said as tears of joy rolled down the Mayor’s cheeks. “He lives in joy and takes comfort in the knowledge that you too are healed and whole.”

Then Sam could only nod, for no words would suffice what he felt, and he led his family out of the City to the waiting merchant convoy.

Twenty large carts, each one drawn by four horses, made up the merchant convoy that day. The carts were packed with supplies and trading goods that would go to Rohan, Dunland and Bree. Surrounding another cart was a small contingent of the King’s guards, for they were transporting their own supplies and official documents to the King of Rohan. Amid all the grand horses and towering carts were the two small Shire ponies, standing proudly before their little trap crammed full once again with all the things the Gamgees had brought with them from the Shire. The gifts that had been brought for their friends in the City were now replaced with gifts for their friends and loved ones back home and the gifts they had received for themselves during their visit. Next to the trap was a solitary horse pulling another pony-trap, this one loaded with all of Young Tom’s things: his crib, carriage, buggy, clothes, toys, presents, and necessities. The trap was piled as high and full as the pony-drawn trap beside it, and everyone who walked past it shook their heads and laughed with wonder that so much baggage belonged to the smallest member of their party.

Once again, they set out for their journey prepared and ready. They had packed everything and left nothing behind. They knew where they would be camping each night and how long it would take them to arrive at Rohan, the Greenway, Bree and finally home. They had sent word ahead of them a month in advance so their loved ones would know when to expect them, and they anticipated the day they would see their family again, and sleep in their own beds, and wake to the quiet serenity that only existed in the Shire. They had everything planned to the dot. Except…

Merchants and guards jerked awake to find the moon high overhead and the campfires dwindling to ashes. Rose paced back and forth, bouncing Tom on her hip, singing softly and soothing him as best she could.

“I’m that sorry,” Rose apologized, “but he’s got the colic, and every time I think he’s asleep, he wakes up again as soon as I try to put him down. It must be all that fish I ate.”

“Well, I never ate so much fish with the other children as I did with Tom and none of them were this fussy,” Rose reasoned.

“They were, you're just not remembering. Here,” Sam muttered and stood. He took the bairn from Rose and began pacing back and forth as she had been. “You’re ready to fall over, you’re that tired. Have a rest. I’ll get him to sleep and join you.”

“You can try,” warned Rose, “but he’ll wake up again as soon as you go to lie down, mark my word. Maybe we should try getting that rocking chair out of the trap come morning, put it where it's easy to reach.”

“We haven't the time to be doing that love, not without keeping everyone half the morning,” Sam said.

Tom soon quieted and began to doze off again. The merchants and guards returned to their slumber, and in their makeshift corral the horses stopped stomping the ground and swishing their tails. The Shire ponies kept sleeping, undisturbed by the sounds of a crying bairn.

Sam paced and bounced, and bounced and paced. He sang softly in the bairn’s ear and told him all about the stars up in the heavens. When Young Tom was snoring and Sam could lift his little chubby arm to have it flop down again, he sighed with relief and returned to his bedroll. He lowered himself to his knees, pausing and holding his breath when Young Tom stirred. Sam bounced and swayed back and forth on his knees, shushing and singing until Tom settled again. Then Sam bent to lie down.

Agitated groans from the merchants and soldiers and concerned whinnies from the horses surrounded him at all sides. Sam shot back up to his feet and began pacing again. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry. I thought he were asleep.”

“I know, my dear, I know,” Sam said, pacing and bouncing, and bouncing and pacing. “I know. I just thought…”

“We may as well travel all day and night, if we’re going to be awake anyhow,” complained one merchant.

“I’m sorry,” Sam said again. “I’ll get him settled and then I’ll just… stay up with him. I can sleep in the morning, I suppose, if I can find room to lie down in the trap.”

“I have a better suggestion, Lord Samwise,” said one of the guards, coming up. He bowed slightly and waited for Sam’s returning head nod to continue. “We will walk with the baby so that you and he may both sleep.”

“That’s very generous of you,” Rose said, “but we couldn’t possibly impose.”

“We already have a watch set to keep an eye out for wild animals and highwaymen,” the guard continued. “It would be no imposition at all for another of us to pace back and forth with the littlest one. If anything, it will help to keep us more alert and to pass the time. We trade off posts every two hours, so everyone will still have plenty of time to sleep and rest.”

“I think that’s a grand idea,” Elanor advised drowsily before nodding back to sleep.

Sam felt all the eyes of the merchants staring at him, pleading and begging him to take the guard up on his offer. He nodded. “Very well, but only if you assign me one of the watches.”

“I am his mother, young man, and I have eleven more of these at home,” Rose intoned in her no-nonsense voice that not even the King himself would defy. “Don’t tell me I can’t keep a watch. I’ve sat up more sleepless nights than you can even count, and got through the whole next day without a wink of sleep besides.”

And so it was settled. Two guards kept watch from that night on, one looking out over the blackness of the surrounding lands, another pacing back and forth, bouncing a contentedly sleeping bairn in his arms and humming lullabies deep into the night. Sam and Rose, and Elanor also, took their turns at their watch, and when he got hungry, Rose would stand by the dying fire and feed him until he was full.

When they reached Rohan, Éomer laughed with delight at the tale. “The King’s guards setting watch to baby-sit,” he said with much amusement.

“Not every night,” Sam explained. “Only when Young Tom won’t stay asleep.”

“It’s a good thing, then, that I have my own transport setting out with you to Bree. I will double my contingent and have them continue to serve as your nurses. It will give them a much needed lesson in patience,” Éomer said and laughed again. Then he took the bairn and held him through dinner, and the bairn occupied himself with tasting the various buttons, tassels and metals pinned to the king’s cloak.

Hazel came to attend to the bairn that night and she offered Rose many herbals that would soothe Young Tom’s colic and help him sleep more restfully. To the merchants, she supplied ear plugs and for that they were eternally grateful.

It was with much relief that the convoy arrived in Bree at last. The merchants were sincere in their well wishes and would miss the bairn and the cheerfulness of the hobbits greatly, but they were all looking forward to a day without crying.

The following morning, the Rohirrim offered to escort the Gamgees to the Shire, as far as the Bridge Gate, but Sam declined. “It’s only a day’s journey from here, and there should be someone there to meet us.” So the guards each said farewell to their smallest charge, not a one of them being ashamed at the silly faces and noises they made to entice the bairn to laugh. They bid the family a safe journey home and turned back toward their own homeland.

Someone was at the Gate to greet them. Master Meriadoc and Mistress Estella were waiting with their sons Peridoc and Théodoc, and their daughter Niphredil. They embraced their friends with warm hugs and cooed and ahh-ed over the newest addition to the Gamgee household.

“You’ll have to have one more now,” Meriadoc joked. “Thirteen is an unlucky number after all, as the dwarves say.”

“You want another one, you can have it yourself,” Rose quipped back. “Thirteen is plenty lucky as far as I’m concerned.”

“Fellows can’t have bairns, my dear,” Estella said sadly. “The first bout of morning sickness would kill them. Forget about the labor.”

“Don’t I know it,” Rose returned. “Sam was ill this winter while we were in Gondor. I don’t know who was worse to take care of, him or the bairn.”

The Gamgees and Brandybucks arrived at Bag End two days later to a welcome home celebration in the Party Field. All their children, siblings, cousins, nieces and nephews were there, along with their friends and neighbors. Meriadoc beamed with pride at keeping the surprise a secret until the last moment, and Thain Peregrin introduced his bairn lass Athelas to Young Tom. The two bairns fell asleep side by side on the grass a second later, and Rose and Sam stared at them in wonder.

“Athelas has to stay here,” Sam said, only half-jokingly. “You, Diamond, Faramir, Bergil and Peridot are just going to have to move in.”

“Perhaps we can visit for a few days,” Peregrin agreed. “Everard and Pervinca can handle things at the Smials for a while.”

“And so it was that the Thain and Master remained at Bag End for the rest of that week, and Young Tolman slept as peaceful as can be hoped for,” Sam said, winding down his birthday tale.

“Crying all day, all night,” Frodo-lad added. “I thought my ears would start bleeding.”

“As I was saying,” Sam continued, “so it was that seven years ago Young Tom joined the Gamgee family and he was the most famous bairn in all the land. And so it was that the Gamgees lived happily ever after for the rest of their days, and the dwarves were wrong all along. Thirteen is a lucky number,” Sam finished his tale and the children and Rose applauded. Tom beamed with pride.

“When do we get to go to Gondor, Dad?” Frodo asked and the rest of the children perked up eagerly.

“I don’t know, Fro,” Sam answered. “That takes a lot of planning and you’re all not old enough yet. Maybe one day you’ll all get to go.”

“But that day is not today,” Rose said. “It’s time for you young ones to get off to bed, and you older ones to clean up the kitchen and sitting rooms.”

“Yes Mother,” the children chimed and followed Rose out of the study. Sam watched them file out, smiling fondly at their retreating backs. When the door closed behind them, he turned to the study window and watched the snow falling gently to the ground, and from the kitchen came the sounds of the older children laughing as they washed the dishes.

Written for Marigold’s Challenge 36. The challenge this time was to write about any third anniversary, and my elements were to include stale bread, a cheery fire, and a gift for a non-hobbit member of the Fellowship.

Aragorn sat in the study of his private apartment deep within his House. The day outside was cool for early autumn and coming on the heels of a long hot summer it felt almost frigid. Arwen, not being used to windows and enclosed rooms, had the glass doors flung open to let the fresh breeze flow into the apartment, filling the rooms with the fragrance of hardy plumbago and montbretia from the garden. A small fire glowed happily in the hearth of the study, taking the bite off the crisp air and warming the wooden floor in a wide half-circle around the hearth. Aragorn’s desk stood just in front of the hearth and he sat there comfortably as he prepared to open his personal correspondence.

There were many letters and parcels ready for his enjoyment stacked upon the wide oak desk. They were from various friends and acquaintances from all corners of Middle-earth. He shuffled through the letters and put them in order of those he would open first to last. The two small parcels, from Ithilien and Rivendell, he placed before the letters and placed these on the right side of the desk for opening later.

The one large package addressed from his dear friends in the Shire he pulled toward him. Sam, Merry and Pippin were all involved in this package by the writing on the parchment wrapping, and he was terribly curious about what it might contain. Though it had arrived a week ago, he knew the importance of this date and he guessed the purpose of the package. It had taken much effort of will not to open the package immediately upon receipt but he knew the hobbits meant for it to be opened today and no sooner.

From the top right-hand drawer of the desk he took out a small knife and cut the string that was tied about the package. He removed the parchment with care and revealed a large box made of alder stained to a deep red finish and polished with varnish. The box was newly crafted for it bore no scratches or nicks on its proud surface and the simple brass latch was equally unscarred.

Aragorn unfastened the latch and opened the lid. Inside, the box was padded and lined with a scarlet-colored silk cloth on all sides. The box was deep and there was a bottle standing in one corner and letters sitting atop other objects which were, for the moment, unseen. A smile lit upon the king’s lips as he recognized on the topmost letter the curling, light-handed script of his smallest knight. He pulled all the letters out and set them aside, then pulled out the glass bottle and three bundles wrapped in soft cloth. One bundle was large and fatly round, and the other two were square and thin.

He closed the box and put that to one side then arranged the bundles in a line before him. He picked up the letters and turned them over to look at the seals. As he expected, all the seals were the same but none of them were the ones he had come to expect. Rather than the proud stag of the Brandybucks, or the drawn bow and arrow ennobled over the rolling hills of Tookland, or the bold and elegant ‘B’ of the Bagginses, the seal was a ‘G’ rune cunningly disguised as a closed rosebud on a long stem, two small leaves attached to branches on the right side of the stem to form the arms of the rune. Aragorn smiled again and chuckled knowingly. So Sam had finally succumbed to his friends and designed his own seal. Very appropriate, Aragorn thought, for the gentle and unassuming gardener.

The letters were in order of Pippin’s first, then Merry’s, and lastly Sam’s. Aragorn broke the seal on Pippin’s letter and unfolded it, expecting something short and sweet. Instead, he was surprised to find a rather long correspondence. He wondered briefly how long it had taken Pippin to write so much and how much prodding it had taken from his friends to get it finished. For while Pippin had a penchant for lightning quick thoughts and speech, he often became frustrated with the rather slow and drawn out process of letter-writing. Aragorn sympathized with the young Took as he began to read.

I am writing to you from Bag End, as are the rest of us. Sam will explain everything in fuller detail, but the short of it, if you don’t want to bother with so many words, is that Sam has decided to do things properly for Frodo’s birthday this year. So we are sending you this box and the items in it in honor of the Day. We are sending it as soon as we can ride out to Bree and we can only hope that it will reach you on time.

The box is my gift to you as I crafted it myself. Yes, my friends trusted me near sharp and dangerous objects, and no one lost any limbs or fingers, thank you very much. It’s quite lovely, don’t you think? Now pick your jaw up off the ground before you trip over it. I don’t want Merry saying that I managed to maim someone after all.

In all seriousness I do hope that you can find some use for it as it took me quite a long time to make. If only for Merry’s sake, you should use it for it will make him feel better about his hands. He blames me for their current condition but I specifically told him not to go sticking his hands into the tin labeled ‘biscuits’. Can I help it if that was the only thing I could find to mix the wood dye in? So please do find something to do with it. Perhaps you can put that pretty little crown of yours in here for safekeeping. (And don’t worry about Merry’s hands too much. Sam says a little bit of turpentine will have them back to their natural color in no time.)

In addition to the box, and because I couldn’t participate in the gifts that Merry and Sam are sending you, they have also put me in charge of selecting samples of the party fare that we are planning to prepare for the Day.

Rose baked the bread, though she was rather hesitant about it. I assured her that by wrapping it up tightly enough and putting it into the box, which should keep air out, the bread should keep fresh until it gets to you. However, she wants me to tell you that in case it has gone stale, you could always make croutons with it or a nice bread soup. You can also use dried bread for soaking up fat drippings while cooking meat, or you can use a slice of stale bread to keep cake from drying out by covering the opened end of the cake with the bread. You can thread a knife with dry bread before cutting into an onion; this supposedly absorbs the acid from the onion and keeps you from crying so much. I do hope you can eat the bread though as it is very delicious.

I have also enclosed a bottle of the Gaffer’s homebrew, which thankfully only gets better with age. You and Arwen should find it quite enjoyable though I wouldn’t recommend drinking it on an empty stomach. You don’t have a hobbit’s constitution after all and you likely have grown used to the lighter beer that you have in Gondor. I recommend having it with a simple meal of roast beef and slices of cheese and bread, but really it goes well with just about anything.

I hope that you and Arwen are well. I understand about being uneasy having to wear so much frippery to court. You must look quite ridiculous in it from the way you described it but if that is what is expected of you, then you must go through with it. Of course, you are the king and you could simplify the dress at court if you so wish, or so I would assume. Certainly hobbits would never go in for so much unnecessary clothing and ornaments and scruffs. Very impractical by all accounts. According to Faramir’s letter, the ladies quite enjoy the look of your legs in the stockings, so I would keep those if I were you, unless Arwen is the jealous type. Being as she waited for you for ever so long, I wouldn’t think that she would be, but then you never can tell with lasses. Besides, if Legolas can wear tights without feeling self-conscious about it then you certainly can.

Things here in the Shire are as prosperous and peaceful as they have ever been. But for the youth of the trees you would never guess that only four years ago this was all torn asunder. The children have already forgotten, which is as it should be, and almost everyone else has forgotten the hardness of that time but for a few for whom it was especially hard.

I have finally told Diamond nearly everything of the Quest and you were right – she doesn’t think any less of me for having killed in battle. It could be largely due to her age as she is still quite young but she assures me that she does fully understand the role I had to play. I couldn’t tell her about the Palantír though and rather had to skim over that part of it as it is still difficult for me to speak of, but I think Merry may have told her something of it for she came to me the next day and simply held me for the longest time.

Our courtship has not been without its troubles, what with her living so far away, but every time I get impatient with it I just remind myself of you and Arwen. If you could be patient all those years, decades even, then I should be able to wait another five or six years. All things considered, we really are quite content and happy with each other and we both look forward to the day that we can be wed. She is very eager to meet you, and Legolas and Gimli and Faramir, and everyone else. She’s not too keen on leaving the Shire though, so it will perhaps have to wait for when you come north. Merry and I were planning to come to Rohan and Gondor next year but that will likely be delayed. Merry will explain more about that in his letter.

My thoughts are often with you and I miss you all terribly. Say hallo to Arwen and Legolas and Gimli and Faramir and Beregond and Bergil for me.

Aragorn put the letter aside and reached for the fat, round bundle that must surely be the bread. He unwrapped the soft terrycloth and peered at the bread uncertainly. He sniffed it and poked at it. There were no signs of mold but the loaf was decidedly hard and stale. He shook his head fondly; only Pippin would think that a loaf of bread could survive a two-month journey without growing stale. He covered the bread again and put it next to the box. He wondered if he could convince his wife to cook roast beef for tonight’s dinner; they could use the bread to soak up the fat drippings and get rid of the loaf that way.

He considered the bottle of ale curiously. Sam had often boasted of his father’s infamous ale during the hobbits’ stay in Minas Tirith and Aragorn was eager to taste the brew for himself.

His gaze skimmed over the remaining two bundles as he reached for Merry’s letter and opened it.

I trust that this letter finds you and Arwen well, and that you have satisfactorily resolved the problem with the trading merchants of which you spoke in your last letter. I hope that no other problems have crept up to replace the old ones, but knowing the nature of ruling just a small little slice of land as we have in Buckland, I am sure that there is no small amount of conflicts to keep you busy from sun up to sun down. For the Ranger who once saw four lost and terrified hobbits through the wilds to Rivendell, such simple matters should be easy enough to resolve and I do not doubt that you will judge fairly. Just remember, every time you become impatient with the politics of it all, do what my father does – dream up ways to spend all that money at your disposal. They may only just be dreams, and my Uncle Mac constantly squashes them, but they do help my father ever so much. Or think of food. That is much more satisfying by all accounts and there is never any end of it in times such as these.

I am sure that you are wondering as to the nature of this correspondence and the purpose of the gifts. If this reaches you on time, you will undoubtedly realize that it is (or near to) Frodo’s and Bilbo’s birthday. I will leave Sam to explain everything fully but for now, know that we are doing things properly this year as we have not done the past two years. According to the Rules, since you are unable to attend the Party even if you should wish to (I know how busy you are and it is a long journey) we are mandated to send you a token invitation with a small sample of the party fare. Pippin has been put in charge of that, I’m afraid. I am very sorry for the bread but you know how Pippin can be when he gets his mind stuck on something. I have included the receipt at the end of this letter so that you can make your own loaf.* You really should know what it is supposed to taste like, as it is quite delicious, especially when made by our Rose. The ale at least will keep, though I recommend you do not drink it on an empty stomach, unless you plan to spend the following day locked in the privy.

We have also included presents, for we are no twelve-mile cousins. Mine is wrapped in the yellow cloth, which Estella wove herself. She hopes that it is suitable for you and that you or Arwen may find some use for it. If not, it will at least make a sturdy rag. The gift is a portrait of my family, painted this past Yule at Brandy Hall when Peri was ten months old. My lovely wife Estella is wearing the dress her mother and aunts made for our wedding, and I am wearing one of my more formal suits because Estella insisted the portrait wouldn’t look right otherwise.

Aragorn picked up the smaller of the two remaining bundles. It was covered in a soft yellow cloth, the weave of which was tight and expert. He unfolded the cloth and found that it was quite larger than he expected. Merry had double wrapped the portrait and the cloth when unwound was about the length and width of his forearm. He decided he would give all three cloths to Arwen, and she would best decide how the material should be used.

He turned over the framed portrait and felt a swell of pride, joy and nostalgia when he saw Merry sitting beside his wife and child. The artist had captured Merry well. The hobbit looked the same as Aragorn remembered, except that his brown hair was neatly trimmed and he was more at ease with himself. He looked magnificent in his emerald suit, a promising glimpse of the Master he would one day become.

His wife Estella was lovely indeed, with a round face and a cheery smile. Her chestnut curls looked rather unruly in the portrait but that only added to her appeal. In her eyes Aragorn could see much warmth and humor reflected from her smile, but he also detected a deep strength and wisdom born of hardship and trial. The wedding dress she wore was simple and delicate in cut but the color was a bold red that complimented her fair features. In her arms, dressed in a simple baby’s gown of white silk, was a small hobbit baby with a fair face and big brown eyes. He had a thin layer of chestnut hair atop his pointed head and his nose was rounded at the end like his father’s. They looked to be a very happy family indeed and Merry looked at his little family with such adoration that it nearly poured off the canvas.

I can hardly believe how the years go by. By the time you receive this letter it will be nearly three years since Frodo and Bilbo sailed over the Sea. Time is a funny thing. It seemed to stand still after the Sailing and that winter was the longest and bleakest in my memory, but now the years pass so quickly as to be nearly dizzying. I still wake up some mornings and find myself surprised to have a wife in my arms and a bairn in the cradle.

As you may recall, when last I wrote, it was Peridoc’s first birthday. There was more news but it was not appropriate at the time to announce it. I will do so now: Estella and I are expecting our second child sometime in late summer. She is very sore with me about this. Being so largely pregnant during the summer is not the most pleasant thing according to her (and every other lass who has an opinion on the matter, which seems to be all of them) but she is excited and making plans for expanding the nursery in our little house in Crickhollow. Mother and Father are naturally wanting us to move back into the Hall but I do not yet feel ready for that and rather think we will remain at Crickhollow for another year, unless Estella should wish to move into the Hall. Undoubtedly it will be easier for her and our nursemaid that way. I will have to consider it.

By the time you are reading this, our child will have been born. Should it be a son (as the healer believes it will be) then we will name him Théodoc, in honor of my departed King. If it is a maid, we will name her Sollya, for the bluebell vine that Estella loves so much. She has even had some planted at Crickhollow against the sides of the house and it blooms most wonderfully in the summer and early autumn. I will be sure to write to you as soon as the birth occurs and inform you of the happy news.

Pippin and I have been planning a journey to Rohan and Gondor next year but now I think we shall delay it another year. What with Estella and the children and needing to decide if we will remain at the house or return to the Hall, I am loathe to leave my family for so long until matters are more settled. As the time nears we will send more word of our plans. Whatever happens, we will at least want to come before Pippin weds, and though that is still some years away, it will be here far too soon.

You will be amazed, Strider, to see how Pippin grows and matures every day. It began in Gondor and while he had a bit of a rough patch upon our return to the Shire, as you may recall, he has settled into himself and is quite the young gentlehobbit. Whereas before hardly anyone could imagine this wily Took as the next Took and Thain, they all now say that he will be counted among the best and greatest when his time comes. I do not doubt it, even if he does. Diamond has had a steadying influence on him, and they adore each other beyond measure already. He will make her a good husband and she will be a marvelous wife and Lady.

Sam is also doing well. I know that he will not say much of himself but be assured that he is happy and whole, as Frodo had wished. Rose takes exceptional care of him, and his children bring a light to him that just glows out of him like sunshine. There is a constant yearning for Frodo, as there is with all of us, but he is at peace most of the time.

You are ever in my thoughts and I often wonder what you are doing or remember our fonder and quieter moments on the Quest, especially on nights when sleep eludes me. I have not suffered any of the Dreams for some time now. Neither have Pippin nor Sam, but we all keep athelas growing in our gardens, just in case.

If this package finds you on time, be sure to raise a glass in toast to Frodo and Bilbo on the Day at the twenty-second hour. We will be doing the same, as it was Frodo’s custom to toast to Bilbo’s health at that hour.

Aragorn placed that letter atop of Pippin’s and studied the portrait again for a time. He guessed that Sam’s gift was also a portrait by its similar size and shape but he would wait to open the last bundle. He took up Sam’s letter instead and opened it. Inside was a small invitation card announcing the Birthday Party. The script was not recognizable and Aragorn knew that the hobbits would have hired a professional calligrapher to draw the invitations.

The invitation was on white silky parchment and was embossed with a border of flowers and leaves. The script was written in a flowing, delicate golden ink.

King Elessar Telcontar and Queen Arwen Undómiel
are Cordially Invited
to a Party of Special Significance
in Honor of
Frodo Baggins and Bilbo Baggins
on
Mersday, 22 Halimath, 1424 SR
At
Bag End, Under the Hill, Hobbiton,
Westfarthing, The Shire
Starting at
Twelve Noon
and Ending at
Close of Day

The letter itself was on the same common yellow parchment as the other letters, and Sam’s slow and round script covered it from top to bottom.

How are things in Gondor? Did you ever figure out that puzzle box Gimli’s folk sent you? We have solved ours and we each found a small opal inside. Mr. Merry and I have had ours fitted into pendants for our wives. Mr. Pippin will be giving his to Miss Diamond as soon as they can court officially next year. He’s going to have it fitted into a bracelet for her, as she likes those more than necklaces since they don’t get in the way so much when she dances.

How is your garden? Are you still having a problem with the slugs in your lettuce patch? If you are, you could use a wood board to collect them up. Just lie it on the ground and in the morning, detach any slugs that have latched onto its underside. This won’t get them all but it’ll reduce their number a good deal. You can also keep a three-foot perimeter of fallow earth about the garden. They won’t think to cross it if they aren’t already in the garden. Something my Gaffer discovered many years back was that they like beer, so keep a low pan in the garden with just enough beer in it to coat the bottom. That’ll get the slugs and kill them for you too. If the garden is raised, you could put a copper border around the outside of it to keep the slugs out once you’ve rid the garden of them. I’m sure the gardeners in Gondor would’ve told you the same by now, but I thought I’d mention it just in case.

I hope this letter finds you and Lady Arwen well, and that it reaches you on time. I’m sure Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin have said as I’ll be explaining things to you about Mr. Frodo’s birthday this year, but there isn’t much to be saying really. As you may have known, it’s been some years since we really had a party for Mr. Frodo’s birthday. The year we left on the Quest, we were all so terrified and sneaking around Mr. Frodo about the Conspiracy and all, that we couldn’t really enjoy it none. That and Bag End being nearly empty with everything carted off to Crickhollow, it just weren’t a proper party at all, though Mr. Frodo tried his hardest to make it so. The year after that we were in Rivendell and just resting from the return journey home. The year after that, it was just a small affair, just us Travellers and my Rose, for Mr. Frodo weren’t really up to crowds and company and parties by that point.

Mr. Frodo didn’t have a party at all his last year with us, being as we were in the Woody End on the Day meeting up with Mr. Bilbo afore we headed for the Havens. I guess I don’t really have to explain much what happened the year after that. Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin did come over and all but none of us were much in the mood for a party, it being the first Birthday without Mr. Frodo. Indeed, a whole year of firsts without him had finally come to a close and it weren’t a very happy day, all things told. Last year was about the same to start, though it weren’t quite so hard to get through and even ended up being a bit of fun once Rose and Estella come back from town with the children.

So this year’s Birthday will make it the third one without Mr. Frodo, and seven years since we last had a real party worthy of being called a party. Last month it occurred to me as Mr. Frodo wouldn’t want us to be moping around on his Birthday, so this year we’ll be doing things proper-like. We’ll be having a Party on the Day and we’ll be inviting everyone as meant something special to Mr. Frodo. All the Conspirators will be visiting, and Mr. Folco also, so Bag End will be bursting with visitors again just like back in old Mr. Bilbo’s days. As for the Party itself, my family will be invited of course and all the Cottons too, being as they helped Mr. Frodo so much those last couple of years. There’s all sorts of things in the mathom room for gifts. We were going to divvy these out to the Bagginses, Brandybucks and Tooks after we acquired Bag End, but the families insisted that we keep them for our own. So instead, Rose and I decided to give them out as gifts at the Party. Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin agreed to help me with this, as they’d know better than me what items should go to who, most especially the more valuable and sentimental items. It’s only proper that these be returned to Mr. Frodo’s closest kin. Normally, we wouldn’t be sending out token invitations until the week before the Day but being as this has to travel so far we thought we’d send it earlier rather than later.

In preparation for having so many guests, Rosie’s decided once and for all to reconvert those two large wardrobes of Mr. Bilbo’s back into proper bedrooms, and we’ll be giving out his clothes and suits to those as need or want them. It’s something as she’s been wanting to do for a while now but I wasn’t too keen on making changes to Bag End as it seemed disrespectful somehow. But Rose pointed out as we’re in charge now and besides we could always use the extra room. Given what all Mr. Frodo said afore he left about our future children, I had to agree as she had a point. So we’ll be starting that in a week’s time. Now she’s saying once the mathom room gets cleared out we could use that room too for its proper use. I doubt we’ll be running out of mathoms any time soon though as we’ll always be getting more than what we give away, but she’s hopeful. So long as she doesn’t set her sights on the library or the study, I suppose it won’t hurt none to let her have her way.

So that’s how things stand at the moment. We’ll be sure to send you an account of the Party when all is said and done. Enjoy the party fare and the box that Mr. Pippin sent you.

As you’ve probably guessed already my gift to you is a portrait of my family that we sat for at Yule. My fair Rose is holding little Frodo. He’s six months old there and even though he’s smiling in the portrait he was really a bit impatient about having to sit still for so long. I have fair Elanor in my lap. She’s two and eight months here and just the prettiest maid you ever have seen. She’s as clever and sweet as can be too. Also in the portrait is my Gaffer. He’s standing just behind me. He weren’t too pleased about standing for a family portrait that no one in the family would be getting – said it weren’t proper – but I explained to him as you’re our best friend and how you saw us through the War and saved me and Mr. Frodo any number of times and that you are the King and all, so he figured he’d make an exception this one time. If you could maybe send him a short letter – and by short I mean a couple of sentences only – thanking him for it, that would go a long way.

There’s also a drawing of Mr. Frodo with his parents, Primula and Drogo, that Mistress Esmeralda found when she was digging through some of the mathom closets at Brandy Hall last week. She sent it over with Mr. Merry. We’ve had it copied for each of us and for all the Fellowship, but we’re sending you the original. Mistress Esmeralda figured as Mr. Frodo was about nine or so when the drawing was done, and it was likely done during a Spring or Mid-Year festival from the casual dress of their clothes and by the fact it were done outside against the green. It were a right surprise when Mr. Merry brought that drawing out. Bless the Lady for having found it and it’s one of my most treasured possessions now, which you’ll understand why as soon as you see it.

I hope this reaches you on time. If it’s late, I’ll hope you’ll forgive us, given the distance and all. I hope that you and Lady Arwen have a wonderful Yule.

Aragorn put Sam’s letter with the others and looked at the last remaining bundle for some time before reaching for it. The cloth that covered this bundle was a soft cotton dyed to a gentle blue. Sam had not mentioned if Rose had spun it herself but Aragorn would be sure to comment on its fine quality when he sent his reply. He felt the cloth longer than he should, for some reason hesitant to uncover the treasures hidden inside. When at last he pulled the folds back, his hands were trembling slightly.

He could see only one framed portrait, which was facing downwards into the center of the cloth to protect it from accidental exposure to the elements. Aragorn lifted the portrait and underneath it was a single piece of parchment, also facing downward. He sat transfixed by the parchment but was finally able to turn his attention to the portrait that he still gripped in his hand.

He turned it over and Sam’s smiling carefree face beamed up at him. Aragorn again swelled with pride and joy to see his friend, who was so clearly happy and fulfilled. The artist had captured Sam’s self-assuredness with stunning accuracy but still evident was the gentle and unassuming warmth of the humble gardener. Behind him stood an old weathered hobbit of dark brown skin and grey hair. He wasn’t smiling much but there was a gleam of pride in his eyes as he looked down at his son, daughter-in-law and grandchildren.

Next to Sam was a comely hobbit lass with long caramel-colored hair and soft brown eyes. She had a sweet pleasantness about her but Aragorn also sensed a toughness and no small amount of straightforwardness. He had to laugh as he imagined this sweet no-nonsense lass going head to head with Sam over the issue of the wardrobes. That was one argument Aragorn was glad he had not been present to witness.

In her lap was a small brown-skinned hobbit baby with large brown eyes. The baby was smiling happily and Aragorn had to remind himself that the artist had embellished a little in that regard. Though it was difficult to tell at such an early age, the lad looked to be a fair copy of his father. Had the artist seen the baby smile, or had he simply copied Sam’s smile in smaller proportion?

On Sam’s lap was a strikingly lovely toddler with long golden hair that curled about her face and soft brown eyes that mirrored a soul far older than her years. Elanor. Frodo had thought of the name and Aragorn could not think of a more appropriate person in all of Middle-earth to bear it. Already she had a subtle elegance that recalled the elves to his mind. Only her somewhat mischievous grin showed her to be a hobbit, and a very influential one she would be.

Sam had made no mention of the clothing they wore in his letter, but all was of expert make except for the Gaffer’s simple homespun shirt. Doubtless, they had dressed up for the portrait, for Aragorn could not imagine Sam wearing such fine clothing on a regular basis. He knew firsthand how uncomfortable such frippery, as Pippin had called it, was to wear for someone unaccustomed to its constrictive nature.

Aragorn studied the portrait a little longer before placing it next to Merry’s. Now there was only the yellowed parchment lying upon the cloth. The parchment was bent and wrinkled along one corner and there were many bite marks where rats and other vermin had nibbled at the edges over the long years. A small inscription was scrawled in a loose and curling hand in the bottom right corner but there was a water stain there and all that Aragorn could make out were the initials M.B. Wherever this drawing had been stored, it had not been protected well.

Aragorn turned the parchment over and instantly felt tears spring to his eyes. An innocent young family drawn in charcoal looked back at him and at its center was Frodo. The young hobbit child that the artist had captured had never known grief, or anger, or guilt, or fear, or loneliness, or despair, or hunger, or exhaustion, or hopelessness, or madness, or a burden too great for his slim shoulders to carry. He stood easily between his mother, a very pretty lass with bright eyes, and his father, a prim but kind-looking fellow. They both had one arm draped over Frodo’s shoulders, so that he was hugged and secure on either side, and the smiles on their faces were as pure and joyful and innocent as any Aragorn had ever seen. This was Frodo at his very core, the one Aragorn had never met but had heard so many stories about, the one that Sam had glimpsed for the briefest of moments after the destruction of the Ring, the one that was, with hope, restored in Tol Eressëa.

When Arwen found Aragorn minutes later, he was still staring down at the drawing, tears standing silent and unheeded in his eyes. Arwen offered him a handkerchief that he took but did not use, and she placed her hands on his shoulders. Instantly, she felt him ease and he drew a great breath, both refreshing and reassuring. After a time, the tears stopped and Aragorn dried his eyes as one in a dream, but still he looked at the drawing, unable and unwilling to put it down.

“He will be,” Arwen assured. “There is hope in this and your friends are wise to have sent this to you as it is. Look at the parchment: frayed and fractured along the edges and aged by time, it will never be restored to its once pristine beauty, but the scars and wounds do not lessen the quality of the artist’s strokes, which are unspoiled. Indeed, they enhance the drawing and make it that much richer. Frodo will find joy again.”

“You are right,” Aragorn said, looking at the drawing anew and finding hope in it. “If there is anyone capable of defeating his demons, it is Frodo.”

“Pain and hurt are not to be conquered,” Arwen said. “It is only through accepting them that we can let them go. He will learn to understand this again, as he learned once before when he lost his parents so unexpectedly. He was able to heal then, and he will do so again.”

“He will certainly not lack wise help and counsel,” Aragorn said. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it, and at last placed the drawing on the desk. “This will be preserved and will be hung in the museum with the rest of the artifacts from the Quest.”

Aragorn waited for his wife’s acknowledgement of this statement but when he was greeted by only silence, he peered back to look at her then followed her gaze to the wheel of bread. “Tell me that is from some other package, sent from Ithilien or Dol Amroth perhaps,” she said.

Aragorn laughed heartily at that, then showed her the receipt and the tips for the many uses of stale bread. He then showed her the portraits and the letters. At dinner that night, they enjoyed roasted beef with cheese slices, a freshly baked loaf of round bread and a glass of the Gaffer’s home brew, and at ten o’clock, the twenty-second hour of this twenty-second day, they raised their glasses in toast to the Ring-bearers.

“To Frodo and Bilbo,” Aragorn said. “May they live happily to the end of their days.”

4 cups of stoneground wholemeal flour
2 tablespoons sugar
1/2 to 1 cup warm water
2 teaspoons dry yeast
1/2 teaspoon salt

Method:
Dissolve the sugar in the warm water
Add the yeast to the sugar water mixture.
Let it stand for 15 minutes.
Cook’s Note: When the yeast starts to ‘work’ with the sugar water, a brown froth appears on the surface of the liquid.

Mix flour, salt and the prepared yeast mixture together to make a dough.
Knead enthusiastically until the dough can be pulled away from the side of the bowl, or until it becomes elastic-like.
Add more water (a little at a time) or dust with flour as required to get the texture right.
Cook’s Note: Within limits, the more you knead the dough, the lighter the bread will be.

Put the dough into a large loaf tin.
Leave the dough in a warm place to prove (until it doubles in size). This can take around 1-2 hours depending on temperature.
Bake in a moderate oven for approximately 45 to 55 minutes.
Cook’s Note: This recipe makes excellent loaves for ‘same day’ use. It produces a coarse texture and a fairly hard crust and fills a hungry stomach fast.)

Written for Marigold’s Challenge 36. The challenge this time was to write about any third anniversary, and my elements were to include embroidered braces (suspenders), ginger wine and thunder.

They had never considered not celebrating the Birthday, nor had they discussed what to do when the Birthday next came around. There was no need for words. The year after Frodo’s departure it had only been natural for the remaining Travellers to gather at Bag End and honor their cousin and friend who had gone over the Sea. Merry and Pippin had arrived unannounced from Crickhollow to find preparations for the Day already in order. That first Birthday had been hardest for all of them but they were grateful for the opportunity to be together and to share all their fondest memories of their dearest of friends.

The wounds were less hurtful the next year and did not sting so badly when the tears eventually came. Rose and Estella had taken the children into town, leaving the lads to their wine and reminiscing, and by the time they returned the air in Bag End was considerably lighter. The shared release of the Travellers’ grief had lifted a great burden from all of their shoulders, and the rest of the day and night had passed pleasantly enough.

The third year after the sailing of the Ring-bearers, Sam brought his friends together in the early weeks of summer and announced that this time they would do things properly. So plans were made and preparations begun. As the Day grew closer, invitations were sent, the meals were decided and the food was ordered, the Party Field was readied and the gifts were chosen from the mathom room in Bag End. Overall, things looked to be more festive and jubilant and much more like a birthday party than in years past.

The week of the Birthday, Sam and Rose readied their home to receive their guests. The first to arrive at the beginning of the week were Merry and Estella and their two young lads, one-year old Peridoc and their newborn Théodoc. With them came Fredegar and his wife Mentha, formerly of the Brandybucks, and Pippin. The next day brought Folco, his wife Delia and their four-year old son Freddy. On the eve of the party, Master Saradoc and Mistress Esmeralda arrived and they were shown to the main guest room overlooking the gardens. With their arrival, all the spare rooms in Bag End were filled and the smial was bustling with hobbits, just as in the old days when Mr. Bilbo still lived under the Hill and had visitors constantly coming and going.

On the morning of the Day, everyone woke early and began the final preparations. Saradoc and Esmeralda watched over the children while the young wives made a simple but large first breakfast that would keep the adults full and satisfied until luncheon, and the lads disappeared into the study for their customary reminiscing. After first breakfast, the lasses dressed their children for the outdoors while Sam, with the help of his friends, rummaged for the final presents in the mathom room.

The mathom room was an oddity to Bag End. Single-family dwellings did not traditionally have a room to spare solely for the purpose of storing unused items, for most families had very few things for which they did not have a use. When Bag End was built, it was with the intention of one day housing a large family when Bilbo married and had children. However, that day never came. Bilbo lived many long years alone under the Hill and over those years he had accumulated quite a store of sentimental treasures from too many birthdays and celebrations to count. Where most hobbits would eventually pass the gifts and mathoms onto someone else after a few years, Bilbo almost always gave away new presents on his birthday, and so the number of mathoms he received from others grew and grew until they were taking over nearly every room in the smial. Eventually, the mathoms had been moved to this room and there they had stayed, for Frodo had not been much better about circulating his mathoms as Bilbo had been. Now the room was crowded with many spare pieces of furniture and boxes of old clothes, memorabilia and other oddments and whatnots, common and rare alike.

All the gifts for the party guests came from this room, with the more valuable and sentimental items going to Frodo’s relations and the everyday common items going to Sam and Rose’s families. Sam was reluctant to have his friends’ help in this task, for it was not really proper for them know that the gifts Sam would be handing out at the party were mathoms, but as all the items in this room at one point or another belonged to Frodo’s family and friends, it was only practical that Frodo’s cousins now help to sort through them. They would be far better at guessing who would be most grateful and appreciative of which items.

The only presents that his friends were not helping to find were their own. That would have been a breach of propriety that Sam simply could not fathom. Indeed, none of them were able to imagine such a thing and so they did not even mention it or presume to look for items that they might like for themselves. For his part, Sam had been most conscientious about acquiring their gifts weeks ago, and he now had them hid in the study amongst the other presents.

After three long days of digging and rummaging, they were now down to the children’s gifts. Pippin, upon looking into a box stuffed with old toys, came across the kaleidoscope he had once wanted but never received. He held it up to his eye and twirled it about, watching the various shapes and colors dance.

“I can’t believe I forgot about this,” he said with surprise. “I used to come in here just to look for this. You can give this to Peri, Sam. He’s a bit young for it, but he’ll love it when he gets older.”

In the same box, Folco found a pair of old braces that he had lost many years before. He held them up in triumph for all to see. “These were my favorite braces,” he announced, hugging them to himself. They were made from green thread and had bay-colored ponies running up and down each strap, at the end of which were round wooden buttons with the initials F.B. “Remember Freddy?”

Fredegar nodded. The braces had actually once been his but he had given them to Folco when he outgrew them. He remembered how Folco had cried all night when he realized he had lost them. “They won’t fit you anymore I’m afraid, but if you let Delia keep them, they’ll fit Young Freddy in a few more years.”

“No, they’ll fit him now,” Sam said, taking the braces to wrap as Young Freddy’s present. “All you have to do is fold them and stitch them in the back. As he grows, you can let out the stitching.”

The box proved to have a wealth of likely gifts inside it. Sam found a rag doll and some hair clips for Elanor and a toy wheelbarrow and spade made of soft wood that little Frodo could amuse himself with as he teethed. Merry found a rattle and a stuffed cow for Théodoc. Folco found a stuffed pig that would also go to Young Freddy. Not wanting Peri to be the only child with one gift, Pippin found the bairn a bag of wood stacking blocks with runes painted on the sides. The gifts chosen, they helped Sam to tag them and put them in the study with the rest of the gifts, then went outside where they found the others already enjoying the sunshine and fresh air.

Saradoc and Esmeralda were sitting on the porch with their grandsons. Théodoc was sleeping soundly in his grandmother’s arms; at only three weeks old he still slept most of the day. Sara was bouncing Peri on his knee, much to the bairn’s delight. Peri giggled delightfully every time his grandfather bounced him, and when Peri’s giggles lessened to breathless gasps Saradoc would bounce him again.

Sitting nearby on a blanket on the lawn were Rose and Delia. Frodo was sitting with them and playing with something shiny and round. Merry recognized it as Saradoc’s pocket watch and he wasn’t at all surprised to discover that the little lad had charmed it from his father. Both Esme and Sara, upon their arrival last night, had become instantly endeared to Elanor and Frodo, and Sara seemed to consider Frodo especially as part of the family. A joyous smile lit the grey-haired Master’s wrinkled face every time he looked at the bairn and he seemed to grow twenty years younger whenever he held Frodo in his arms.

Estella and Mentha were standing nearby with Elanor and Young Freddy, who were feeding seeds to the birds that lived in the trees on the Hill. Folco and his family visited often enough that Elanor and Freddy were good friends and this was one of their favorite pastimes. Elanor even knew some birdcalls, having learned them from her father, and she imitated them now, calling the birds out of the trees more readily than the seeds alone would do. Freddy attempted to copy her but he could not whistle and could only blow loudly through his lips.

Sam, Fredegar and Folco joined their wives while Merry and Pippin lingered on the porch. “I hope Peri’s been burped,” Merry said as his father bounced the bairn again. Peri’s peals of laughter filled the air with merriment.

“No, he’s fine where he is,” Esme said. “How is he sleeping at nights?”

“Usually he sleeps until three or so and then he wants to be fed,” Merry said. “So long as Peri doesn’t start crying for something, Théo is rather quiet most of the time. Of course, Peri wouldn’t cry so much if somebody didn’t spoil him.”

“Peri is partly named for me,” Pippin said. “It’s my duty to spoil him.”

“Since when did you start doing your duties so well?” Merry asked but he was grinning when he said it.

“Don’t you listen to him son,” Sara said to Pippin. “We have to take care of our namesakes.” As he said this, he bounced Peri again, the bairn squealing with laughter and smiling to beat the sun.

On the lawn, Sam sat behind his wife and folded his arms about her waist. Rose leaned back into him and folded her hands on top of his. Folco sat next to Delia; they clasped hands and she rested her head on his shoulder. Little Frodo sat looking up at them with big hazel eyes, his mouth busily working at tasting every inch of the pocket watch and its chain.

“Master Saradoc assured me that his watch has survived many assaults from bairns over the years,” Rose said. “He gave it to him at any rate.”

“Still, he could muck up the workings,” Sam said but when he reached out to take the timepiece from his son, Frodo held it away and frowned.

“Now Frodo, no talking back,” Sam said firmly. “You can play with it, but just you keep it out of your mouth.”

Frodo blinked up at him, as though he was trying to determine if his father was being serious or not. He looked at his mother next and then Folco and Delia, and finally back at his father. Sam raised an eyebrow and shook his head. Frodo blinked again then tentatively brought the pocket watch back toward his mouth.

Frodo paused, looked down at the pocket watch and back at his father. He inched the timepiece closer to his mouth.

“Here lad,” Rose said and reached into her pocket for a small bag of rusks that she kept there. She handed two to Frodo and he had to drop the pocket watch to take the food. When he did, Rose easily took the pocket watch from him. She held it out in front of her as it dripped with saliva. “We should clean this.”

Sam took a handkerchief from his pocket and Rose handed him the abused timepiece. Little Frodo’s eyes followed his father’s every move as he wiped it clean and checked it to make sure it still worked.

Delia chuckled. “He’s a clever one,” she stated, “and he’s going to look just like his papa, you can tell already.”

“Hey now, that’s our friend you’re speaking of, Freddy,” Merry defended.

“We can only hope there’s another Rosie out there somewhere for little Frodo so he doesn’t have to grow up all alone,” Pippin said with a wink.

Folco looked back and forth between his friends, not understanding the joke. “I think Frodo looks nice,” he stated to Fredegar.

“That depends on what you mean by nice,” Elanor said in her grown-up manner. “He can be devious sometimes.”

“I’m not sure, but when she was making you she said she itched a lot, and she was always hungry and ate the strangest things,” Folco said.

“Maybe that’s why you’re so strange,” Elanor said to Freddy and laughed cheerily.

“My!” Frodo cried suddenly, recalling the adults’ attention to him. He was finished with his rusks and wanted his pocket watch back to chew on.

“You stay there, dear, you’re far too comfortable to be getting up. I’ll get it for you,” Estella offered and went into the smial to retrieve the stuffed wool ring from the bairn’s cradle in Sam and Rose’s room. She returned quickly enough and, after giving the toy to Rose, she and Merry disappeared for a time to stroll about the garden.

Mentha slipped an arm around Fredegar’s waist and watched the children with him. Elanor was now trying to teach Freddy to whistle and getting nowhere fast. Peri was playing with the buttons on Saradoc’s waistcoat as Théodoc continued to sleep soundly. Frodo was scowling at his father for the pocket watch, not having discovered yet that pouting would work far more quickly and efficiently.

“Time willing, we’ll have our own soon,” Fredegar said and wondered for the hundredth time what a child of his lovely wife would look like. Probably not as beautiful as Elanor, but he imagined any daughter of Mentha’s would come a close second to the fair maid child.

When the children became hungry, Mentha, Delia and Esme went inside to make second breakfast and begin preparing elevenses. Rose and Estella retreated to the parlor to feed the bairns and talk about the many trials and joys of motherhood. Meanwhile, the lads went down to the Party Field, where the Gaffer and the Cottons were already beginning to put up the food tents and the many lanterns. While the mallorn tree was pretty to look upon, it was already far too tall to hang lanterns from as they had done with the previous party tree and they had finally made stands for the lanterns to hang from, which were stored in the barn on the far edge of the field.

Marigold sat against the Party Tree keeping watch on her firstborn Young Tommy, her belly swollen with her second soon to come. She smiled up at her brother and his friends as they entered the field. They greeted her hello before going on to help with the set up. Only Pippin and Sam stopped for a quick word.

“I feel that ready to burst sir,” she replied with a laugh. “Miss Willow said it should just be a few more days.”

“If you have it today, that’d be a great gift to Frodo,” Pippin pointed out.

Sam lightly cuffed Pippin on the shoulder and pushed him towards the tents. “Get on with you and leave my sister in peace,” he laughed. Pippin bowed gallantly and trotted off to join the others. Sam knelt down next to his sister and hugged her gently, then ruffled Young Tommy’s hair. “You’re here earlier than I expected you to be, Goldie.”

“Tom and the lads wanted to get started with the tents afore the cooks arrive,” Goldie said.

“Calla’s here,” Goldie said, indicating Jolly’s wife at the other end of the field, where her sister-in-law was supervising the arrangement of the tents and the platform where the band would perform. “Mother Lily will be here soon also. I’ll be well looked after, big brother, don’t you be a fretting. Who else is coming?”

“Besides us as are already here, there’s the Thain and his Lady, and all of Mr. Pippin’s sisters and their families. A few of the Bagginses are coming also. Daisy said she’d come too.”

“About fifty or so,” Sam shrugged. “No more’n your average party, so don’t you be fretting.”

“This ain’t exactly your average party. The guests of honor ain’t even here, for starters.”

“You know, folk in town are saying as the madness of the Bagginses must’ve come from Bag End, for now you’re starting to crack, throwing parties for them as are declared dead,” Goldie said, frowning disapprovingly at the thought of the people who were so bold as to insult her brother. “I’ve been telling them it’s more a pre-harvest party and that seems to be quelling most of the talk, though there are still folks as say it ain’t proper.”

“Let them say what they want,” Sam said. “Harvest party, birthday party – either way, we’re having it and it’s going to be fine.”

Indeed, it was a grand party. Everyone arrived before the tea hour and they enjoyed their gifts immensely. Those of Frodo’s family were deeply touched by their gifts, as had been hoped. While this was not exactly what the heads of the families had thought Sam would use the mathoms for when they had declined having them dispersed to the families outright, they were glad for the compromise that Sam had come up with. Of course, none of them were so rude as to acknowledge the gifts as mathoms, but they found other ways of letting Sam know how much the gifts meant to them, saying such things as ‘why, I haven’t had such a lovely treasure since I was a tween,’ or ‘I’ve not been given such a fine weskit since my younger days.’

Working hobbits and gentlehobbits mixed easily together just as in the old days of Mr. Bilbo. Paladin and Saradoc were greatly impressed at Sam’s comfort with the two classes and how quickly he was able to get his guests talking about their shared interests and talents and forget about their differences. The children needed no such prodding and were happily running about the field playing their games, while the bairns were passed from one set of arms to another.

Daisy showed off her youngest’s ability to walk. Tulip grasped onto her mother’s fingers with iron-tight fists and stepped forward on uncertain feet and wobbly legs, an immense look of concentration on her little face. Soon, the fathers were doing the same, Merry leading Peri, Tom leading Young Tommy and Sam leading Frodo. Harman took over for Daisy and the fathers were ‘racing’ their children for an impromptu contest and urging them towards the arms of their waiting mothers. Peri and Frodo could walk on their own but they were clumsy still and often fell, or they became distracted with the dandelions growing in the field.

“That doesn’t seem right somehow,” Everard said to his wife Pervinca as they watched the slow-paced race.

Vinca laughed. “You mean to say that if we had a bairn of our own, you wouldn’t be out there yourself?”

“Oh I’d be out there. I couldn’t let Merry or Pippin think that their sons could best ours,” Everard said.

“And what makes you think we’ll have a son first?” Vinca asked. “Maybe we’ll have a daughter.”

“Oh look!” exclaimed Calla suddenly and she pointed at Young Tommy, who had released his father’s hands and was taking his final steps toward his mother on his own. A huge smile split the bairn’s face in two. Everyone clapped as the bairns one by one reached their mothers and fell forward into hugs and kisses.

Everard left his wife’s side and joined Merry and Pippin who were now standing with Estella and Peri. Everard looked back across the field at Vinca, who was now in deep conversation with Calla and Angelica Baggins. He sighed with relief. “Not that I don’t want my own children some day,” he started, “but I’m not quite ready for it. I thought we’d wait a while yet but the longer Per’s here around these wee ones the more she gets that gleam in her eyes.”

“Vinca and gleaming eyes are never a good combination,” Pippin agreed lightly. “I’d pack up all your valuables and keep them in a safe and secret location, the swifter to make your narrow escape.”

Merry and Everard laughed. A few years ago, that comment would have been full of ire and Vinca’s response would have been equally vile. Now the comment was flippant and teasing, and Vinca, with her sharp ears and unusually canny ability of knowing when someone was talking about her, only smiled over at them before going back to her conversation.

Meanwhile, the older children were having their own fun. Daisy’s firstborn, Bell, and Pearl’s firstborn, Liliana, were only a year apart in age and they had become quick friends upon meeting earlier that day. When they tired of playing with their presents, Bell, the oldest at thirteen, motioned for Liliana to join her in the barn. They crept past the stalls, pausing only briefly to whisper hello to Bill and Strider. The ponies whinnied softly and swished their tales. The lasses continued to the side wall, where a broad saw swung loosely from a hooked nail. Bell found a currycomb and winked.

“Listen to what this sounds like,” she said and banged the comb against the saw, making a great noise almost like thunder.

Liliana clamped her hands over her ears and giggled helplessly. “That’s a neat trick!” she said. “Can I try?”

“Sure, just be sure to stand back and hit it from the side, not direct like,” Bell instructed. She handed the comb to her friend and Liliana banged on the saw, causing a great racket. Indeed, she made such a racket that they didn’t hear the shouting until the final roll of ‘thunder’ ended. Then they could hear Harman calling for his daughter outside, his voice getting closer to the barn door.

“Run!” Bell whispered. Liliana dropped the comb and the lasses dashed out of the side door just as Harman entered the front.

“Having fun?” said Nibs, trying hard to be stern despite his desire to laugh. The lasses triumphant shouts of escape died instantly on their lips. He shook his head at them. “Bell, you’ve been told not to do that. It scares the younger children and someone could get hurt.”

“Try that one on your father,” Nibs said, pointing with his chin just behind them. The lasses turned and looked up at a disapproving Harman, his arms crossed in front of him.

“Someone is dangerously close to not having cake tonight,” Harman said, looking between the two lasses.

“Then get over to your mothers and stay with them until dinner. You’re on restriction, the both of you.”

“Yes Dad,” Bell said and she and Liliana went to their mothers, who were waiting for them with lectures about ladylike behavior at the ready.

After dinner the musicians brought out and tuned their instruments and everyone took the field to dance. Marigold returned to her perch under the mallorn to watch over the growing line of sleeping bairns and faunts. Despite Tom’s and Sam’s worries and Pippin’s hopes, Goldie showed no signs of giving birth before the end of the night but she was still tired and needed her rest. Gaffer joined her and kept her company, holding his youngest grandson in his arms as Frodo yawned and stretched in his sleep.

After the dancing came the cake, which everyone was able to enjoy. More dancing followed and the party was still in full-swing by the time the Conspirators made their way up the Hill to the top of Bag End. Pippin stole a bottle of ginger wine from the drinks table and they passed it around as they sat against the base of the oak and looked up at the stars.

“Too bad we don’t have any fireworks,” Pippin said, voicing the same thought as everyone else. Gandalf’s fireworks were just one more thing they would never again be able to see and enjoy, but those were the least of the things they missed tonight. Pippin took a sip from the bottle and handed it to Fredegar. “You threw a fine party tonight Sam. Frodo would be proud.”

“When it’s proper to do so, sir,” Sam said, feeling uneasy as he always did when this topic came up. It seemed to him like it came up at least once every visit and it was getting harder to argue the point.

“What do we have to do to make it proper then?” Merry asked. A teasing grin was on his face but his eyes were serious. He accepted the bottle from Fredegar and took a swig.

“Why don’t you go to your fathers and have them declare it proper for Sam to address you familiarly?” Fredegar suggested. “Sam wouldn’t dare deny the Master and the Thain.”

“Why stop there? We’ll have the Mayor declare it so also,” Merry said and handed the bottle to Sam. “They’ll sign it in red ink on an official document. The three of us will be witnesses. I’m sure Folco and Everard will sign it also. We only need two more witnesses.”

“Ponto, since he’s the head of the Bagginses,” Fredegar suggested. “He could stand in Frodo’s place.”

“And the Gaffer,” Pippin said with a wink and the others laughed and nodded knowingly.

“You’ll be needing two documents then,” Sam said, laughing also. “One saying as it’s all right for me not to call you ‘Mr.’ and another saying as it’s all right for the Gaffer to sign the other.”

“Actually, I don’t think we’ll need either,” Merry said now. “You’re forgetting the Rules of Address, Sam. It was proper for you to call us ‘Mr.’ when you were Frodo’s gardener, but you’re the Master of Bag End now. Not only that, but you’re our friend, and according to Rule Two, ‘peers may address each other however they so choose.’”

“In other words, it is proper for you to not call us ‘Mr.’,” Pippin finished triumphantly.

Sam hummed noncommittally at this. He couldn’t disagree with this argument, for by all accounts Merry was correct. Still, Sam couldn’t put aside a lifetime of habits in just one night, not without giving it considerable thought. So instead he sighed deeply and rested his chin on his hand as Pippin took the bottle from him. “I wonder what Mr. Frodo’s doing just about now.”

“Probably sitting by a fire with Bilbo, listening to elves sing,” Merry guessed, allowing for the change in subject. He knew it was Sam’s way of saying that he had grown weary of the other topic. Besides, they could always come back to it again later.

“I’m sure they probably do, being sticklers for tradition as they both are,” Merry said.

“Never did stray from their roots much did they,” said Fredegar with a sage nod. He took the bottle back from Pippin, and the wine made its round again. “Always the proper and predictable Bagginses, those two were.”

“Never did anything adventurous or unexpected,” Pippin agreed. “Well, except for that one incident with the dragon.”

“And that one instance when Bilbo disappeared in the middle of hosting his very own eleventy-first birthday party,” Fredegar said.

“And then there was that time they sailed over the Sea,” Sam finished. “Other than that, they were quite plain really, and very nearly the two smartest hobbits in the Shire, not counting current company of course.”

“Do you think Strider and the others got their gifts on time?” Pippin asked.

“I hope so,” said Merry. “It would be nice if we were all toasting Frodo and Bilbo at the same time, even spread across Middle-earth as we are.”

They watched the stars and listened to the music from the band on the field below. When the stars neared the ten o’clock hour, Merry brought out the wooden cups he had stowed away in his jacket and they filled them with the last of the wine, each getting an equal measure. They raised their cups and clicked them together.

“To Frodo and Bilbo, whose courage and deviousness were insurmountable,” Pippin said.

“May they live happily and peacefully to the end of their days,” Fredegar finished and they drank to their friends’ health.

Nine Kings of old ruled a glorious land until their greed overcame them. Nine Rings they were given for their fair hands; nine fingers adorned in gold. Their downfall reshaped the world, and their realm was lost to the Sea.

Nine Ringwraiths these mighty Kings became to do their Dark Lord’s bidding. They had no longer any will of their own and they ruled over lands grown bleak and cold. Their black hearts mirrored emptied souls that gripped the world in fright.

Nine Walkers of hope crossed abandoned lands grown wild; their quest deemed impossible. They trusted to the bonds of friendship and faced the Enemy together, their faith in each other a small light against the dark. They brought hope to all they met and their Quest freed the world of its greatest evil.

Nine Fingers the Ring-bearer considered with solemnity and grief. His soul was emptied but his will was again his own. He was Hope Beyond Endurance, yet he carried no hope for himself until he crossed the Sea to a glorious land. He saw the missing finger as a scar, a mark of his failure. The Wise saw in the remaining, unmarred nine a circle completed.

Shortly after my father sailed, Elanor discovered a poem on a loose sheet of parchment tucked into the pages of the Red Book. The parchment had been folded and unfolded many times and the creases were worn so thin that it was torn in many places, and it was much wrinkled. On the back of the parchment, in blue ink as faded as the black ink of the poem itself and equally difficult to read, was this rather odd list, written in our father’s slow round hand:

cumin – ground to powder
ribbons
that yellow sour fruit
ash box for Arwen
10 o’clock at

This list lends us to believe that this poem was written in Minas Tirith while the Travellers lived there after the War. The ash box would be a box made of ash wood to be given to Queen Arwen, of which Hamfast and Daisy at least have some vague recollection of being told about once when they were young. The yellow sour fruit would be lemons, of which we have all heard about numerous times in our youth and now even have the delight to taste ourselves since Tom brought back some seeds to grow our own lemon trees when he journeyed to Minas Tirith last year. The sudden and abrupt ending of the list makes us believe that it was at this point our father realized upon what he was writing his list and so ceased to do so.

As for the poem itself, none of us have any recollection of it whatsoever. We soon came to the conclusion that our father must have kept it on his person at all times and, for whatever reason, chose not to share it with any of us. Whether he shared it with Mother or not is impossible to determine. When Thain Peregrin and Master Meriadoc read it, shortly before their final journey, they too did not recognize it and could not remember our father ever speaking about it.

One thing is certain: our father did not write it. Neither did Frodo Baggins. The handwriting is altogether unfamiliar to all of us. The serious tone of the poem also is proof that a hobbit did not write it, and although the later poems of Frodo Baggins were serious in tone they were also dark in nature, which this poem is not. Certainly our father had no influence in the actual writing of it, for his poems at least were forever carefree and silly things, even after all the horrors he witnessed during the War. The poem also does not appear to have been written specifically for our father, for if it had been he never would have made the mistake of scribbling on it.

Peregrin and Meriadoc felt that the poem was perhaps written in dedication to the Travellers, all of whom longed to return home and see their gardens again. They stipulated that the poem was likely written down by a scribe or bard, of which there were many living in the city in the months following the War. They also indicated that it could have just as easily been written by anyone whom the hobbits met and spoke to during those days, or even any of the many guests and emissaries that came into the city at that time from all over Gondor, Rohan, Ithilien, Harondor and Harad and other such places. They also told us that the Travellers had received many gifts, most of which came by delivery to their home in the city and many of those were sent anonymously by a grateful populace who wished for no recognition of their gifts, for anything they sent the Travellers could little compare to the gift of freedom the Ring-bearers had given them. So it appears the poem could have been written by anyone from anywhere at any time during the Travellers’ stay in the city.

Still, Tom did his best to track down the author of the poem when he and his wife Athelas traveled to Minas Tirith last year. He took the poem with him and together they asked all of the Travellers’ friends who yet lived and might have some knowledge of the gift.

They then searched the Citadel Archives, thinking perhaps if the poem was written by a bard, then more of that bard’s work might be housed there. They looked through too many scrolls to count and at last came to a set of eight scrolls, written in a hand nearly similar to that of the poem. The scrolls told of war and plague and death, and one poem, to their astonishment, appeared to be a sister to the poem of which our father had possession, for many of the words and phrases were similar, and most of the same themes were repeated, though in very different fashion. Even the titles are the same. Alas, that none of these scrolls were signed.

When Tom and Athelas took these scrolls to the archivist, the mystery only deepened for the archivist told them that those scrolls have been housed in the archives for many hundreds of years. So either our father stole that poem from the archives after he accidentally scribbled upon it – an unlikely event! – or he channeled the spirit of the dead scribe and actually did write it himself in the scribe’s handwriting – also equally unlikely, no matter what Primrose and Bilbo might think.

The archivist told Tom that it was not uncommon for bards to seek inspiration from earlier works and at any rate they could often be seen in the archives, poring over old scrolls for their research. The archivist then looked up the old ledgers of visitors from the time the Travellers were living in the city, however, all of those visitors were now passed away. King Elessar suggested that since many bards are also trained in calligraphy, that the bard, for whatever reason wanting his or her gift to be anonymous, had not only sought inspiration from the poem found in the archive but had then also imitated that original bard’s handwriting as best he or she could. He also supposed that the scribe of both poems could be an elf, who would have by now sailed over the Seas.

In short, as this explanation should have been from the start, the author remains unknown and when exactly our father came into possession of the poem will also remain a mystery. Whatever the answers to those questions might be, it is clear that our father treasured it and that he, at the last, decided it best to leave it here with us than to take it with him. Elanor finds hope in this, for none of us, as much as we miss him, would want our father pining for the Shire now that he is at last reunited with his master in Valinor.

Tom copied the poem that he and Athelas found in the Citadel Archives and that is given here first, since we believe it to be the original. The second poem is the one which our father carried with him. Remarks in parentheses are my own.

Red pale petals moist and full, soft to touch
They smile at me with sweetness, shiver in the wind
A secret they hide behind the ivory gate
But it shines out bright from blazing brown

I sit and stare out this high window
Search in vain for that fragrant bloom
It’s scent is but a memory beyond the dark
Lingering on my skin, clutching my heart

Long I tended it, long I waited
My patience and labor hoping for that bud to flower
Tight and close 'til the weather turns more favorable
At long last it opens to me but I am gone

Does it bloom still? Does it wait for me?
Have the weeds taken it over and withered it?
Will I ever look upon it, this beauty I imagined in my mind,
Or will I return to naked earth devoid of color?

How I long to touch that rose
To drown in its scent and brilliance
To feel its softness and sharpness
To caress those petals moist with morning dew and know bliss

I sit and stare out this high window
And see only stone and flame and darkest night
I sit and stare out this high window
I will never see another May

The Rose, author Unknown (possibly written in 1419 SR, between Astron and Wedmath)

As I sit and stare out this high window
Surrounded by stone cold and grey
I think back to a closed rosebud
I left behind that long ago day

Long I tended it with caring touch
Long I waited with patience kind
Sank my hands into fragrant earth
Awaiting the time for which I’ve pined

A pale grey morn of weather fair
Dewdrops from dark green petals spill
The tight closed bud begins to yawn
My labor done, hope springs from the till

Bold red blossoms moist and full
Reveal its hidden depths so lush
A hint of fragrance soft and sweet
Upon the wind from the bloom’s warm blush

Color so bright the blossom smiles
Shines out blinding from pale brown earth
Blooming for me as I so dreamed
Filling my heart with beauty and mirth

Yet fear and darkness called me away
Before I could see my toil fulfilled
I never saw that closed bud bloom
It blossomed alone ‘gainst all I willed

So I sit and stare out this high window
And search in vain the gathering dark
For a bloom that lives only in dreams
To touch my thoughts and clutch my heart

How I long to touch that simple rose
To fill my eyes with its scarlet folds
To smell its scent strong and pure
A brilliant splendor to behold

I wonder if it blossoms still
Or if it has yet faded away
Do weeds entwine round its roots
Or do rains give life to it this May*

Will it wait for me before it withers
So I can look upon its beauty once
Or will it fail as sun sinks low
Devoid of care for too many months

For a rose is such a contrary thing
Both sharp and soft, a ruthless grace
Its wildness untamed can cut and tear
Yet a child’s hand can bind it with lace

I will hope to see it one day soon
Beaming out from its earthly bed
I will touch that soft and silky bloom
And ignore its blood-like hue of red.

(* - This is not, I believe, a hint of when the poem was written. I believe instead that the author chose this month for the rhyme and because it was used in the original poem. Be that as it may, it is quite likely that it was indeed written in Thrimidge.)

“No, Frodo, I have to insist that I get my way in this. The reader must have no knowledge of the truth going in or it will ruin the element of surprise. They must be able to experience that startling revelation in the same way that the Witch King did. Don’t you see that it will give that moment a much fuller impact, more emotion?”

“A consequence for which I am fully prepared to handle. No one should know that Dernhelm is Éowyn until the battle of the Pelennor and the only way for that to happen is if, in the story, *I* don’t know.”

“This is supposed to be a truthful account, Merry. At least let me put a footnote or a…”

“No. Don’t make me scowl at you Frodo, you know I’m not very good at that.”

“No, there’s more, drafts and revisions and such. This is just what I’ve put into the Red Book so far. Why? What’s wrong?”

“This phrase right here, describing the dragon firework at Bilbo's Party. What exactly is an express train?”

“I don’t know. That was Sam’s conception. There’s really nothing in Middle-earth that’s as fast as a dragon, so he said to just make something up that sounds like it would be fast. I guess it’s supposed to be some sort of fast-traveling merchant convoy, like the Quick Post.”

“So much for your truthful account. You’re not even on page six and you’re already making things up. Wouldn’t ‘like a runaway horse’ be a better metaphor?”

“Why? Does he want me to rewrite his stealing of the Palantír? Maybe he thinks that scene would be better taking place back at Meduseld.”

Ever wonder how that entire conversation between the Gaffer and the Black Rider went? Some lines are taken from FOTR, "Three Is Company". I'll trust that you'll all know which lines are mine and which are Tolkien's. ;) And speaking of Tolkien, my sincerest apologies. :D

Khamûl reared his horse to a halt at the foot of the little bridge. He looked down at the little river, black under the night sky and spangled with the reflection of many bright stars. He sniffed suspiciously at the water, fearful of what might lie in wait beneath its deceptively peaceful flow. He inspected the bridge to ensure it was sound then nudged his horse over it and continued on the little dirt lane up the little hill.

He despised this land. Everything here was little: little roads, little hills, little rivers. Even the people were little. They were little enough that he could squash them under his boot and rub them into the ground – if he were allowed. For some strange reason, his Master had forbidden him and the other Nazgûl from using their powers while in this place these little people called Shire. Had he still the ability to think for himself, he would find it all rather foolish, not to use what powers he had to make this job go faster and easier. Really, these little runts could be tipped over with a simple push of his finger.

Is using my finger to tip them over the same as using my powers? thought Khamûl. He wasn’t sure, but he decided to give the matter some serious thought. If it was not, then he had found a possible loophole to his Master’s commands.

He kept the horse’s pace at a trot so he could study the map the Witch King had taken from that slinking spy of Saruman’s. He was quite familiar with it by now and knew he was in Hobbiton. The mean old lady with the umbrella he had come across earlier had pointed him in this direction, saying that Baggins could be found in Hobbiton on the hill. However, upon coming to Hobbiton, he realized there were a few hills to be choosing from. This was the last hill he was attempting and his patience was wearing thin.

This hunt was supposed to have been a simple in and out assignment. He had already spent a day longer in this little land than he had planned and he was discovering that finding Baggins was the equivalent of finding an undetectable magical ring in a haystack the size of Arda. If one more thing went wrong on this hunt, he would have a conniption.

There were many little houses on little farms at the bottom of this little hill. About halfway up, was a little lane of three little holes, and at the top was another little hole and a tree. At the end of the little lane with the three little holes stood an old bent runt breathing smoke from a little pipe. Khamûl decided to try him first, thinking that surely he was overdue for some good luck and that this little old runt just might be Baggins. The old runt certainly looked to be the right age, as it has been nearly eighty years since Baggins took the Ring from that horrid Gollum creature.

Khamûl urged his horse towards the little old runt, who rudely began to retreat into his little hole as soon as he spotted Khamûl approaching.

The old runt paused, his hand on the doorknob. “What do you want?” he croaked up at Khamûl.

Khamûl sat up straighter on his horse, pleased to see that at least the old runt was sufficiently wary of him. “I am looking for Baggins,” Khamûl said and waited expectantly for the old runt to unwittingly turn himself in as the thief Baggins.

The old runt looked up at him and blinked, taking in Khamûl’s black robes and peering into his hood in vain search of a face. “Well,” the old runt said, sounding uncertain, “if you’re looking for a Baggins, you’ve come to the right parts, but which Baggins would you be looking for?”

The old runt held up his hands and started ticking off one finger at a time as he listed all the Bagginses. “Well, there’s Mr. Frodo Baggins to be starting. Then there’s Mr. Ponto Baggins and his daughter Miss Angelica Baggins. There’s also Mr. Porto Baggins. Then there’s Mistress Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and her son Mr. Lotho. Them’s the only real Bagginses left. So which one are you wanting?”

“Which one?” Khamûl repeated, at a loss. The loathsome creature Gollum had not given them any other name except Baggins. Khamûl never would have thought it was only half the name he needed. He huffed in frustration and tried a different tactic. “I am looking for the Baggins who went away, went away a long time ago, and came back to the Shire.”

“Ah, that’d be Mr. Bilbo Baggins,” the old runt declared and Khamûl felt triumph stirring eagerly in his breast – until the old runt continued. “He ain’t here no more. He left again some seventeen years back. Took off for the Blue. Couldn’t tell you where to be finding him.”

“Which way did he go?” Khamûl asked, leaning down, all but growling at this most unwelcoming revelation.

“I don’t know!” the old runt said, more put out and annoyed than he had a right to be. He should be quaking in his boots, if he were wearing any. At the very least, the hair on his feet should be standing on end, but they were remaining stubbornly curled. “I just said I couldn’t be telling you where to find him, now didn’t I? Now if that’s all you’re wanting, I have dinner on the stove. Good night!”

The old runt started to open the door. Khamûl thought quickly. “Wait! The other Bagginses? They would know where to find him?” he asked.

The old runt paused and considered this question for too long a time. Khamûl leaned down more, deciding in that moment that tipping them over was not the same as using his power on them. But before Khamûl could so much as flex a finger, the old runt replied, rather hesitantly, “If any of them do, it’d be Mr. Frodo, but he’s always maintained that he don’t.”

Finally! He was getting some results! Khamûl straightened importantly and tightened his grip on his horse’s reins, ready to ride. “You will take me to him. Is he nearby?” Khamûl asked confidently.

“No, Mr. Baggins has gone away. Went this morning, and my Sam went with him: anyway all his stuff went,” the old runt said.

Khamûl hissed a sigh, and had he any real hair left he would have pulled it out with much glee and fanfare. Weren’t these little people supposed to stay put? Khamûl leaned down again, hoping to scare the truth out of the runt. “He left did he? I suppose he is gone for good too?”

“No – why me?” Khamûl asked, feeling a headache coming on. “Then at least tell me, where is he going?”

“Where to? That ain’t no secret. He’s moved to Bucklebury or some such place, away down yonder.”

“Down yonder?” Khamûl said and looked in the direction the old runt had pointed. Khamûl looked at his map and searched it frantically for Bucklebury, but no such name was written upon it anywhere. No Bucklebury to the East. No Bucklebury to the North. No Bucklebury to the South nor even to the West. No Bucklebury. No Baggins. No RING! He scrunched the useless map into a ball and did his best not to screech. The last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself.

He glared down at the old runt and was at least pleased to see that the old runt was now adequately frightened. “Is this Bucklebury place far from here?” Khamûl asked.

“Yes it is – a tidy way,” the old runt said, sounding scared, but still most inappropriately put out. “I’ve never been so far myself; they’re queer folks in Buckland.”

Buckland? Khamûl smoothed out the map and looked at it again. Then he seethed again. No Buckland either. He scrunched the map up and threw it into his saddlebag. He was through talking to this little fool. He would find out from someone more useful where this Buckleburyland place was. But since he was here, the old runt may as well do something of use to him. “You will send a message to Mr. Frodo Baggins for me, tell him not to go anywhere until I get there.”

Only instead of dropping to his knees and offering subservience, the old runt puffed out his chest and opened his door. “No,” he dared to say. “I can’t give no message. Good night to you!” And with that he went inside and slammed – SLAMMED! – the door in Khamûl’s non-existent face.

Khamûl growled at the door and twitched a finger. He should have tipped the old runt over when he had a chance. He turned his horse around and headed back down the little hill. “The Witch King will not be happy to hear this,” he told his horse, who grunted in agreement.

He says nothing’s wrong but I know otherwise. All day he’s hid himself away in his study, the Red Book open to the same blank page as that morning, not a drop of ink on it. I look around and the inkwell is still in the desk, the fresh quills spotless, yet he'll pretend he’s been working. He stares out at the twilit garden, and through the window I can smell the sweet begonias and the sharp mint. I can see the sky filled with reds, pinks and oranges, and down the Hill along the Water folk are strolling along the Road, swinging their arms without a care in the world as they make their way to The Ivy Bush or The Green Dragon.

I touch his arm to let him know I’m there, but he doesn’t move, not a twitch or a shudder, not even a sigh. He’s clutching that little jewel Queen Arwen gave him and though he looks outside, he’s seeing something far away. The black centers of his eyes are filled with memories best forgot: the fires of Mt. Doom, the morbid stench of Mordor, the cries of the Nazguls’ fell beasts careening towards us, that wicked Gollum’s teeth breaking off his finger. He thinks I don’t see it, but I do. You don’t save a soul one day and forget how it suffered the next.

I know why he keeps them a secret, these days that are so bleak for him. You see, I’m the one who helped him across Mordor, even carried him up the volcano some. I kept him alive in that black land when everything around us would see him dead, including himself. Somehow we survived and escaped, and if I thought my job done, I was wrong. I see that now. I brought him home to the Shire, expecting him to be safe as a kitten at his mother’s teat, but that isn’t what happened. Standing here on this peaceful spring night, looking down at the too-slim form of my master, it’s plain for all to see that’s he suffering here, drowning on dry land and there’s naught I can do to stop it. I kept him alive only to fail him in the end.

And that’s the awful truth. It’s not anything either of us want to talk about. So when he finally shakes himself from his stupor and says everything’s all right, I agree with him and get him his tea and build up the fire while he pulls out the inkwell, dips a quill and starts dabbling nonsense on that blank page. It’s a sort of dance we’ve developed over the months since I moved here with Rose and every day we get a little better at performing it. Maybe if we get good enough, the memories won’t haunt him quite so much and he’ll start getting better. Maybe then, I won’t be such a failure. It’s a fool’s hope, but it’s the only one I have.

Sam turns a tear-strewn face up at the young master and holds up his dirt-covered hands. In his hands are a couple of frail seedlings, browned and without bloom, the roots still clinging to the earth that failed to give them life. Frodo looks at the flowerbed that Sam is kneeling over and notices many more such dead flowers slumped upon the ground. More have already been uprooted and tossed into the bucket at Sam’s side with the weeds and trimmings.

“They died, Frodo,” Sam explains unnecessarily and a small hiccup escapes him as he turns away and tosses the seedlings into the bucket with the rest. He picks up his trowel and sets to work removing the last seedlings, sniffling as he works.

Frodo watches him work, unsure what to say or do. He is quite fond of the lad and has been ever since he first met him four years earlier during one of his visits with Bilbo. Now that he has been living here officially since last autumn, he has come to regard Sam as a friend. It helps that Sam often forgets to add honorifics in front of his name, not yet being of the age when proper decorum at all times is demanded of him. Frodo can almost pretend that Sam’s a cousin, and he’s even been helping Bilbo teach the lad his letters, lessons he would have been giving Merry still if he hadn’t left Brandy Hall. He stifles a wistful sigh, surprised as always to realize he misses that overcrowded warren when he had been so happy to leave it, and refocuses on the issue at hand.

Sam is still pulling out the seedlings, and each one pulled from the earth seems to pierce straight through the novice gardener’s heart. Frodo is sure he understands why. This little flowerbed at the back of the smial, near the elm tree where Frodo likes to read on balmy afternoons, is the first bed Sam has been responsible for all on his own: he prepared it and planted it from start to finish, and has been caring for it by himself ever since, relying on what he has learned so far at his father’s side to see the seeds mature into full grown blooms. However, the seedlings had taken longer than usual to sprout and they have been slow to grow. In truth, they haven’t been looking very good for a while now and Sam has been visiting the bed every day for the last few weeks, vainly tending the withering seedlings. The battle, it seems, has finally been lost. Naturally, Sam will be upset that his first assignment has gone so badly but Frodo isn’t certain what to say to make the lad feel better about it. He has never seen Sam upset before.

Sam pulls out the last of the dead seedlings and, with a shuddering sigh, he dusts off his hands, stands up, drops the trowel in the bucket and takes the bucket in hand. He turns around and jumps in surprise; somehow, he had forgotten that Frodo is still there. He shifts from foot to foot and peers down in the bucket to avoid Frodo’s eyes. However, staring at the evidence of his failure doesn’t appease Sam in the slightest and fat tears pour from his eyes as his crying begins anew.

Frodo looks around the garden in desperation, hoping for some sign of Hamfast. Not finding him, Frodo kneels in front of the lad and gently takes the bucket from his small hands.

“Sam, don’t feel bad about it,” Frodo soothes. “It will be all right.”

Frodo gathers Sam to him for a hug and pats the lad on the back as Sam keeps crying silently into his shoulder. Not knowing what else to do, Frodo begins to babble. “You know, the first time I got to ride a pony on my own, I was thrown off the pony’s back onto the ground. I sprained my ankle and couldn’t walk for a week. I thought I knew what I was doing because I had ridden plenty of ponies with the trainers and with Saradoc and Esme. But you know what happened? We startled a rabbit from its hiding spot under some brush. It darted out across the lane, spooked the pony, and instead of keeping calm and regaining control, I got scared too. When I got scared, the pony became even more scared, and it threw me. I couldn’t have known about keeping calm and regaining control though, because this situation simply never came up before. I had to learn the hard way about how to soothe a spooked pony.”

“You sprained your ankle?” Sam asks, pulling back to look at Frodo in concern. “Did it hurt?”

“Not so much as landing on my bum from a four-foot drop did,” Frodo says and grins. To his relief, Sam offers a small smile in return. “We learn as we go, Sam-lad, and sometimes things come up that no one taught us.”

“But Gaffy taught me everything he knows about gardening,” Sam protests, defending his father stoutly.

“I’m sure he’s taught you a lot of what he knows, but I doubt he’s taught you everything,” Frodo replies gently. “Everything will take years, Sammy, and sometimes, lessons don’t get taught until they’re needed to be taught. I think that’s what your father is doing here. He’s trying to see what you’re good at and where you still need some lessons.”

“I need lessons everywhere,” Sam says, frowning. “I couldn’t save a single one of ‘em.”

“Well, these are the seeds Bilbo got from those dwarves, aren’t they? Your father did say they were a breed of lilies that he’s never tried to grow before,” Frodo reminds the lad. “With all due respect to your father, I don’t think he should have made you responsible for them.”

“But he did make me responsible,” Sam says, tears brimming again. “I did everything you’re supposed to be doing with lilies but none of it worked right. And Mr. Bilbo said as they were going to be the most beautiful flowers ever to bloom in the Shire, and now it’s come to naught. They’ll never bloom here now.”

“Do you have more seeds?” Frodo asks delicately, afraid of the answer. Sam’s lower lip begins to quiver and Frodo nods his understanding. Sam had used all the seeds in this one bed and none of them had taken hold.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Sam says miserably. “They were supposed to be the most beautiful lilies, and I wanted to grow them here so’s you could enjoy ‘em while you’re reading and whatnot, but now all’s you got to look at is dirt, and there’s no more seeds, and now Mr. Bilbo’s money has gone to waste and it’s all my fault. I’m a bad gardener.”

“That’s quite enough, Sam,” Frodo admonishes firmly, causing Sam to step back in alarm. He looks up at Frodo with apprehension, and Frodo immediately softens his expression and tone. “I won’t have you berating yourself. You’re not a bad gardener. You’re a very good gardener, but you’re still just learning. It’s certainly not your fault that Bilbo bought so few seeds. He should have known it might take more than one attempt before you could discover what soil they prefer and how much light or shade they need. Lilies they might be, but if they’re from the dwarves, they might require special conditions that our normal Shire lilies don’t require. We’ll tell him to get more seeds next time, and then you can plant them all over the garden and see where they grow best. It will be an experiment of sorts.”

Frodo nods. “That’s when you try something to see what will happen. If you don’t get the results you want, you try again but you change something to see if you can get a different result. Haven’t you ever made up your own receipt when cooking?”

“May has,” Sam says, wrinkling his nose. “They’re not always very good, but after a couple more times, they start tasting better.”

“See there! That’s the same with gardening,” Frodo says. “The lilies obviously didn’t like something about this flowerbed. It could be the soil, or the shading. Maybe there’s too many pests gnawing on the roots, it being so close to the tree and all. Or maybe, if they are the most beautiful lilies in the world, they weren’t meant to be hidden away where only a few of us can enjoy them. Maybe they would rather have been planted along the gate so that everyone passing by can enjoy them too.”

“I bet you that’s it,” Frodo says with finality. “And now you’ll know for next time. Divide the seeds up and plant them in different soils and different shadings and different locations. Then we'll know where they like to grow.”

“But,” Sam says and bites on his bottom lip uncertainly. He’s no longer crying and his eyes have cleared up, though he will need to blow his nose before Frodo can allow him to go on his way. Sam shifts uncomfortably again and looks pleadingly at Frodo. “But, I planted them here for you. Now there won’t be naught for you to be looking at.”

Frodo looks at the empty flowerbed and tries to remember what had been planted there last year. Sam will have a greater chance of success at plants that have already proven well-suited for the soil. “I’m rather fond of peony,” he says. “Some bearded iris and mullein wouldn’t go amiss either. They may not be Dwarven lilies, but so far as I’m concerned, anything you plant here will make it the most beautiful garden in all of Middle-earth.”

“You won’t miss up,” Frodo assures. “If you do have a question or concern, tell your father and get his help. Part of being responsible for something is asking for help when you need it. You’ll have to ask for help a lot to start, but after a while, you’ll find you need it less and less. It’s all part of learning.”

“Like with my letters,” Sam says, grinning at last. “I can read lots of words by myself now.”

Frodo beams at the lad. “Yes, you can, and that’s how I know you can do this too.”

Just then, Hamfast appears behind Frodo in the distance. He goes into the shed and starts shuffling things about as he looks for some garden tool or other in the cluttered outbuilding. Sam’s face falls once again and he frowns at Frodo. “How do I tell Gaffy I failed with the lilies?” he asks.

“You go right up to him, tell him you tried your best and you want to try again,” Frodo says. “He won’t be disappointed in you Sammy. If anything, he’ll be proud that you want to keep on trying.”

“You’re welcome, lad,” Frodo says and pats his back again. He takes a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and holds it under Sam’s nose. Sam hesitates for only a moment before blowing. Then Frodo wipes away the tear tracks on his face. When Sam is presentable again, Frodo sends him on his way.

He watches from his spot under the elm tree as Sam timidly approaches the shed, stopping to stand outside it, the bucket held in the circle of his arms. Hamfast comes out and peers down at the contents of the bucket as Sam bravely puffs out his chest and announces that the lilies are dead and he wants to plant peonies next. Hamfast scratches his chin as he looks from the bucket to his son and back again. Frodo holds his breath, as he knows Sam must be doing also, and they both sigh with relief when Hamfast nods and says, “All right then. Go toss that on the compost heap and I’ll tell Mr. Bilbo we’ll be needing some potted perennials for planting. ‘Tis too late in the season to be sowing seeds.”

Then Hamfast reaches down and pats his son’s head, ruffling the curls. Frodo knows this is his way of showing approval, and this is all the reassurance that Sam needs. Sam spins on his feet and darts off to the compost heap, beaming as bright as the sun, as Hamfast goes back into the shed, mumbling something about trying to grow outlandish Dwarven lilies in the Shire.

A month later, the little flowerbed under the elm tree is thriving with peonies, bearded iris and mulleins. Sam tends the flowerbed all by himself, with the occasional question directed at his father, and Frodo finds that his guess had been correct: it’s the most beautiful little garden he has ever seen.

The Hobbiton and Bywater Nursery House has been around since the two towns were founded in the year 392 SR. It was the chief resource for seeds for flowers, bushes, trees and crops, and it also provided all the tools needed for planting an eye-stunning garden. For many hundreds of years, the folk of Hobbiton and Bywater happily trotted down to the nursery to ask the owners and workers there for advice on ailing plants or where best to plant a trailing vine so it doesn’t strangle the rose bushes, or even, for those hobbits whose thumbs were not as green as others, how to set up the garden so that everything was given equal opportunity to flourish and impress.

Every now and then, a customer would return with a plant that, despite their noblest of efforts, didn’t survive the planting process or didn’t take root in the prime location where it had been laid. These were easy complaints to deal with and the problem was always quickly resolved: a new plant would be suggested, a better arrangement of flowers and vegetables would be implemented, and everyone would be happy again.

Even more rare than that, an aggrieved customer would show up greatly upset by the antics of some overabundant children who had trampled their prized begonias. The owners of the nursery only shrugged their shoulders. There was very little they could do to control children at play. How about building a nice little fence around your garden instead? they would suggest, and then they would lead the customer to the area containing fencing materials. The customers were reluctant to buy a fence and block in their beautiful gardens. After all, what was the point of having a garden if others could not enjoy it? But as they had little choice in the matter if they wished to keep their begonias from being trampled, they bought the materials anyway and gradually, fences began popping up here and there all over Hobbiton and Bywater. Many hobbits, however, resisted this move, choosing instead to keep a closer eye on the children playing in their gardens. And besides, it was only a handful of children who acted so rashly and those instances were too few and far between for such drastic measures.

Many more happy and carefree years passed. Oh, there was still the occasional complaint about reckless children with very little manners, and every year a handful more fences could be seen where there had been none before, but on the whole everyone was happy. Until the year of 1407 SR, when Lobelia Sackville-Baggins got it in her head to enlist in the Best Garden of the Shire Competition.

Lobelia was a dynamic matron, but not in any way that was considered good. She often took things to extremes, making mountains out of molehills as the adage went, and she was never happy with anyone unless they were giving her everything she wanted and then some. And she knew how to get everything she wanted. If she wanted fresh milk brought to her doorstep at 6:00 on the dot every morning, she got fresh milk delivered to her every morning at 6:00, along with a goodly supply of eggs, cheese and cream. If she wanted a cask of the finest ale from the finest malt house for her son’s birthday party, she got it, even if it had to be driven 100 miles through rain and snow to reach her house on time. If she wanted a new dress for the Winter Formal, she sent her request by Quick Post and within that very hour the sempstress would be bustling about her in her parlor, taking measurements and showing her all the various patterns and materials from which she could choose. It was very safe to say that Lobelia had never been told ‘no’ by anyone in her entire life.

So when she requested to join the Best Garden of the Shire Competition, and was naturally granted the honor to participate, she then marched herself down to the Hobbiton and Bywater Nursery House and demanded that someone come every day to look after her flowers and shrubs and vegetables. She wanted everything to be as pristine and perfect for the competition as they could be. Of course, the owners automatically agreed, sending their very best gardener every afternoon to tend her garden personally. She was quite delighted at this and told it about the town with much zest. The other hobbits smiled broadly and forcefully, counting the days to the end of the competition when everything would go back to normal.

It was a week before the competition when it happened. Lobelia left early in the morning to ride up to Overhill to visit a cousin. When she returned that afternoon, she found not the nursery house gardener in her garden, but a group of children who had chased a cat there. The cat, they claimed, was injured, but wouldn’t let them near enough to help it, and in their pursuit of the injured kitty, most of Lobelia’s thriving rose bushes had been trampled. The children were no less the worse for wear, scratched from thorns and dirtied from crawling around in the dirt. Lobelia cared little for this. The only thing she could see were her beautiful, full bloom roses hanging limply on bent and broken stems, the petals covering the garden floor like so much mulch.

Her reaction was instantaneous: she grew very red in the face and yelled at the top of her lungs for the children to depart and take that dratted cat with them. Then she marched down to the nursery house to lodge her complaint about the wayward miscreants who had just ruined her chances for placing first in the competition. When the nursery owners attempted to give her their usual response – they’re not accountable for the actions of wayward children – and tried to steer her towards the fencing material, she just about blew her top. She didn’t want a fence, she didn’t want excuses, she didn’t want anything except her beautiful garden, her flourishing rose bushes, and that lovely blue ribbon on the day of the competition - and if she didn't get it, she would make sure they lived to regret it. She threw such a mighty fit that the nursery owners quailed at the sight (and sound) of her and they threw their hands up, promising to make amends in any way that they could.

The next morning, Lobelia walked outside to find her garden once again blooming and glorious. Also that same morning, several of the hobbits in Hobbiton and Bywater walked outside to find that their rose bushes had been dug up and stolen from their gardens in the middle of the night! And the hobbits with young children, which were just about all of them, found that their entire gardens had been leveled and demolished without so much as a warning. Their fences, however, still stood intact, the only reminder they had of their years of hard toil and one-time pride.

No one knew what was going on. Oh, they could see well enough on their own that Lobelia was now the proud owner of their shrubs and flowers and that she was enjoying a hearty salad made up of the vegetables dug from their gardens, but they did not understand how this had come to be. Who would do such a thing? And why? When one or two brave souls went down to the nursery house to try to get answers, their knocks and calls were ignored. The owners were pretending not to be there!

It soon became apparent that Lobelia herself was the cause of all this mayhem. She gloated it about town that she had told the nursery owners that she wanted her garden back and that she would not put up a fence to keep out children who should know better. The other hobbits were greatly offended at this, and they were even more offended when, that afternoon, notices were suddenly posted at all the inns and post offices announcing that from here on out, any children found to be trespassing on private property would immediately be sent home on house arrest and would not be able to leave their homes without adult supervision indefinitely. The notices were signed by the nursery owners, and how they had managed to post all those notices without anyone seeing them was a mystery indeed.

The hobbits of Hobbiton and Bywater were in an uproar. Many of them now marched down to the nursery house, but their poundings on the door and their yells went unanswered. Lobelia, however, strutted down to the inn that night and the next bragging about her wonderful garden and showing off a special notice giving her the right to kick any and all trespassers off her property. She could even, she claimed, fine them five silver pennies for each step they dared to tread across her lawn. No one else had such a notice, and as her house lay directly between two major roads, the hobbits now found themselves deprived of a once often-used shortcut.

When Lobelia showed off her special notice on the second night after the de-gardening, Gaffer Gamgee only shook his head. Without saying a word to anyone, he donned his cap, slipped out the door and trotted up the Hill to Bag End. Two gentle taps on the door was all that was required for the Master of the Hill to answer his call. By the time he finished explaining everything that was happening, Mr. Frodo Baggins’s face was so pinched with fury that one would have thought he’d just eaten something incredibly sour. He promised the Gaffer he would have everything sorted out first thing in the morning.

He was true to his word. The next morning, Frodo sat to his first breakfast early and was out the door before the sun even peaked her head over the horizon. He was horror-struck at the mutilated gardens – which were now nothing more than barren slabs of upturned earth with rotting roots sticking out at odd angles – and he could not believe that Lobelia had been able to effect such a drastic change. He himself had lost many a flowerbed to rampaging children over the years, and while he could understand her disappointment and knew perfectly well that her rage could be unfathomable, this was not a justifiable solution by any means.

At first, his knocks were also ignored by the nursery owners. Finally, he walked around to the back and simply allowed himself into the house. He found the family huddled in their kitchen, cringing and pale. They looked as though they had just run a gauntlet and Frodo found he felt no sympathy for them. Indeed, he found that the only thing he could do for several moments was to just stare at them, so utterly confounded that he could not even find the words to express himself.

In the end, he demanded that all the plants be restored to their rightful owners, and should any plants be unable to be restored, the nursery owners would be responsible for replacing them at their own expense. They would also be responsible for reimbursing any fines that had to be paid by any hobbits caught with a tiptoe on Lobelia’s lawn. Frodo then made it perfectly clear that under no circumstances were any children to be deprived of their right to be children. It will be, as it has always been, the parents’ responsibility to monitor their children’s behavior. Any and all complaints should be, as they have always been, taken to the family heads to be dealt with internally.

The hobbits of Hobbiton and Bywater were much relieved – though still very disgruntled – when the nursery owners finally made a public appearance that afternoon recalling their ill-conceived edicts and announcing that all gardens would be restored to their original conditions, or as near to the original conditions as they could be. Lobelia was livid, but when she began to rave at the nursery owners, Frodo stepped forward from the crowd, regarded her with his cold Baggins glare, and that was the end of that.

It took many long months for the nursery owners to correct their error, even longer for the hobbits of Hobbiton and Bywater to forgive them (and some of them never did), and no one was at all disappointed when Lobelia placed last in the Best Garden of the Shire Competition. Well, no one except Lobelia of course, and she did everyone the favor, though she always considered it the ultimate of slights, of never entering the contest again.

This is a series of drabbles, most of which are 300 words. The fourth is 400 words (just happened that way, and I couldn’t find 100 words to cut out of it), and the last two are 500 words each. They feature our four main hobbits, their relatives and friends, including a few OCs, some of whom haven’t been seen in a while. These drabbles are set during the Yule before the Quest.

Marigold, Rosie and Lily sat in the parlor of the Cotton home, bundles of yarn, wool and cloth scattered about them. A basket of needles, scissors and knives sat on the table between them, so they each had easy access to whatever tools they needed.

“Little Bell is just going to love this scarf,” Marigold said of her niece. She was using Bell’s favorites colors of orange and yellow, alternating the colors every five rows.

“I just hope Jolly doesn’t lose these mittens before First Yule is over,” Lily said. Every year, she made a new pair of mittens for Jolly, and every year he misplaced them. She often wondered if some day she would be out in the barn milking the cows and find a calf sleeping comfortably on a pile of lost mittens.

Rosie smiled at her mother and reached for the bundle of felt. “Sam’s not very fond of gloves or mittens. He does need a hat though, so I’m going to make him a wizard’s hat.”

Goldie grinned at this but Lily looked scandalized. “Better to make him a proper hat, so he can keep what sense he has left in his head.” She spoke kindly though.

“He’s sense enough,” Rosie said. “He can wear it when he goes traveling.”

Lily shook her head. She supposed it made as much sense as wasting yarn on mittens every year for Jolly. Maybe she could try sewing the mittens to his jacket again.

The lasses bent to their work, talk for the moment forgotten. They had a lot to do to have everything ready for Yule.

“All right. You’re an imbecile,” Cedric Briarmoore happily complied. “I don’t see why you’re spending all this time on a Yule gift for Vinca, and such a lethal one at that.”

Cedric critically eyed the forest floor, scattered with twigs big and small. They were looking for a long one flexible enough to be the lath of a crossbow.

“Well, for starters, she’s likely to use you as her first target,” Cedric began, ticking off the reasons on his fingers. “Then there will be nothing stopping her from coming after the rest of us. It’s not a proper gift for a lass. Not to mention, she won’t even know you’re the one who made it for her.”

“Paladin is trusting me with this,” Everard said, his eyes lighting on a curved flat piece of oak. He picked it up and tested it’s flexibility. “And I doubt very much she will use it on me first. If she uses it on anyone, it will be you.”

“No, but it’s a comfort to me,” Everard replied, grinning widely. He put the piece of oak in his bag with the other wood he had collected so far, his hands itching to begin work on the crossbow.

He wasn’t sure when exactly he fell in love with Pervinca Took, but he did remember the day he realized it was so, just a few months before. This was to be his first present to her since that day, albeit delivered through her father, and he hoped it would not be the last.

Still, perhaps it would be wise to stand a good distance away whenever he saw her with it.

Rosamunda Bolger measured a wide sash of red satin ribbon to the length of her arm and cut it. Carefully, but with the ease of practiced effort, she cut equal lengths of thinner ribbon and weaved it into the notches she cut along the edge of the satin. Then she fashioned it all into a bow of dark red offset by blue and silver.

She peered at the wreath her daughter was making. If Rosamunda was known for her bows and ribbons, Estella was known for her wreaths. She had a knack for knowing when to pick the fruit and how long to dry it so it would not spoil. She knew when to cut the branches so they were still flexible enough for curving and twining together. Rosamunda had seen her do it a hundred times, and the end result never seized to be impressive.

She pointed to a finished wreath with furze blossoms, snow apples and holly berries. “That one is yew instead of myrtle. Why?”

The Burrowses would be coming to Budgeford for Yule, and all the arrangements had been made for their visit. All except one. It was with much regret that Mistress Burrows had written to Rosamunda that Gordi had decided to wait for spring to propose to Estella. Still, that could always change, if Estella would just encourage the lad. And a yew wreath was very encouraging indeed.

“Thank you, Mother,” Estella replied. She glanced at the wreath and smiled herself. It was a very fine wreath.

Miss Willow gently prodded the belly of her very pregnant patient. The bairn was beginning to move, getting into position for the inevitable delivery. Another couple of days, it would drop.

“Now, Myrtle, you might start having some false labor. It’s common enough once you’re this far along,” Willow warned.

Myrtle nodded calmly. This was her first bairn, but she was the youngest of eight and knew how this sort of thing went.

“Don’t be alarmed by it, but don’t hesitate to send for me should you think the bairn’s coming early,” Willow went on soothingly. She pressed a little further down on Myrtle’s belly. The pubic bone was still intact, so early labor was unlikely. Still, she had learned long ago that the last few weeks of pregnancy were often the most unpredictable, and she wasn’t about to take any chances.

“I won’t, Miss Willow,” the lass said. “Even if I don’t send for ye myself, I know as Hank will. He’s that jumpy. Every twitch or moan sends him flying for the door. He sleeps in his coat, you know, just in case.” She giggled at this, as much from nervousness as amusement.

“It’s not a bad strategy,” Willow replied, impressed by Hank’s readiness. “Most fathers end up on my doorstep half-naked, or bleeding and in pain themselves from falling while trying to slip on trousers and run at the same time. Now, let’s get you decent.”

They fixed Myrtle’s dress and Willow washed her hands, then they went down to the parlor where Corbin was entertaining Hank with a dramatic reenactment of his latest golfing victory, this time against Ponto Baggins.

Hank stood up and came to his wife, his hand falling on her belly by protective reflex.

“Your wife is hale,” Willow said. “Take her home and see that she gets as much rest as possible.”

Hank nodded fervently. Most of her patients never bothered to heed this last bit of advice, but Willow had the feeling that Hank would make sure his wife would at least keep off her feet while she worked.

The merry couple thanked the healer and let themselves out of the cottage. Corbin watched the couple from the window.

Willow turned before he could spy her smile. She didn’t want to ruin his Yule gift after all.

“Milo’s coming!” Frodo exclaimed in excitement, then sheepishly realized he was alone in the study. Sam had slipped out at some point and he hadn’t noticed, so intent he was on his mail.

He and Milo had lived as brothers once. Frodo tried to visit him whenever he was in Buckland, which wasn’t very often. He had only hoped Milo would come to Yule this year; he was having all the Bagginses over, and Peony was a Baggins, for all she was now called Burrows.

“Milo and his family will be here. They’ll be arriving in four days,” Frodo said, his face lit up like a Yule log.

“That’s good, sir,” Sam said, though privately he was worried. Frodo had been the Baggins head for years, yet he had never gone to such lengths to bring the family together for Yule. Something was up, or he wasn’t a Gamgee.

“That’s Ponto, Porto, Peony, Poppy and Filibert, and Daisy and Griffo. Nearly all of them.”

This last was said with a strange note that raised the hairs on Sam’s neck, though he couldn’t tell why.

“Not so much. Only Peony’s and Poppy’s families will require rooms here,” Frodo pointed out. “Still, it will be nice to have a full smial.”

“It will indeed, sir,” Sam agreed. “Will you be needing me Yule morning then?”

“Stars above, no, Sam,” Frodo chided. “See to your own family and don’t worry about mine.”

He filled the teacups, added sugar to his own and sat back, a pinched smile on his face. All the Bagginses together again. All but one.

Frodo peered out the study window, wondering where in the Blue Bilbo had landed.

Lobelia sniffed at the invitation: silky parchment, silver lettering, arrogantly mocking. It should be her darling Lotho in Bag End, gathering the Bagginses, not that upstart Brandy-rat. She tossed the card into the fire and watched it burn with hollow satisfaction.

She and Lotho were exiled to Sackville, to the frozen dead vines of wineries and the pungent limp leaves of pipeweed. Otho had brought them here, promising to make everything right, then left them here. She glanced at his portrait over the hearth and asked him again how he could die so inopportunely.

Lotho entered the sitting room, bearing the tea service. He set down the tray and handed her a steaming cup.

“We could still go,” Lotho replied, eyeing the ashen remains of the invitation card.

He didn’t like it here anymore than she did, but at least he tried to make something of it. The plantation had flourished under his hand; their pipeweed was now among the most sought after – not that she would ever notice.

Lobelia stiffened, imaging Frodo and his kin looking down their noses at them, Frodo sitting at the head of that immaculate table in that magnificent dining room. “No,” she said. “I won’t be made into a joke, or have pity taken upon us.”

Lotho doubted either outcome would occur. Most likely, Frodo was fervently wishing that Lobelia would do just this and refuse to attend the festivities.

Lotho sighed. “We can have Yule here. Invite the tenants to the house.” Get them out of their cold, drafty homes for a night.

“Tit for tat,” Lotho replied coolly. He took his mug and retreated to the study before his mother could respond.

Ivory Burrows picked up the box containing the fragile silver bracelet and held it out to her brother. “You’re not taking this?”

“How much longer are you going to sidestep this?” Ivory asked. “Just ask her already. You know you want to. She couldn’t possibly deny you.”

She spoke with the confidence of a lass who had found her true love, who was already promised though no words had been spoken between them. Gordi hoped that Berilac realized how lucky he was.

“She’s just not ready,” Gordi said. “Neither am I. I love her dearly, and I want nothing more than to marry her, but I don’t know. There’s something there, blocking us.”

Ivory raised her eyebrows at this. She didn’t know how Gordi could be so blind when it came to Merry Brandybuck, but she did know that if Estella didn’t say ‘yes’ soon, he’d lose her for good. Merry was gallant and loyal; he would never speak while Gordi and Estella were courting. She wasn’t so sure about Estella though.

Ivory reached into her travel coat and held out a wrapped bundle. She pulled back a fold of the cloth to reveal the unmistakable, prickly green of mistletoe. “Tell her everything. Tell her how scared you are, how much you worry about not being able to make her happy, keep her fed and warm. These are things every lad worries about. But I’ll tell you a secret: we lasses worry about them too. Tell her, so she can tell you. Then go ahead and kiss the lass. She won’t be able to say no after that.”

Gordi took the mistletoe and gripped it in his hands. Tell her everything. It was worth a try.

Pippin stretched up on tiptoes, feeling the ladder teeter precariously beneath him. He knew Ferdibrand was at the bottom, holding it in place, but that didn’t keep his heart from dropping to his toes.

Pippin stretched as far as he could go, the crepe streamer gripped tight in his hand lest it fall again. Was it just his imagination, or was his arm going numb?

Pippin pinned the streamer to the wall with a thumbtack and fell back onto his heels with relief. That was the last streamer and the ballroom looked quite beautiful, he had to admit. He clambered down the ladder, trying to ignore his wobbly knees. Ferdi patted him on the back as his feet hit the floor.

“Pippin,” Paladin said, spying his son from across the room. He waved his hand for Pippin to follow, then headed towards the Thain’s study.

“Bad luck, mate,” Ferdi said consolingly and was about to follow when he felt something light and silky brush his shoulder. He looked up to find the streamer had torn loose of its holding.

Unfortunately, Nell had seen it too. “Oh no! Ferdi, could you?” She stepped back, glaring at the spot where the streamer had been.

Ferdi sighed. “Bad luck, mate,” he muttered to himself and clambered up the ladder.

In the Thain’s study, Paladin turned to Pippin. “Now, recite again the speech for lighting the Yule log.”

Pippin sat in his father’s chair, closed his eyes, and envisioned every Yule of his past. “We gather this night to give thanks for the old year and to welcome the new…”

Gil Banks added the latest deliveries from Buckland and Pincup beneath the Yule tree. He hoped their own presents had reached their destinations in time and felt again the pang of being so far from family. Most of the year, he never thought twice about it, but Yule was always difficult. He knew his wife felt the same.

He turned to look at Fuchsia as she stood in the doorway to the pantry, making sure she had everything she needed for First Yule supper. He knew that Piper would be next door, doing the same for Second Yule.

“Can you dash next door and see if they have any spare taters we could borrow?” Fuchsia asked. Dressed in homespun, her hair hastily brushed into a messy bun, she resembled nothing of the lady he had married.

“Aye, I’ll go,” Gil said, looking down at himself as he stood. He was no longer the gentlehobbit of his youth either, and he couldn’t be happier for it. Living in Branbourne, surrounded by its rustic and honest folk, had done them a world of good. Would they even know what to do with themselves, if they ever returned to Brandy Hall?

They went to Edon’s house and leaned against the porch railing. They pulled out their pipes and lit them. They puffed in companionable silence, the glow from their pipes lighting their cheeks and noses.

“‘Ee look a couple of chimney chutes, ‘ee do,” Piper said through the window. She patted her swollen belly. “I need the big punch bowl down, dear.”

Edon nodded and Piper left the window. He finished the last of his pipe and sighed contentedly. Gil knew just how he felt.

Merry, Berilac, Doderic and Ilberic trekked through the woods south of Bucklebury.

They had left the Hall early that morning, while the fog still clung to the ground. They took turns hauling the handcart, which held the saws and axes, gloves, ropes and blankets, and food.

The trek to the woods had been surreal, surrounded by so much fog, and they hadn’t talked much. The fog burned off by midmorning though, and now they walked along merrily, singing carols at the top of their lungs. They made their way to the middle of the forest: Brandy Hall’s lot. They split up and zigzagged through the woods, looking at the beeches with their brown, dropping leaves, and the birches, their branches bare in the chill winter air.

“You would think the trees would want to keep their leaves when it’s cold,” Ilby said, looking at a particularly depressing birch.

“At least the beeches have the right idea,” Merry said, patting a tall, stately beech with appreciation. “Which one, do you think?”

“This one,” Berry said, and the others came to circle the tree he had selected.

The birch grew straight and proud and had many fingering branches. It was also very tall.

“That will make enough for ten Yule logs,” Dody said, voicing Merry’s thought. “Better to find a younger one. Don’t want to be breaking our backs, after all.”

They kept looking and finally found a young beech of considerable girth, about half the height of the last one. Decided, they returned to the wagon and retrieved their tools. Cutting down the tree was easy enough. Sawing it into three equal parts and stripping off the many branches took much longer.

Willow unwrapped her gift. She exhaled with a soft squeal of delight. Her husband had made her a medicinal box to store all her herbs, oils, vials and other healer’s necessities.

“Thank you, dearest!” They hugged and kissed. “Now, for your gift, Corbin Fairchild. You asked when we’d be having a bairn of our own?” She placed his hand on her flat belly. “I’d say in about seven months.”

Corbin let out a whoop of joy and jumped to his feet, pulling Willow with him. They danced about the parlor, laughing and kissing. He was already planning the nursery furniture.

Saradoc stood with Merry in the North parlor, watching the lasses decorate the Yule log. Ribbons, candles, fruit, flowers all went upon the log, in a system of hand gestures, clucking and head shaking that left their audience baffled; all three logs would be glorious come midnight.

“You picked a fine tree, son,” Saradoc complimented. “Do you remember where you felled it, so in the spring we can plant another?”

Merry nodded. They had taken a seed from the old tree. He would not forget where it had stood, and one day, its daughter would be standing in its place.

Edon and Gil were supposed to be keeping the children quietly occupied, but they were only getting more riled up as the day worn on.

The smells of First Yule supper wafted through the house, enticing noses and appetites alike. Piper grabbed another bowl of berries and nuts, braving the melee in the parlor to deliver it. The children attacked it with zeal, hands full of the treats.

“Merry Yule, love,” Edon said, wrapping his arms about her and the bairn in her belly.

Ferdibrand sat next to his friends in the ballroom. “Well, she was using it, behind the stables,” he told Everard. “She has really good aim.” He sounded worried.

“She liked it then?” Everard said, grinning like a tomfool. He spied Pervinca across the room. She wore a pink gown with red lace and a white sash. Her hair was pulled up by a white ribbon, her auburn curls tickling her bare shoulders.

Suddenly, the torches lining the walls were covered and the ballroom dimmed, lit only by soft candlelight. Paladin and Pippin stood at the hearth, the Yule log behind them. It was nearing midnight and the time for ceremony had begun.

Paladin nudged Pippin gently and nodded once. Pippin licked his lips and began. “We gather this night to give thanks for the old year and to welcome the new. For this year, we give thanks for the many blessings we have enjoyed, and we go into the new year with the remnants of the old.”

Lotho draped the blanket over his mother’s sleeping form. He wondered that she didn’t wake with a bad neck, sleeping in the study chair. He couldn’t imagine why she found it comforting, when he had found his father in this very chair so many years before.

He stepped outside, shuddering from more than just the wind. He walked lightly over the wet grass to the row of tenant houses. The smell of gingerbread and icing drifted past the towel covering the basket over his arm. Every year he left the loaves, no note attached. They never thought it was him.

A light tap sounded on the door. Estella slipped out of bed, careful not to disturb Ivory, and opened the door. Gordi stood in the hall, hair rumpled by sleep. He held a finger to his lips; her parents’ chamber was just across the hall.

Gordi pulled an envelope from his dressing gown pocket. He had tried all day yesterday to speak with her, failing to find the courage every time. He wrote his thoughts down instead, including an apology for the dratted mistletoe. He had ended up kissing half the serving lasses and Bolger aunties before the night was through.

Estella took the letter, an eyebrow quirked, and nodded. She held out a hand before he could go. She slipped away, then reappeared with the mistletoe in hand, grinning widely. She held the mistletoe over her head.

“You really should learn how to time these things better,” she chided quietly.

“Now hurry, before Father wakes,” Estella said, shooing him away. She watched him stumble down the hall, his letter heavy in her hand, his kiss warm on her lips.

Frodo blinked at Sam, who stood on the porch wearing a tall shapeless felt bag* upon his head. “New hat?” Frodo guessed wildly.

Grand wasn’t the first descriptive that came to mind, but he could hardly insult Rosie Cotton. He supposed she wouldn’t have much experience making wizard hats. “It’s lovely. I’m sure it will see you through many adventures.”

“That it will, sir,” Sam agreed. He handed over a gift basket and took the bundle Frodo gave him in return. “Merry Yule, sir!”

“Merry Yule, lad.” Frodo waved Sam off, closed the door and returned the kitchen with his basket.

Milo glanced at the basket with interest but returned to their original topic instead. “You know, I do believe you throw as good a party as old Bilbo ever did.”

Frodo smiled warmly. “I wouldn’t go that far, but I’m glad my efforts at least suffice.”

“Ever hear from him?” Milo asked. He was one of the few who still believed Bilbo alive.

“Well, I’m sure he’s fine, wherever he is,” Milo assured, sipping his tea.

* - This of course being the hat that Sam wears at the beginning of the Quest. :)

Because no matter how much you eat at Yule, there’s always leftovers. A follow up to “The Twelve Days of Yule”.

A/N: I had started to write this a long time ago but could never finish. I have been stuck at the point where Rosie goes to the kitchen for food, and have never been able to figure out what happens from there. I guess it was just waiting for the right bunny to come along and start nibbling on it.

“What’s happened to all of you, Sam?” Rosie asked. “You’re still as quick with a smile and easy with a laugh as you always have been, but you sit in thought more oftener than before and even I can see the hurt in your eyes though you hide it well from others, even Mr. Baggins. And Mr. Baggins now, he’s…” and here Rosie struggled for words and her many thoughts from the long sleepless nights since the Travelers’ return came to trouble her pretty face. Finally she settled on, “He’s a shadow of a shadow; I don’t know. And Mr. Meriadoc and Mr. Peregrin riding about so tall and fair with their songs and their stories. You’ve all changed so I hardly recognize you sometimes. What happened?”

Sam answered, “I can’t bear to tell it, not here. There are some things as shouldn’t ever be spoken in the Shire, some things that you oughn’t to hear.”

“That’s a tale for another day, Rosie,” Sam said, reluctant to agree. “Mayhap in the spring, when the sun is shining and the flowers are in bloom and the telling of it won’t seem so grim.”

“It hasn’t exactly been a picnic here either, Sam, and I’ll not be put on the back burner, not anymore. I need to know, so that I’ll know you again,” Rosie persisted.

“Very well. Let’s go to the barn. We’ll picnic in the hayloft, like we used to when we were young,” Sam said, reminded of this custom by Rosie’s words. “I’ll tell Mr. Frodo where I’ll be, and you get the food ready.”

So Rosie slipped out of the study to the kitchen, leaving Sam alone for a rare moment of silence. Sam sat on the edge of the chair, the warmth of the room seeping from his bones as he thought of the day to come. He could have stayed there all day, but as he told Mr. Frodo once so long ago, it’s the journey that never gets started that takes the longest to finish. With this thought in mind, he pushed himself out of the chair and went to the parlor where his master was poring over his mail.

Frodo looked up from his missives as Sam entered and noticed immediately the tight look on his friend’s face. He raised his eyebrows in question and Sam nodded. They had both known this day was coming, since their return and everyone had so many questions, with very little time to spare to ask them.

Sam shook his head. “I’ll be all right, I think,” he answered. “I don’t think I’ll tell her everything, not know. Just enough to please her curiosity.”

Frodo nodded and held out a hand. Sam took it, and Frodo squeezed reassuringly. “I’m here, if you need to talk afterward.”

Sam nodded and squeezed back. “I know,” he said, but he wouldn’t bother Frodo with his dark thoughts. His master had enough of his own to struggle with.

Sam went to the kitchen to find Rosie already gone. He pulled on his coat and followed her footprints through the frost to the barn. He climbed up to the hayloft and was pleased to see she had managed to pack a feast and two thick wool blankets in the short time she had. Then he frowned, wondering where and how such alacrity had been born in one who had never had to hurry before. He thought of the Cottons smuggling food to his father, as well as anyone else who might need it. He knew, from the little he had heard, that they smuggled more than just food: hobbits to Tookland to seek refuge, information to the rebels who needed it, medicine to those who were ill and couldn’t make it to the healers, who were watched so closely during the Troubles. They would have had to be careful as well as quick to avoid the Ruffians.

‘Very quick,’ Sam thought, looking at the spread again. ‘No picnic indeed,’ he thought with a sinking feeling. He had never offered to hear Rosie out about the things she had seen and been through. He would remedy that now though, once he was finished with his task.

He sank into the hay next to Rosie and wrapped himself in a blanket. She poured him some whisky, all they had to drink besides water, pulled from the river and boiled over the hearth. They both drank deep and long, to warm themselves as much to give them courage for the conversation ahead of them. Still, they sat in silence for many long moments, each wondering how to begin.

Finally, Rosie drew a deep breath and nudged Sam in the ribs with her elbow. “Well?” she asked. Such a simple question. Such a difficult answer.

“Well,” Sam began, “it all started when Gandalf come back early last spring, or the spring before last now, and told Mr. Frodo about this Ring as he got from Mr. Bilbo.”

He told her everything, or nearly everything, paraphrasing there, elaborating here. He kept the darker parts as brief as he could, not wanting to say more than he needed on that account, but he told her nearly everything of Rivendell, Lothlórien, Ithilien, the field of Cormallen, and Minas Tirith after the war. He told her about their return journey back, telling her of Rohan and meeting the Ents at Isengard, admitting to seeing Sharkey on the road in Dunland. This time, he was brief about Rivendell and even briefer of their return down the Great East Road. He stopped his narrative when they reached the gates of Buckland.

“And that’s that,” he ended with a shrug. She knew the rest of the story well enough.

By this time, it was late afternoon. The pale sun outside had done little to warm them throughout the day. Much of the whisky was gone, as well as the food, but they were both as sober as could be, rather unfortunately to Sam’s mind as he closely watched Rosie’s troubled face.

She hadn’t said anything at all during the long telling of his tale, but she seemed now to be struggling over many different thoughts and questions, all of which were vying for attention. She took another sip of her whisky and licked her lips, her soft brown eyes focusing on some far off place.

Rosie shook herself back to the present and looked at Sam. He was pale under his brown skin and troubled, but otherwise whole. 'Or mostly whole,' she amended to herself.

Before the Troubles, when they were children and just bosom cousins and best friends, she had seen him naked many times, washing from a long day of hard work or hard play, or splashing in the Water when he thought no one else was about to see. She'd had only glimpses of him since his return, once when she accidentally walked in on him while he was changing, or one more memorable time after the fighting was over and her mother realized he was injured. He had insisted the injury was nothing important and already healing, but Lily had refused to hear it and saw him out of his shiny mail.

They had both been shocked at what they saw, for the mail had hidden it well. Before, a robust and hail hobbit with a healthy bulge of girth about his belly, he was now thin, once-starved bones taking on the appearance of freshly-restored fat, but still slim and well-packed, his muscles hardened with trials they couldn’t begin to imagine. He had been strong before, but now he vibrated with a sort of strength that rather scared Rosie, all the more startling for how deprived and weakened he had clearly been. This was not her Sam, not at all. And yet it was, for he had seen their shock and managed to make them laugh by telling silly, nonsense stories while they stitched up the gash to his shoulder, his last if not his first of such injuries.

He was still recovering his appetite, more readily than poor Mr. Frodo, but it would be a long time before he looked a proper hobbit again. ‘Not that he isn’t a proper hobbit,’ she thought. ‘He’s just more now.’ More of what though, she couldn’t say.

She reached out a cold hand and he fumbled with his blanket, freeing one of his hands to take it. “I see you’ve been through more than I thought,” she said, “and there’s much left to tell still, or my name isn’t Cotton. But perhaps you are right. Those stories are best told when it’s not so gloomy already.”

Sam smiled wanly at this and his hand tightened around hers in grateful reflex. His shoulders relaxed considerably and some of the color began to return to his face.

“Just answer me one more question?” she asked, and the wariness returned to his features in a blink. He nodded, slowly. “What exactly happened to the hat I made you? I worked hard on that you know, and it was meant to see you safe through your travels. Seems you could have kept better track of it.”

Sam’s face took on an odd transformation, from wariness, to bewilderment, to confusion, to fear, to nostalgia and finally settled on wry humor. His mouth quirked into a sheepish grin and he shrugged helplessly.

“Well, we woke up in that barrow, as I said, naked as the day we were born,” he answered at length. “There weren’t no clothes nor hats to be spied anywhere, and once we were out, well, we couldn’t reckon going back in.”

“But this Tom person you met went in,” Rosie said. “You could have had him root about for it, as he didn’t seem bothered none by what all was in there.”

Sam considered this point for a moment, then shrugged again. “We were just that glad to have the sun on our faces,” he answered. “I guess I should have thought of it, only I didn’t and now it’s rather too late anyhow. I weren’t the only one to lose my hat though. Gandalf went away with a blue hat and come back with a grey one. Now that I think on it, we never did find out why, having other matters to worry about. Mayhap he stole it from Saruman, or Sharkey as you call him.”

“Well, whatever happened with his hat, I’m glad he leastways got one as matched his robes,” Rosie said practically. “That blue one always did bother me.”

And finally Sam laughed, a true laugh, full and hearty that reached his eyes and ached his sides, and sent them both into giggle fits. They laughed long and hard, and though the sun was sinking in the west, the hayloft glowed with warmth and light. They knew then they would be all right.

Sam stares at her in disbelief. Had he misheard her? Or had everything turned upside-down when Mr. Frodo departed the Shire? Mr. Fredegar a rebel; Mistress Lobelia a heroine. Now this.

“So ask me already. After two years, you should know what the answer will be,” Rosie says.

Sam takes her hand, cold with nerves as his own. He swallows, takes a deep breath. “Will you marry me, Rosie?”

Estella was exhausted from the labor. It’s supposed to get easier the more bairns you have, or so it’s said, but this one had been complicated and Estella nearly lost. If Merry needed any further proof of her state of mind before sinking into slumber, Estella had forgone brushing her unruly locks and they sprang out of her head like so much frayed rope and splintered straw; she always brushed her hair before sleeping, as it made it that much easier to manage in the morning. She lay still, her face pale against the white sheets; the healers had removed all evidence of the struggle before permitting Merry into the room, but he could smell the blood, its copper scent thick in the air.

His little lass, by contrast, was the angry pink of fresh delivery, little flakes of white fuzz clinging all over her wrinkled body. Her pointed head was covered with soft brown hair, limp against the curve of skull. He had yet to see her eyes, but the healer had said they were blue. It would be a while yet before they took on their natural color. Three weeks early, she would have to be watched constantly, but Merry wasn’t worried; her grip was strong and her cry stronger.

Estella had stayed awake long enough to feed her, but only just. Merry had been obliged to remove the bairn once she’d had her fill. He had covered his wife and burped the bairn, and now she slept in his arms, light as feathers but dense as a rock. She breathed softly, her little chest moving up and down in a hypnotizing rhythm. Merry didn’t even notice when the healer returned.

Dismissed back to his duties, he went through the rest of the day in a fog of exhaustion, worry and pride. Pride was most dominant, the exhaustion was evident, and the worry was held in check by pure stubbornness of will. Pippin and Sam would be able to see it, but they weren’t here. Only Pippin and Diamond had been able to arrange to be here, but they hadn’t expected the bairn to come so early and wouldn’t be leaving their homes until next week. Merry would send word to them of course, but they wouldn’t alter their plans to come sooner. Merry could wait.

He returned to his apartment shortly after dinner and shooed away the latest visitors who had come to gawk at the bairn and offer their advice to the new mother. His sons were there. Théodoc and Peridoc were making faces at their new sister, who was happily sleeping through their attentions. Estella was sitting up in bed, pillows propped behind her for support. Her hair had been brushed at some point during the day, and she smiled wanly when she saw him.

Merry bent over the bed and rested a wide hand on her forehead. No longer clammy and cold, but dry and warm, and some color had returned to her cheeks. He could still smell the hints of blood though, and he kissed her brow before she could see the pinch of fear in his eyes. When he trusted his features again, he sat down next to her and took her hand.

“What have we named her then?” Merry asked. “Sollya, is it?” The bluebell vine was Estella’s favorite flower. They’ve had the name picked since she first became pregnant with Peridoc, but she shook her head. “Oh? How come?”

“Melilot stole it,” Estella said with a sigh. “I knew I shouldn’t have told her the name, but I did, and now her lass is Sollya. We can’t have two Sollyas running about the halls.”

“I don’t see why not,” Merry said, but at Estella’s irritated frown, he backed down. He learned long ago not to cross expectant or new mothers. “Have you a different name in mind then?”

“I can’t quite seem to settle on one,” she replied. “Théo! Peri! Stop trying to wake your sister! She doesn’t want to play!” she hissed suddenly.

The lads hastily put down the toy they had been dangling over their sister’s head, but they didn’t leave the cot.

“Let her sleep, lads. Being born is tiring business,” Merry informed them. “We were kind enough to let you sleep after you were born. Now do the same for your sister.”

Estella sighed again and stifled a yawn. She needed sleep of her own still, and the constant string of visitors had exhausted what energy she had. “I don’t know how Sam and Rose do it, naming all those bairns of theirs. But then, they just name them after other people, don’t they? Except Elanor.”

Mention of Elanor gave Merry an idea. “What about Niphredil?” he asked. He had told her many times about coming to Caras Galadhon and the white and golden flowers of Lórien. There shouldn’t be an Elanor without a Niphredil, so far as he was concerned.

Estella nodded, giving approval. She had been awed by the drawings Merry had done of the Golden Wood and she remembered the flowers well.

“We’ll have to start working on names for our next bairn,” Estella said, and a small thrill ran down Merry’s back. His breath hitched involuntarily and he didn’t realize he was gripping her hand until she squeezed back. “What’s the matter, love?” she asked.

Merry pulled his eyes off his children and met hers. “I don’t think we need another bairn,” he said, trying for calm and gaining it. “Two brawny lads and a sweet lass. And you. I couldn’t ask for more.” He brushed the fingers of his free hand down her cheek and smiled bravely.

“I’m sorry Merry,” Estella said and tears sprang instantly to Merry’s eyes. Perhaps he couldn’t wait after all. Estella took his other hand and squeezed. “Lads, go find Grandmother and have her read you a bedtime story. Go on, now.”

Théodoc and Peridoc scrambled to their feet, dashed over and gave their parents hugs and kisses good-night. Merry help back his emotions until they were out the door, then the tears spilled from his eyes. Estella held out her arms and Merry was curled against her side a moment later, hugging her tight. So close. It had been so close.

Estella hummed under her breath until Merry calmed. She stroked his hair, neck and shoulders, massaging the sword arm more out of habit than need. The arm hadn’t bothered him in years.

They were both on the verge of sleep when she stirred herself to speak. “You’re right. Two braw lads and a beautiful lass. And you. It’s more than I could have ever hoped for.”

Merry lifted his head and kissed her lips. “Don’t ever scare me like that again,” he demanded.

“No, sir,” she agreed. “I shouldn’t want to be lectured by you if I do.”

He laughed, a huff of breath that eased the tension in his shoulders. “Don’t think you’ve escaped a lecture this time, lass. I plan to sit you down and have a nice long chat once you’re feeling up to it.”

“It is,” Merry said. “It isn’t just anyone who gets the pleasure of hearing my lectures. I work hard on them, and I deliver them with zeal and passion, I will have you know. Don’t believe what you hear from anyone else. I am seldom long-winded.”

“You’re long-winded in a good mood, love. In a foul mood, you’re a veritable maelstrom,” Estella said, giggling. That earned her a tickle and a peck on the cheek. “I look forward to my lecture then, but keep in mind that I pay attention best when you’re massaging my feet.”

“You fall asleep when I massage your feet,” Merry said. “I’ll massage your shoulders.”

They kissed again, and Merry relaxed his hold on her. He was nearly asleep again when she spoke. “You’re still in your suit.” Merry hummed. “You’ll get it wrinkled.”

Merry sighed and got out of bed long enough to shed his waistcoat and breeches. He crawled under the covers with his wife and nestled in for a long, sound sleep, the reassuring beat of her heart steady under his ear.

Gandalf should have suspected something when Sam barged into his room that morning.

“You missed Mr. Frodo’s birthday last year,” he announced, hands on hips. “Being as you were stuck atop Orthanc, I suppose that can be forgiven, but you had better come tonight.”

Now he sat in the middle of Bilbo’s room opening his presents from Bilbo and Frodo: a length of hithlain rope and a pocket watch.

Sam padded into the parlor, his bag of study things slung over his shoulder. He waited in the doorway for Frodo to look up from his own studies, a half-finished essay on Balbo Baggins.

“Mr. Bilbo said as you’d be a helping me with my sums,” Sam said, looking up with hopeful brown eyes.

Frodo set his quill in the inkwell and sat back with a stretch and a sigh. “Of course, lad. Anything to get away from this essay for a while. Balbo wasn’t the most exciting Baggins to ever live, but I suppose writing about Bilbo would have been too easy. What are you having trouble with?”

Sam crossed the parlor to the blue rocking chair where Frodo sat and handed him the little slate he used for writing down his assignments. On it were four numbers problems. The first two Sam had already completed: 3 + 2 = 5, and 3 – 2 = 1. The next one was completed wrong: 3 x 2 = 5. The last was left blank: 3 / 2 = .

“You’re learning multiplication and division already? This is very advanced, Sam! You’re doing well,” Frodo complimented, much to Sam’s embarrassment. He mumbled a thank you to his toes. Frodo patted a bit of chair next to him for Sam to climb up.

“Mr. Bilbo says as I’m ready for it, Master Frodo, but I’m none so sure myself,” Sam said, making himself comfortable. “He kept explaining it to me, but I couldn’t right figure none of it out much.”

“It does take a bit of practice,” Frodo said. “You might not know this, but you’ve already been doing this for years.”

Frodo nodded. “Take this third problem.” He took Sam’s chalk and drew a box on the slate with a line dividing the box into two rows. “Let’s say you have two rows, each row with three biscuits.” He drew three circles in each row.

“Sugar biscuits then,” Sam said and grinned, exposing the gap in his mouth where a baby tooth had recently fallen out.

“Sugar biscuits it is,” Frodo agreed and point at his drawing. “How many biscuits do you have?”

He gave Sam the chalk so he could correct his answer, then took the chalk back for his next demonstration. He wiped away his first drawing with a corner of his shirt and drew three more circles.

“Now, let’s say you have a receipt that makes eight servings of bread pudding and requires three cups of sugar, but you only want to make enough for four servings. You’d have to divide the receipt in half,” Frodo started.

“Well, let’s say you didn’t want to get stuck with leftovers, so you only want to make enough for three,” Frodo said.

“But there’s five of us, Frodo,” Sam said, sticking up his fingers. “Me, Dad, Goldie, Daisy and May! Course, you and Mr. Bilbo would be invited too, so that’s seven! We’d not leave one little serving all to itself. We’d just serve everyone extra.”

“All right then. Let’s say the receipt is for fourteen, but you only want to make enough for seven.”

“But we don’t be using receipts, sir, as I’m the only one with my letters,” Sam said.

“But you’re the one who’s making it, so you can read the receipt,” Frodo said, beginning to understand why Bilbo had dispatched his pupil upon his unsuspecting heir.

“I can make bread pudding without a receipt,” Sam said proudly. “I can make all sorts of things without a receipt.”

“Let’s say it’s something you’ve never made before, and the receipt is for fourteen servings, but you only want to make it for seven. You’d have to divide the ingredients on the receipt in half,” Frodo said.

“Have you ever made pork chops and apple sauce before?” Frodo asked and was not surprised when Sam nodded.

“All right. Then let’s say that you and I are going for a picnic and we take three servings of bread pudding with us,” Frodo said. “We have a third one because Bilbo made bread pudding for you, me, your dad and himself, but there was an extra serving because he didn’t feel like dividing the receipt. He said we could take the extra serving on our picnic to split between us.”

“Yes, he’s very generous that way,” Frodo said. “So, we have three bread puddings, but only two of us.”

“But I know how much you love bread pudding, so I will insist on sharing,” Frodo said. “Now, we will each get one serving to enjoy for ourselves.” He wrote an ‘F’ in the left circle and an ‘S’ in the right circle. “The third serving we will split in half.” He drew a line through the middle circle. “How many servings do we each get?”

“Precisely!” Frodo said, glad to have that over with. “You get a half whenever you take one thing…” He wrote a 1. “And divide it…” A line went under the 1. “Into two equal parts.” A 2 went under the line. “So three divided by two equals one and-a-half.”

“That’s it,” Frodo said. “I had a chart of multiples that my Uncle Dino drew for me when I was learning to multiply. I can make one for you so you can practice memorizing them.”

“Thank you, Master Frodo!” Sam said and hopped down from the chair with his slate and chalk. “I’ll take these to Mr. Bilbo!”

Sam trotted out of the room, his bag of study things abandoned on the floor. Frodo watched him go, glad he wasn’t in Bilbo’s position. Tooks and Brandybucks might drive you mad with their questions, but Gamgee practicality beat all.

Rose stood behind the hedgerow and watched Mr. Frodo and Sam in the garden. Mr. Frodo was bundled in a blanket despite the warm summer gusts, and Sam was bent over the cabbages pulling weeds and checking for rot. Mr. Frodo was also watching Sam. A wistful smile graced the master’s pale face. Sam was unaware of either of his audiences, so attuned he was to his garden.

His garden. Every hobbit the Shire over thought the Bag End garden belonged to the Master of the Hill, but those who lived there knew the truth. Sam lived and breathed that garden. He came into the smial every evening smelling like compost, roses, hydrangea, tree sap and mulch. Even after he bathed, the soft scent of green things growing lingered in his skin and clothes, as though the earth was reluctant to give him up. That garden would wither without Sam there to care for it, and Sam would wither without the garden to look after.

Mr. Frodo had teased him once about it, using some fancy word Rose couldn’t rightly remember, but it meant the same thing. Sam and the garden were linked as one. Rose had thought it over since, and it seemed clear to her that Sam was linked just as fast to Mr. Frodo, and now to her.

Clutching the market basket in her hands, Rose stepped around the hedgerow and approached her two lads. Her mother had scoffed when Rose had called them such in front of her. Lily Cotton had placed her hands on her hips and stated, point of fact, that mayhap Rose was forgetting her place in Bag End, claiming the Master so.

Rose hadn’t tried to explain, but they were both hers, in their own way. Sam was obvious. Her oldest friend, her beloved cousin, and now her husband and dearest companion, he was hers in everyway one could imagine. He changed some while he was away, no denying that. He had the dreams from time to time and those were frightening, and he had a confidence now that he had lacked before. He was as comfortable in a boat as on a pony, and he didn’t need to take a steadying breath before climbing the ladder to tend the trees. Yet despite all that, he was still her sweet and gentle Sam when it came right down to it.

Mr. Frodo had taken longer to figure out. She had come to know him some last winter while he lived at the farm, better than she had known him before anyhow. She had seen for herself he wasn’t mad as everyone whispered. Sad, yes. Tired, often. But he was never mad, not even when he too would have the dreams, so much worse than Sam ever did. Yet his primary concern when waking from those dreams was the welfare of the Cottons, apologizing for waking them and offering to make them tea even though he could barely stand and his face was whiter than the moon out the window. As good as he was to the Cottons, he was even better to Sam, and Rose knew he would make her welcome in Bag End.

Not that she hadn’t had reservations about moving under the Hill. Before marrying Sam, she could count on one hand the number of times she’d been inside Bag End, and for a time after the wedding she felt as though she could get lost inside it. She had been right about Mr. Frodo though. He had gone out of his way to make her feel comfortable in her new home, calling things hers that had belonged to the Baggins family for generations. Her chair. Her table. Her vanity. Her wardrobe. Her kitchen. Mr. Frodo even found things she could do for him so she wouldn’t feel useless, never mind that Sam was so thorough in seeing to Mr. Frodo’s needs the Master could hardly sneeze without finding a stack of handkerchiefs close at hand. She would have sworn she once saw him purposely rip one of his fine linen shirts, which he later brought to her for mending, but convinced she had to have been imagining things she never mentioned it to Sam. She wouldn’t say as she and the Master were friends, but they were developing their own special relationship. Rose was now as protective of him as Sam had even been and to her mind, that made him hers too.

Mr. Frodo was also Sam’s, had always been, but it was clear to her their relationship had shifted at some point during their adventures. It was subtle, it was, for Sam was still proper and all, calling Mr. Frodo ‘master’ and ‘sir’, and he always made it a point to ask if raspberry jelly would suit him fine for his toast that morning, or if he’d prefer the bluebells in the window boxes rather than the daisies. It wasn’t until she’d been living there for a while that Rose realized that Mr. Frodo nearly always agreed with whatever Sam had already decided. Very rarely did he choose something different, though Sam of course jumped to comply when he did. The Master seemed only to gather the energy to deal with the larger things, like that new miller who was appointed to the new millhouse, the reordering of the shirriffs and the weeding out of the ruffians and their influences. He told Sam of his decision-making process, asked Sam for advice, but it was clear that on these matters, Mr. Frodo made the decisions on his own. Yet she had known Sam to mention something Mr. Frodo previously felt best dealt with by someone else, and there Mr. Frodo would go to look into it and put things to rights.

No, they all belonged to each other in their odd way, and now perhaps they were to be linked again.

Mr. Frodo noticed her first and his wistful smile bloomed into a full grin, brighter than the summer sun. He all but glowed, he did, but she was sure she had to be imaging that also. Still, the transformation that smile lent to his face was so startling she nearly stumbled. Instead, she smiled back and remembered the young, jovial heir of years long past. Her heart clenched as she realized anew how rare that smile was these days, and she knew Sam felt its absence as well. If only Sam would glance up at the Master and see it, but he heard her approaching footsteps and turned towards her instead. He gave a smile of his own, one that sent butterflies dancing in her heart.

“It was fair going,” Rose said and bent over to peck her husband’s cheek. She had overcome her shyness of doing such things in front of the Master shortly after moving into Bag End. She’d had no choice. He had figured out soon enough what she meant when she would ask Sam to ‘come here for a moment,’ and on the last such occasion the Master had starting singing a love song so embarrassingly detailed that she still blushed to think of it.

Rose set the basket on the stoop and stretched her back. She swept up her locks to let the breeze cool her neck.

Mr. Frodo frowned at the half-filled basket and peered up at the sun. Sam did likewise, his frown more troubled. She knew what they were thinking. She had been gone too long to have only been shopping for those dozen or so items. Almost as one, they glanced in the direction of the millhouse.

“That new miller ain’t been talking your ear off again, has he?” Sam asked, sitting back on his haunches.

A young chap named Thatcher had come down from Overhill to take over the millhouse after Sandyman was removed to the Northfarthing. Thatcher had instantly grown fond of Rose and despite her many insistences that she was happily married, he continued to pursue her to the point that nearly everyone in Bywater and Hobbiton were wagging their chins over it. Sam had been ready to go down and straighten the chap out, but Mr. Frodo had waylaid him and gone down himself. By the time he left the millhouse yard, poor Thatcher looked ready to spill his breakfast all over the freshly-ground flour. Whatever Mr. Frodo had said to him had been effective. Thatcher nearly ran in the opposite direction now every time he saw Rose, and he looked like he'd rather be tossed in the River than have to talk with Sam on those occasions when business warranted it.

“No, no,” Rose quickly assured them. “He ain’t come near me since you put the scare into him, Mr. Frodo. No, I had an appointment with Miss Willow.”

She had to smile at the way her lads scrambled to their feet, full of concern for whatever purpose had sent her to the healer. Mr. Frodo cleared the bench and Sam began to escort her towards it.

“You aren’t still having those dizzy spells?” Mr. Frodo asked, readying to drape his blanket over her shoulders the moment Sam got her onto the bench.

Rose held out one hand for silence and took Sam’s with the other. “I’m fine,” she assured them. “I’ve never been better. I’m more than fine even.” She took a deep breath and held Sam’s eyes. “We both are.”

Mr. Frodo’s grin returned, but Sam looked confused. “Aye, but I ain’t been the one feeling woozy,” he said. He was clearly wondering why Rose had been talking to the healer about him.

Sam let out a whoop and gathered her into his arms. He started to swing her around but stopped abruptly, setting her down on her feet as though she were made of crystal. He steered her towards the bench and sat her down. A half-second later, Mr. Frodo had the blanket over her.

Rose laughed. “I’m fine, lads,” she insisted, standing up. “I’m not about to break none, and Miss Willow says everything’s as it should be.”

“Only about six or seven weeks. I’ll be due in Rethe, just in time for spring. Seems fitting,” she said, running a hand over her belly. Miss Willow had said it would still be weeks before she could feel the bairn moving about, but she could feel something nonetheless. “Now, if you lads will excuse me, I’ve work as ain’t going to do itself.”

But Sam snatched up the basket before she could reach for it, and Mr. Frodo opened the door, watching her closely for signs of fatigue. They followed her into the kitchen. “Where were you lads the other day when I was beating the rugs?” she asked.

They at least had the sense to look chagrined, but they insisted on helping her put away the market items anyway.

“We need to tell Gaffer,” Sam said when they were finished. “And your folk’ll be wanting to know, and May and Daisy, and Ham and Fred. Fred’ll need time to be planning a visit, coming from way up north. We should invite them all over for supper on Highday, meaning the Gaffer and your folk, and Tom and Marigold, and your brothers. May’s nearly full term herself. I don’t reckon she’d be wanting to travel, but Daisy might be able to come if I can get off a Quick Post soon enough. If that’s all right by you, Master.”

“Bag End is your home now too,” Mr. Frodo said. “You don’t need my permission to invite your families over. It will be lovely weather for a picnic in the garden.”

“I’ll write the invitations tonight and send them off in the morning,” Sam said. “Then we can figure out what to be cooking and go back to market.”

“Don’t fret over the menu,” Mr. Frodo said. “I’ll manage the cooking. It’s your day. I insist,” he finished, holding up his hands against their protests. He had The Look in his eyes, and both Sam and Rose knew not to argue with that one.

So that Highday, Sam and Rose readied the garden for their families. They set up lanterns all about the garden and spread out nearly every picnic blanket Bag End possessed, weighing them all down with rocks from around the garden. Then Sam and Mr. Frodo dragged out the tea table from the sitting room, and as dinner neared, they each took turns carrying the food outside. Rose saw to the plates and cutlery while Sam and Mr. Frodo hauled one of the ale kegs from the cellar. They finished setting up just in time, for coming up the Hill were their families.

In attendance were Gaffer and Widow Rumble, Lily and Tolman, Tom and Marigold, Daisy and Harman with Bell-lass and Orman, and Jolly, Nick and Nibs. They delighted in the food and complimented their host graciously for his efforts. They spoke of many silly things and all the latest gossip. Just before afters, Rose and Sam stood up and took each other’s hand.

They smiled at each other, for the smallest moment forgetting everyone else. Then Rose let out a steadying breath and announced, “Thank you all for coming, and thanks especially to Mr. Frodo for preparing this delightful meal for us tonight.” Mugs of ale were raised to the host’s health. “Sam and I have something we want to tell you all. We had planned to wait a little longer, but… I’m with child. We’ll have a bairn of our own come spring.”

The congratulations and hugs lasted for a good ten minutes before everyone remembered afters. Then they settled down to finish their meal, and the elders shared stories of their first years as parents. Laughter filled the air of the garden and echoed softly down the walls of Bag End through the open windows. Mr. Frodo continued in his role as host, filling plates and topping off mugs. He lit the lanterns when the sun set and soon after disappeared into the kitchen to begin the cleaning up.

Rose was yawning and stumbling by the time the feast ended and everything was cleaned up and put back to rights. Tom and Marigold chose to stay the night, along with Daisy and her family. Tom, Harman and Sam took their pipes outside to the garden while the lasses saw the children settled and made up the guest rooms. Then they all sat up in the parlor, talking into the wee hours of the night about their childhoods, and Daisy and Harman shared some more adventurous tales of parenthood. At last, their guests sought their rooms.

The hour was now two in the morning. Sam was awake on elation alone, and Rose knew as soon as his head hit their pillow, he would be out until cockcrow and probably well beyond it. She followed him into their chamber and pulled him into a hug. She reached up and kissed him and he placed his hand firm over her belly, protecting them both. They readied for sleep, but Sam went out the room again instead of climbing into the freshly turned-down bed. Rose knew why.

Mr. Frodo had not returned to the feast after washing the dishes, nor had he come out to bid their guests farewell. They checked his chamber first, but it was empty, the bed untouched. The library was likewise empty, the hearth cold and the candles unlit. They found him in the study, asleep at his desk. The Red Book was closed and his head rested on its leather cover. None of his writing things were to be seen. He must have been sitting in here, watching them celebrate from the shadows.

Rose frowned to think of him here alone, removed from the feast. Had someone said something to make him feel unwelcome? Or did he simply not feel part of the family yet? She reached out and brushed back his curls, stopping just above the neck and that horrid scar she had seen there, just once.

Sam picked up the blanket from the floor and draped it over his master’s shoulders. “Poor Master. He wore himself out, he did.”

“He’s happy though,” Rose said, but it was more a question than a statement. She was still learning his moods.

“Aye, he is at that,” Sam said. He slipped his arms around her and together they watched Mr. Frodo sleep. “These last few days have been good for him. I ain’t seen him this happy since the mountain. Though he’ll have a sore neck come morning if we leave him there all night. I really ought to get him to his bed.”

“You’re a good lad, Sam,” Rose said and tilted her head back for a kiss. “What do you think of naming the wee one Frodo? Will he approve?”

Sam smiled and kissed her again. “I think that’s a grand idea. Young Frodo. That’ll get him rooted back down, don’t you think?”

Rose only hummed in answer. She remembered the trees that the ruffians uprooted and left there to die in their slow and silent way. No amount of replanting could have saved those trees. Their roots were too damaged to find shelter in the earth again. Yet new trees had been planted, many seeded from the ones which had been there before, and the Shire was green again.

New seeds. New roots. New beginnings. And from what Sam had told her, that was all thanks to the Master.

Mr. Frodo might never have his own bairns, but for what it was worth, he would be as much a father to this bairn as was Sam. She would see to it.

The professor originally intended Rose and Sam to have fourteen children, the last child being Lily. He later decided that they should outnumber the Old Took by only one child instead of two, and removed Lily from the family tree. Which begs the question, whatever happened to Lily Gamgee?

Lily is the most perfect little sister any lass could hope for. She does whatever you ask without complaint and she always wants to do the same things I do. We like to wear the same clothes and to eat the same things. She even agrees with me about my silly brothers and how annoying they can be sometimes. She even agrees that Robin and Tom shouldn’t be allowed to ignore her just because they’re older. It’s so very rude when they barge in while we’re having tea and eat all her biscuits, as though she were not even there! But Lily isn’t vindictive. She understands they can’t help being that way and she doesn’t mind sharing, so long as she can get a bite of mine. And that is why Lily Gamgee is the most perfect sister.

Sam put the essay down and looked at his youngest daughter. Ruby stared up at him, her wide brown eyes full of eager hope. He cleared his throat. “Well, it’s well writ, it is,” he allowed and Ruby beamed. “Good sentence structure and only a couple of minor errors, but the assignment was to write about one of your actual siblings.”

“Lily’s my sister,” Ruby said, her smile drooping into a frown. “You don’t like Lily either.”

“I love Lily. She’s the only one of you as don’t give us any headaches,” Sam said. “But you’ve twelve other brothers and sisters to be writing about. Choose one of them and write another essay. There’s more to being a good sibling than agreeing with you all the time.”

Sam patted her head, his way of dismissing her. Ruby skulked out of the library and padded across the tunnel to the parlor, where Merry-lad and Hamfast were playing pennies. They looked up as she entered the room.

“Sam-dad didn’t like my essay on Lily,” Ruby said and flopped onto the stuffed blue rocking chair, careless of everything her mother ever told her about sitting like a lady.

“Oh. Her,” Merry said with a roll of his eyes. “When are you going to stop playing at pretend, Rubes?”

“She’s not pretend. She’s real and she’s a much better sibling than you are!” Ruby said hotly, sitting up and glaring at her brothers. The old raspberry birthmark on her ankle, faded with the years, grew red hot with her rage. Her brothers sat up cautiously.

“Of course she is,” Hamfast complied. “But has she ever brought you milk and biscuits in the middle of the night? Or sat up with you when you were feeling scared or sick? When was the last time Lily braiding your hair or helped you with your sums or taught you how to fish?”

“How is she supposed to do any of those things for me?” Ruby asked. “She’s younger, the baby. We’re supposed to take care of her, remember?”

Ruby sighed. “Never mind. None of you understand her. Come, Lily. Let’s go outside.”

She hopped off the chair and started to head for the front door, ignoring her brothers’ teasing whispers as she left the parlor. She was passing the study when she stopped and turned into the little room. They weren’t allowed to come in here without permission, but she was feeling reckless enough to ignore that rule. No one but Mama, Elanor and Goldilocks ever thought about poor Lily at mealtimes, and none of her brothers except Frodo-lad and Pippin would even acknowledge her existence. Everyone else forgot about her all the time, and Ruby was tired of it.

She marched to the desk and climbed onto the chair. She opened the Red Book to the back where the family trees were and before she could allow herself to think and stop herself, she dipped a quill in the ink and wrote on the Longfather-Tree after Tolman: ‘Lily, 1350’. She stared at her correction in triumph, but as the ink slowly dried she began to realize just what she had done. She had ruined Uncle Frodo’s book! Her father’s book!

Panicking, she dropped the quill on the floor and fled outside. She ran down the path and out the gate, her heart beating in her throat. What had she done?

Sometime later, Sam left the library and went into the study. He spotted the quill on the floor first. He bent down and picked it up, wondering at the wet tip. He frowned down at the stain on the rug and figured it was still fresh enough to get most of it out. He was reaching over the desk to put the quill in its inkpot when he noticed the Red Book was opened to the family tree. A half-moment later, he noticed Ruby’s addition to the tree and huffed in frustration.

“Great,” he muttered. He had just finished the tree the other day and would now have to redo it.

On the way to the kitchen for the cleaning supplies, he spotted Merry and Hamfast in the parlor. “Bilbo! Robin!”

Merry and Hamfast looked up from their pennies. “Yes, Dad?” they asked without hesitation. They were all accustomed to their parents calling them by each others’ names and so thought nothing of it.

“Go and fetch her. She’s got a mess to clean up in the study,” Sam said and proceeded down the tunnel to the kitchen.

Merry and Hamfast collected their pennies, stuffed them into their pockets and went outside. They stood on the stoop, looking around.

“You go left, and I’ll go right,” Hamfast said. “One of us is bound to find her.”

Primrose found her first, hiding in Strider’s stall in the small stable their father had built on the Party Field. Ruby had her knees drawn up to her chest and her arms circled around her knees. She was rocking herself back and forth, her face pinched with worry and her eyes blotted with tears.

“Oh, Rubes!” Primrose said and gathered her sister in her arms. “What’s the matter, love?”

“I did something awful, Pimmie!” Ruby bawled and crumpled against her sister with sobs of remorse.

“Now, now, love. It can’t be all that bad,” Primrose said. “What did you do?”

“I wrote in Daddy’s and Frodo-dad’s book!” Ruby said and with a great amount of sobbing and sighing, told her sister exactly what she had done.

“You shouldn’t have done that, and that’s a fact,” Primrose said. “But it ain’t all that bad.”

“Well, you said it, not me,” Primrose said and wiped her sister’s face with a kerchief. “Now, Daddy’s been looking for you and getting right worried. You dropped the quill on the rug and he wants you to come clean up the spot before it sets. Come along. Best get it over with.”

She helped Ruby to her feet and slipped an arm over her shoulders. They walked side by side up the Hill and through the gate of Bag End. Bilbo-lad and Frodo-lad were in the front, tending the rose bushes. Bilbo spotted them and grinned.

“Oooh! Rubes! You’re in trouble!” he said in a gleeful sing-song. Frodo reach over and flicked him on the ear. “Ow!” He reached up to grab his ear, forgetting the rose twig in his hand. A thorn caught his cheek, scratching sharply. “Ow!”

“Ignore him,” Primrose said and kept a firm grip on Ruby, who had started shaking at Bilbo’s teasing. They went into Bag End and directly to the study, where Sam was on his knees attacking the ink spot. “I found her.”

Sam looked up, took in his daughters with one glance and put the rag into the soapy water. He stood up and kissed Ruby on the brow. “Get that ink spot out, then go help your mother in the kitchen.” He started to leave.

“That was confusing, and no mistake,” Sam said. “I don’t see as Lily can be doing all this agreeing with you, and her just born this year. Not to mention I could have sworn she’s been around a lot longer than that. I figured her to be closer to Tom’s age.”

“Aye, and you’re lucky as it’s the last page, or I might have to get upset. It’ll be easy enough to fix, but the next time you feel like making edits to the Book, come see me first,” Sam said. “Now get to work. That stain won’t wash itself out.”

Sam left his daughters standing there, looking bewildered but grateful. Finally, Primrose stepped over the threshold into the study and Ruby followed her. They knelt down side by side on the rug and silently went to work.

And though Sam said he was going to fix the Longfather-Tree as soon as he could, Lily Gamgee remained on that tree for many more years to come. When Sam finally did fix the page, he framed the tree with Lily’s name on it and gave it as a parting gift to Ruby before his sailing, and when she opened it, all her siblings were there to comfort her and receive her comfort in kind.

Strider sat at the edge of their little camp, watching over the hobbits as they slept near the dying embers of their little fire. As he watched them, he could not help comparing his new traveling companions with his normal band of Rangers.

Rangers were careful. They were organized. They knew how to hunt and when it was safe to do so. They didn't stand on top of high hills in plain sight of the enemy, or at least, not normally. They didn't insist on eating every two hours. They did enjoy banter and a good song now and then, but knew the dangers of doing so while being pursued. They could fight and fight well. They were keen observers of the world around them. They could track near anything and could sense when trouble was drawing near.

Hobbits could be careful but seldom were. They were prone to drawing attention to themselves. Instead of pulling their cousins aside and telling them to stop entertaining the inn with tales of vanishing hobbits, they instead felt the appropriate thing was to get on top of a table, sing a silly song and then vanish themselves. They moved silently, more so than Rangers, but their constant chatter made up for that. If they weren't exclaiming over everything around them or pouncing on the random mushroom patch, they were whistling, singing, making jokes or asking incessant and increasingly personal questions of the most embarrassing nature. They were incapable of walking past a berry bush without grabbing a handful - and giving the enemy a clear path to follow. Thankfully, the enemy couldn't see very well.

Hobbits couldn't fight, though that didn't stop them from trying. They were completely ignorant of the dangers that pursued them. Oh, they knew there was a danger, but they didn't know just how dangerous it was. A Ranger never would have gone out spying on the Nazgul alone, but a hobbit did. They had an inkling now, after the attack on Weathertop, of just how perilous was their flight. They had been uncommonly quiet since then, and the days were the darker for it. They spent every spare moment fretting over Frodo, making sure he was comfortable and warm enough. How they would glare at Strider whenever he denied them a fire!

“They mean well,” Frodo's voice floated over the quiet night, as though he had somehow read the Ranger's thoughts.

Strider pulled another blanket from the saddle bag. He draped this over Frodo, who was shivering violently, despite the warm bodies of his friends on every side. Strider poured him some water and held the cup to his lips so he could drink.

“Nor did I,” Frodo said. He shifted to find a more comfortable position. “They thought this would be a grand Adventure, like the one Bilbo had. If I had known it would be so perilous, I would not have allowed them to come.”

Frodo laughed ruefully. “No, but at least my conscience would not be nagging at me so,” he said. “I brought them into this danger. Any one of them could have been hurt, or killed, and they still can. Hobbits are not used to danger or war.”

“Do not be so quick to doubt their hearts or bravery,” Strider said. “They love you and will do anything for you. That is the greatest strength one can hope to have. If it were possible, I would have a hobbit walk with my men at all times, troublesome though hobbits may be.”

“We do, in our own way. We have saved each other's lives many times, but it is instinct and training, as well as duty and love, that drive us to do so. We are bound to protect those who cannot protect themselves,” Strider said. “We have no other choice.”

Strider gazed upon the hobbit, pale from fright and injury, and shook his head. “You had a choice. To remain in the Shire, or to go forth in hopes of destroying the Ring. You could have stayed just as easily. Others would have.”

“I came to protect the Shire, to spare them the darkness that pursues us. My only choice was whether to go to Rivendell first or directly to Mordor. Since I didn't know where Mordor was, I chose Rivendell.”

Now Strider laughed, softly so as not to disturb the others. “A wise choice then.”

Frodo's smile did not reach his eyes and faded quickly. He looked at Strider with pleading and grasped the man's hand. “Please, Strider, if something should happen to me, if I should not make it, please see my friends safe and return them to the Shire at the soonest opportunity.”

“I can feel something moving inside me, ever inward, and there are times I wonder if I'm even really here. I can see at night better than I can at day, just as when I wear the Ring. I know it means something and I'm fighting it as much as I can, but every day I grow weaker,” Frodo said. “If it comes to the worst, you must take the Ring before this poison inside takes me.”

Strider sat back on his haunches, putting a small distance between him and his charge. He considered the hobbit gravely. “I dare not take the Ring.”

“You must! At least to Rivendell, where it can be hidden safely,” Frodo pleaded. “Do not let one of my friends take it. They must never touch it.”

“You do not understand what you ask. My ancestor long ago had the opportunity to destroy the Ring and could not. He claimed it instead and it was to his doom. His blood flows through my veins. If I take the Ring, I will fail too.”

Frodo actually snorted. “I had an ancestor long ago who thought tying ribbons to sconces was pretty - until it burnt the smial down and her son had to build a new one. I had another ancestor who was so afraid of water that he almost never bathed, and several others who considered themselves the Authority on everything though they in fact knew very little. We all have bad apples on the family tree. That doesn't mean we're going to end up one ourselves.”

“The Ring will not be safe in Rivendell, nor anywhere else while the Enemy seeks it,” Strider said. “Whoever takes it will be bound to destroy it. I fear I will not have the strength to do so.”

“Then I shall have to keep fighting,” Frodo said. He took a deep breath and looked up at the man with resolve. “It is not much longer to Rivendell. Is it?”

“Don't be. You are truthful and kind, and that puts my heart at ease,” Frodo said. “I would not have my friends wandering alone with a deceitful man, especially one who is capable of deceiving himself. Thank you, Strider, for all that you’ve done for us.” He let go of the man's hand and burrowed further under his covers. He closed his eyes but Strider knew he would not sleep.

Strider returned to his seat and began to hum, soft enough so as not to alert the enemy but loud enough so that Frodo could hear and perhaps draw comfort. He watched them through the night, a new appreciation for these little folk blooming in his heart.

Rangers might have been raised and trained to stealth and valiancy, but Hobbits were braver by far.

Lbilover’s prompt: How about Bilbo telling young Sam and Frodo about some Yuletide tradition relating to holly. He could be totally leading them on if you want.

Sam sat on the settee in the Bag End parlor, scribbling away on his slate with his little piece of chalk. Bilbo had assigned him spelling today and had given him a list of words he was to learn by writing them over and over again until he no longer had to look at the list for assistance. It was a rather humorous, as well as appetite-inducing, list, full of words such as ‘sticklebacks’, ‘fiddlesticks’, ‘marmalade’, and ‘confectioner’s sugar’ to name a few.

While Sam worked, Bilbo and Frodo went about the smial, decorating it for Yule. Just why they were bothering to decorate when they would be spending the Yule holiday in Buckland this year was beyond Sam’s comprehension, but he knew better than to ask such questions of his betters. As they came into the parlor and Sam went through the list one last time, his sharp memory allowing him to jot down all twenty words without once looking at the list, one question stuck in his head and no matter how much he tried to shoo it away, it kept coming back.

This was Frodo’s first real Yule at Bag End, and Sam’s first time being inside Bag End during the holidays at all, and he was amazed at some of the decorations the young master had come up with. Bows and wreaths were the norm in these parts, and his master had those aplenty. They had dragged in that potted tree to set in the corner of the parlor and tied bows on the branches; again quite normal, except for the tree being inside the smial. What wasn’t normal was that they had also put – stars above! – candles on the boughs! Sam sincerely hoped they had enough sense not to light the candles. With all these stacks of books and parchment that Bilbo kept about the smial, a fire would start right easy if one of those candles were to be tipped over. In fact – Sam glanced up for a scrutinizing peek – one candle was bending near to fall off a branch at this very moment. Sam wondered if he should fix it, though how he was to do that without placing it further into the tree or simply removing it altogether – clearly the more reasonable thing to do – he didn’t know. He wondered if maybe he should point it out, for surely that wouldn’t be overstepping himself, but just then Frodo reached down, picked up a bough of holly and began to lace it around the portraits and sconces on the wall over the mantle.

Sam sighed. Holly around sconces. Surely the Bagginses weren’t actually trying to burn down their home?

Shaking his head, he wiped his slate with a rag and ran through the list one more time, determined not to ask his question. He was doing a good job of forgetting it until he reach word seventeen, which was ‘scalawag’, when he heard the most incredible noise. He peeked up through his bangs and sure enough, there was Frodo banging nails into the wall! Forgetting his spelling altogether, Sam watched with growing incredulousness as Frodo stepped back, examined the perfectly hole-free wall, picked up another nail, placed it just so, and hammered it home with purpose and determination. Sam snuck a peek at Bilbo, but he was busy perfecting a bow of silk lace for the clock on his mantle and wasn’t paying any mind to his cousin. Sam returned his attention to Frodo as the young master continued punching holes into the wall and then – of all the wonders! – proceeded to drape the boughs of holly over the nails!

Unable to stop himself, Sam blurted out, “Why’re you doing that, Frodo? … If you don’t mind me asking,” he added hurriedly for propriety’s sake. It was bad enough that he had forgotten to call Frodo ‘Master Frodo’ yet again. Not that Frodo or Bilbo minded, but his father did and that was enough.

What did he mean? Sam frowned at the question. Shouldn’t that be obvious? “Why’re you hanging holly all about the hole, sir?”

Now Frodo looked at him, equally surprised and clearly thinking that the answer was what should be obvious, rather than the question. “It’s tradition,” he said. “Don’t you do this at home?”

“We don’t at that,” Sam said. He bit his tongue on his next remark – that banging holes into perfectly good walls just for hanging holly as shouldn’t be there in the first place, thus scarring the wall forever after while the holly would wither in just a few weeks, seemed a right shame – but contented himself to wait expectantly, hoping for a further explanation to his question.

“It’s a tradition in Buckland, my lads,” Bilbo said, joining the conversation now that he was finished with his bow. “Not in Hobbiton, or anywhere else in the Shire except perhaps some of the oldest branches of the Took family.”

To Sam’s growing amazement, Bilbo took over the job of draping the holly while Frodo continued around the parlor, looking for more likely places for hammering in more nails.

“Why’s that, sir?” Sam asked, watching this latest development with what he hoped was fervent curiosity rather than the confounded disbelief he actually felt. His gaffer would never believe this when he told him. Perhaps Tom and Robin had been right after all about those mad Bucklanders. Not that Frodo was mad, mind, but he had clearly picked up the odd notion or two while living amongst them, and Bilbo, bless him, was kind enough to humor the young master, even if it meant the permanent disfigurement of his once pristine walls.

“I’m not sure why,” Frodo said, attacking the last nail with a violence that seemed ill-fitting to Yule decorating. “We just do. I always assumed that everyone did the same, so I never asked.”

“You should always ask,” Bilbo said. “Never assume anything, or you’ll end up in a dragon’s lair to steal a bounty you have no hope of carrying out undetected, much less all the way home. Asking questions earlier could have save me from a rude surprise.”

Frodo grinned. “I promise that if Gandalf ever shows up out of the Blue to whisk me away on some grand adventure, I’ll ask every question I can think of first.”

“Ah, but it’s the questions you don’t think of asking that will get you in the end,” Bilbo said with a wink. “Luckily enough, however, I happen to know the answer to young Sam’s question.”

“You do?” Frodo and Sam said together. Sam inched forward in his seat with eagerness. Frodo lifted a wary eyebrow; his face was fortunately turned so that Sam couldn’t see his expression.

Bilbo winked at them both. “I do, and not from asking questions, ironically enough. The Oldbucks were friends of the Dwarves once upon a time, and more than a few of our traditions and skills come from the Dwarves, though we’ve forgotten that over the years and nearly all now believe that we’ve always known such things. The Dwarves have longer memories than we do, and it was Balin who told me all about how the tradition started while I was spending Yule in the Lonely Mountain after my Adventure. Would you like to hear about it?”

“Oh, yes please!” Sam exclaimed. He plopped down on the rug in front of Bilbo’s blue stuffed chair, where Bilbo was prone to sit while telling his stories.

Bilbo promptly slung the last bit of holly over the last nail and came to settle himself into his chair. Frodo took a seat on the rug next to Sam, his own curiosity overcoming his suspicions that he and Sam were about to be taken for larks.

Bilbo sat forward in his chair and looked down at his audience. With his usual gusto and fanfare, he launched into his story.

It started many years ago, when Hobbits still lived out in the wilds, far to the east near the Great River. There were Dwarves still living nearby in the mountains at that time as well, and even Elves could be seen from time to time coming out of their forests further down the river. The Elves and Dwarves enjoyed a strong friendship in those days, and everyone lived peacefully in their own lands, free to come and go as they wished, and helping each other whenever there was need.

The Dwarves were ruled then by King Novi, who was said to be great and kind, but not altogether easy to please. His wife, Queen Borva, was no easier to please, for she wanted only the best for her husband. One winter when the ground was covered in snow but the skies were clear and blue, King Novi declared that he was going hunting to bring back many great beasts for roasting for the year’s end feast. He would return in time for Yule, and he wanted the Great Hall to be decorated as never before.

That would have been simple enough, as the Great Hall had never been decorated before, so even one decorative touch would have satisfied his request, but Queen Borva balked at such lackluster imagination. She ordered bows and wreaths to be made at once, and new sconces and candelabras fashioned, and candles for them all so that the Great Hall would glow as daylight in the middle of the night.

The queen’s maids found themselves so overwhelmed by the queen’s demands, that they sent out a cry for help from their Hobbit friends. Mistress Oldbuck was one of them, and she came to love the decorations so much that she suggested they do the same in her village as well.

Mistress Oldbuck became fast friends with three of the queen’s maids, Noli, Toli and Boli, but the fourth maid she never met for this maid was constantly finding excuses for not being able to help. The queen needed her bath drawn, or the prince needed a new belt, or the princess needed her beard braided. It was one thing after another, and Noli, Toli and Boli were becoming quite put out by it. Mistress Oldbuck didn’t mind it at all though, for she was getting many glorious ideas and spreading them all about the Hobbit village, which had never looked so grand or beautiful. Still, Mistress Oldbuck thought that there could be something else that they could do that would really making the village magnificent. She just didn’t know what it was.

Finally, the day came that the King’s messengers arrived and announced that the King would be returning that very night. Noli, Toli and Boli, along with Mistress Oldbuck, scurried about the hall putting up the finishing touches, and when all was finished – though still with that one thing missing – they stood back and admired their handiwork. Queen Borva came to look over the decorations and declared them satisfactory enough, which was high praise indeed from her. Mistress Oldbuck took her leave from her friends and as she was leaving, she was passed by a dwarf – male or female she couldn’t tell and never could without hearing them speak – but she was distracted from saying hello by a dwarf child who was struggling to put on his winter coat to go outside and gather firewood. Mistress Oldbuck, being the kindly and helpful hobbitess that she was, paused to help the child into his coat.

Meanwhile, the dwarf who had passed Mistress Oldbuck went into the Great Hall. This was the queen’s fourth maid and she had come at last to lend a helping hand. “Well, then,” she said, placing hands on her hips in a bossy fashion, “what’s to do?”

Noli, Toli and Boli rounded on their companion. “Holi!” they scolded and advanced on her so quickly that Holi didn’t have any hope of escape. They grabbed her by the arms and feet and hauled her towards the ladder that still stood against one wall.

One of the maids’ attendants saw this and, seeking to put an end to this confrontation before things could get out of hand, dashed out of the Great Hall and shouted, “Help! They’re hanging Holi to the wall! Help!”

Hearing this, Mistress Oldbuck’s whim alighted with joy. Holly on the walls! Why, that was it, the final piece of decoration for which she had been looking! Trusting that there were plenty of dwarves within earshot of the frantic attendant’s call, she hurried out of the mountain and dashed home, gathering boughs of holly as she went; she needed to be sure to have enough for her village before the dwarves could claim it all for themselves after all. When she reached the village, the hobbits were so delighted by this brilliant idea that they immediately stopped what they were doing to hang the boughs of holly all about the village and they all agreed that their home could not possibly look any grander or more magnificent.

“And so that is how the tradition of hanging holly came to the Oldbucks,” Bilbo finished with zeal.

Frodo bent over with laughter but Sam looked aghast. “I do hope they managed to get Holi off the wall, sir!” he exclaimed.

“Oh, never fear, my lad,” Bilbo said with a wink. “Mistress Oldbuck was quite right. There were many dwarves who heard the attendant’s call and interpreted it correctly, for they were all familiar with Holi’s slippery ways. After they gathered around to watch her being hung to the wall, they only waited an hour before helping her back down. The king was about to arrive after all.”

“I’m betting Holi wasn’t so quick to shirk her duties after that,” Frodo said.

An hour later, after Sam had left for Number Three, Frodo found Bilbo in the kitchen and crossed his arms. With a warm smile on his face, he shook his head and let out a huff of laughter. “You shouldn’t spin such tales, Bilbo. Sam believes them, you know.”

Bilbo looked up from his measuring spoons and eyed Frodo kindly. “Now, Frodo, would I really do such a thing?”

“You once told him Elves were at the door so you could eat the hotcakes he was saving for me.”

“A trick that would still work if you hadn’t told the lad to take the hotcakes with him next time, to offer to the Elves,” Bilbo returned. “And I did not make up that story. That is the tale that Balin told me, and if you have issues with it, you can bring them up with him if ever you should meet.”

“I plan to,” Frodo said, stepping into the kitchen to help Bilbo with the baking. “If you didn’t make him up as well.”

Their eyes met and both Bagginses dissolved into giggles. Their mirth was interrupted by a sudden thump coming from the parlor. They went to investigate and finally found the candle that had fallen out of the tree.

“It’s tradition, Frodo,” Bilbo said and replaced the candle on its bough, ignoring Frodo’s mutters about mad Bagginses and smial fires.

Elanor and Frodo-lad trailed after their father, their arms heavy with the holly, which they handed up to their father as he moved around the parlor. Rose-lass, Merry-lad, Pippin-lad and wee Goldilocks were napping in their cots, allowing Rose time to make the bows. Sam glanced down at his lovely wife as she worked and felt a warmth swell up inside him. He was as happy as he could wish to be. There was just one thing missing though…

“Sam-dad?” Elanor said, glancing around the parlor. “Why exactly do we hang holly on the walls. No else in our family does.”

“Uncle Jolly says as you’ve gone mad,” Frodo-lad said, full of concern for his father’s sanity.

Sam smiled wistfully and fingered the nail holes in the parlor walls. The holes had grown somewhat larger over the years, requiring thicker nails than that first Yule so long ago. He could still see it all so clearly in his mind’s eye and hear Bilbo’s enrapturing voice as he spun his tale of Holi, the duty-shirking dwarf maiden. His smile grew into a full-blown grin.

“Well, children, I happen to know how this tradition got started. Do you want to hear all about it?”

“Yes, please!” Elanor and Frodo said, dropping their boughs and plopping down in front of the blue stuffed chair.

Sam realized then that there was nothing missing from this Yule or any other, for his memories of his masters would always be with him, and neither this smial nor he would ever forget them.

Happy birthday, Shirebound! And happy belated birthdays, Cookiefleck and Grey Wonderer!

Summary: Why didn’t the Eagles just fly the Ring to Mordor? Sam’s children, niece and nephew think they know why.

Sam is 51, Rose 47, Elanor 10, Frodo 8, Rose-lass 6; Tom 51, Marigold 49, Young Tom 8, and Lilah is 7

“And so it was that Gwaihir saw them with his keen far-seeing eyes, as down the wild wind he came, and daring the great peril of the skies he circled in the air: two small dark figures, forlorn, hand in hand upon a little hill, while the world shook under them, and gasped, and rivers of fire drew near. And even as he espied them and came swooping down, he saw them fall, worn out, or choked with fumes and heat, or stricken down by despair at last, hiding their eyes from death.

“Side by side they lay; and down swept Gwaihir, and down came Landroval and Meneldor the swift; and in a dream, not knowing what fate had befallen them, the wanderers were lifted up and borne far away out of the darkness and the fire.”*

Sam closed the Red Book with care. His audience was silent as he took a deep breath and the tight knot in his throat slowly dissolved. After all these years, reliving that moment, when the Ring was destroyed and his master was set free from its grasp, could still prove overwhelming for him. That they finally reached this passage on today of all days, the ten-year anniversary of his master’s sailing into the West, was an irony Sam could not quite wrap his head around. Deciding it was best not to try, he took a deep breath and turned to his children and their cousins.

Tom and Marigold were visiting for the afternoon, and Tom had been persuaded into sitting in on the reading by the children. Tom couldn’t deny them when they gathered around him and pleaded en masse. Those large round eyes, so beseeching, those usually smiling lips, pouting so imploringly, he had caved in an instant. In truth, Marigold would have sent him off at any rate, and Sam had been asking him to read the Red Book for years now. Tom really had meant to, but one thing or another prevented him from following through. Having no other excuse now, he had allowed Elanor, Frodo-lad, Rose-lass, Lilah and Young Tom to take him by the hands and guide him into the study, where the readings always took place.

Sam wondered what their wives and youngest children were doing. No doubt, the youngest had been put to their midday naps by now. Merry, Pippin, Goldilocks, Rosalie and Holfast would be sleeping in a row in the parlor, under the dutiful watch of their mothers, while Rose and Marigold would be taking the opportunity to gossip as they ironed and folded laundry.

Sam looked over at Tom, only to find Tom watching him, his brow creased in thought. Tom was about to open his mouth to say something but his son was faster.

Tom-lad concentrated for a moment, trying to sort out the various thoughts running through his head to best communicate his concern. “It’s just, the Eagles were there.”

“So, why didn’t they just take the Ring to Mordor themselves?” Tom-lad asked.

“Hmph,” Tom harrumphed in response. “That’s a good question.” This was not the remark he was about to make on the story, but any other thoughts had now been pushed out by his son’s question.

The children all turned their heads towards Sam. “Is that true, Dad?” Frodo-lad asked. “Could the Eagles have taken the Ring instead?”

“It would have been a lot easier to get the Ring to the Eagles than to Mordor,” Lilah said.

“Says who?” Elanor asked. “The Fellowship never went anywhere near the Eagles.”

“The Eagles can fly,” Lilah answered with a roll of her eyes. “Obviously, the Eagles could come to them. They came to help Gandalf. Tommy just said so.”

Sam held up a hand for silence and received it immediately. They all knew the rules if they wanted to come into the study to hear the Red Book: sit still, be respectful, and never touch the book without permission.

“The Eagles came to find Gandalf at Radagast’s request,” Sam said. “Elanor is right. We never went near the Eagles, and trying to get to them when we got out of Moria, with orcs on our hides, wouldn’t have been possible, even if we had thought of it.”

“Yes, why didn’t anyone think of it?” Tom asked. “Would have saved you all a mess of trouble, to my thinking. Your feet alone...”

“That’s not from the scars, dearest. Your old dad just can’t keep up with so many children as easily as he once did,” Sam said.

“Will you let him answer the question?” Elanor interrupted, her hands going to her hips in perfect imitation of her mother. Even her voice and tone were exactly like Rose’s, so much so that Sam actually looked at the door, expecting his wife to be standing there. “Sorry, Sam-dad. Go on.”

“Yes, right,” Sam muttered, thinking furiously. It was a fair question, and no doubt it had a fair answer, but Sam was hard-pressed to think of one at the moment. So instead, he asked a question of his own. “And just how were you supposing the Eagles would get the Ring into Mordor and throw it into Mt. Doom without being noticed?”

“Wrong. The Ring-wraiths see best at night, and they can sense when the Ring is near,” Frodo-lad said. “They’d’ve been spotted, and the wraiths had those flying beasts. Did the beasts used to be Eagles?”

“Could be,” Elanor said. “The orcs used to be elves, and Sauron couldn’t create new life, only corrupt it.”

“They must have been then. Where did the Balrogs come from?” Rose-lass asked.

“I’ll not be knowing that, and I doubt there’s any left in Middle-earth as do,” Sam said. “The Eagles now though, they were Maia, like Gandalf. Seeing as Gandalf didn’t dare to carry the Ring, then I’d guess the Eagles would feel the same.”

“But the Eagles could have flown into Mordor where no one would see or sense them,” Tom-lad pressed. “They wouldn’t have to fly over the main gate. They could have come from anywhere, take a multi-pronged attack.”

Tom lifted an eyebrow in response. ‘It’s your fault he knows such phrases.’

“And how would that attack have ended?” Sam asked, interested to see what the lad would come up with.

“They get past the Wraiths and fly inward to Mt. Doom. Then the Eagle holding the Ring would drop it into the fire. The Ring is destroyed and everyone is free!” Tom-lad said, lifting up his hands in joyous victory. He smiled smugly. “Easy as pie, which actually isn’t very easy to make.”

“It’s easy to eat,” Frodo-lad said, and the children all nodded in agreement.

“How would the Eagles carry the Ring?” Elanor asked. “They couldn’t wear it. They couldn’t simply hold it in their talons. It would have shrunk and slipped through.”

Tom-lad’s smile shrunk in response but grew again an instant later. “The one with the Ring would wear it on a chain around his neck, just like Mr. Frodo, and when they got to the mountain, he’d cut through the chain with his beak, and the Ring would go into the fire and all would be saved.” He nodded with finality.

“What if there’s a gust of wind?” Elanor asked, smug now herself. “The wind pushes the Ring off it’s original trajectory and instead of going into the fire where it will be destroyed, it falls on the mountainside, where Sauron would no doubt be able to sense it and send his Wraiths to retrieve it, on the off chance the wraiths aren’t already on their tail feathers. What then?”

“Eagles have excellent eyesight,” Lilah said, coming to her brother’s defense, “whereas the wraiths can’t see a thing.”

“Well, even so, they’d be able to spot the Ring and pick it up before the Wraiths got there,” Lilah said. “Then they could try again.”

“How do they pick it up?” Elanor asked. “We already decided they can’t use their talons. They’d have to pick it up in their beaks, and ring’s being the shape they are, and that Ring being as tricky as it was, it would have slipped around the bearer’s beak, so he would technically be wearing it, sending him into the wraith world where he will most definitely be spotted by Sauron and the Ring-wraiths.”

“Maybe Daddy’s right and they wouldn’t want to take the Ring at all,” Rose-lass said. “It doesn’t sound very safe for them either.”

“I think they’d take it, if only to be able to get folk from telling them to fly them everywhere,” Frodo said. “It didn’t seem to be their favorite thing to do.”

“Cupcake and Icing are not Eagle names,” Frodo said, offended on behalf of the majestic birds. “They’re ponies, and you can’t ride ponies into Mordor.”

“It doesn’t mean the Eagles couldn’t have fun giving folk rides,” Lilah said.

“The Eagles can fly whenever they want; ponies can’t,” Frodo retorted. “Why would they want to carry people about while they’re doing it.”

“I doubt Gwaihir had any fun when he picked up Gandalf from the Misty Mountains,” Tom-lad said.

“Wanted to lay out in the sun, I suppose,” Sam answered, not wanting to get into that particular discussion on today of all days. He had a hard enough time thinking of the West at the best of times, and trying to explain where and how Gandalf had gone there and come back, when Mr. Frodo couldn’t, would only lead to more questions.

“Maybe, the Eagles could carry Frodo with the Ring into Mordor,” Tom-lad said, returning to the original topic. “They could set him down on the mountainside and Mr. Frodo could then throw the Ring into the fire, the Eagles could pick him back up, and we’d be free.”

“Frodo-dad never could have thrown the Ring into the fire,” Elanor said with a much put-upon sigh. “That’s the point. Who would have been there to make sure the Ring was destroyed?”

“Sam-dad,” Frodo said. “Without Gollum there to knock him on the head, he’d’ve been able to get to Frodo and--”

“And force him to let go the Ring?” Sam asked, a small smile gracing his lips. “I’d’ve been too worried about breaking his mind. And do you suggest that I should have fallen into the fire in Gollum’s place?”

“You wouldn’t have had to fall. You would have been able to throw it in. You were able to give the Ring back to Uncle Frodo in the tower,” Frodo-lad reasoned.

“I’d only had the Ring for a day or so, during most of which I was knocked out, and we were still on the boundaries of Mordor, not in the place of its forging. Besides, it was my duty to my master that allowed me to give it back to him. Not that it didn’t play with my head even more after that, mind you,” Sam said. “By the time we got to Mt. Doom, I doubt I’d’ve been able to toss it in either.”

Tom patted Sam’s shoulder and gave it a slight squeeze. This was the most he had ever heard Sam talk about this part of the Quest, and he knew it couldn’t be easy for his friend. When Sam did talk about the Quest, it was almost always the lighter moments, sitting around campfires or drifting down that river. He spoke of Rivendell, Lothlorien and Minas Tirith often, and could go on for nearly an hour about the beauty of Ithilien. But of Mordor he never spoke except on rare occasions and Tom could understand why, giving what Sam had just read.

“So, then, the Eagles would take Gollum too,” Tom-lad suggested, breaking into his father’s thoughts.

“Gollum was in Moria, trying to get out the west door,” Elanor said, “and no one knew he was there until the Fellowship went in. How would they have found him? Besides, no one knew what part Gollum would have to play in the Ring’s destruction. No one would have even thought of him.”

“Gandalf suspected,” Elanor corrected, “and only that Gollum had a part to play. He didn’t know Gollum would ultimately be the one to destroy the Ring. His part could have simply been to keep Mordor looking elsewhere while Frodo got closer to Mordor.”

“Maybe they could have taken Lotho Pimple,” Rose suggested. “He could have gone into the fire in Gollum’s place and saved the Shire a load of trouble.”

“So Frodo-dad should have sacrificed his own cousin?” Frodo-lad asked. “As much as they didn’t like each other, Frodo would never have done that. Besides, no one knew what Lotho was about to do.”

“Mr. Frodo wouldn’t have sacrificed anyone anyway,” Tom-lad said. “He didn’t even want folk killing Sharkey. It was Master Meriadoc and Mr. Pippin as sorted out the ruffians.”

“They were only able to do so because of the training they got during the Quest,” Sam said gently. “If they had stayed behind, they’d’ve been just as unprepared as everyone else. And the very reason Mr. Frodo didn’t want those folk dead was the same one as got him to Mordor in the first place. Don’t mistake compassion for weakness, lad.”

“Why couldn’t the Eagles fly down low enough to the fire that the Ring wouldn’t get blown onto the mountainside?” Lilah asked.

“Then proceed to burn up in the immediate eruption of Mt. Doom?” Rose-lass asked.

“And you’re all trying to give me a headache,” Sam said, though he smiled kindly as he said it. “This discussion is officially over. The Eagles didn’t take the Ring to Mordor and there’s no use discussing the why’s and why not’s of it. Now go on, off you get. Go outside and run about a bit. Don’t trample the gardens!”

Sam and Tom sat back and relaxed once the children were gone. They could hear the children out in the garden, discussing who would play the roles of Gandalf and the Eagles. Frodo-lad as always played Frodo, and Elanor was chosen this time to play Sam.

Sam and Tom chuckled. “I bet as they’re the only ones to be playing that game,” Tom said.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Sam agreed. “Were you wanting to ask something, Tom, afore the younglings interrupted?”

Tom had to think hard before he remembered. “Just, why is it Gandalf felt he needed so many Eagles to go with him into Mordor? I can understand the third, in case Gollum was still about, but why the others?”

Sam shrugged. “In case some didn’t make it, I suppose. The mountain was still erupting. They could’ve been hit by rock or set ablaze by the fire, just as Elanor said. Was that all?”

Tom stood and stretched his back. He reached out a finger but stopped just shy of touching the Red Book. “Rosie had told me some of what you told her, and you told me bits of it yourself, but I never really understood. I’m going to have to get over here more often to read this thing, aren’t I?"

“Only if you really want to know,” Sam said, understanding Tom’s hesitance, probably more than even Tom himself. “Tis a good tale, but it’s a long one and not always easy.”

“Oh, well, that’s the happily ever after part,” Sam said with a wink. “No point spoiling that for you.”

A light wrapping sounded on the door and Rose stuck in her head. She looked around and noted the lack of children, then heard them outdoors through the open window. “All done then? What took so long?” She eyed Sam suspiciously. Her husband had a tendency of turning a short story into a long tale.

“The children wanted to know why the Eagles didn’t just fly the Ring to Mordor,” Sam said. “There was quite a debate about it.”

“The debate rages on,” Tom said, “though you know, I do think that if the Eagles had carried Frodo with the Ring--”

“All the way to Mordor?” Marigold interrupted, aghast. “He’d’ve got his chill of cold, being up there so high for so long.”

“He might have fallen!” Rose added, looking equally as distrustful at this suggestion, not to mention the unseen Eagles.

“The Eagles wouldn’t’ve dropped us,” Sam said. “Besides, they flew Gandalf around just fine.”

“If you call showing up late for your meeting with him just fine. Honestly, they could have brought Gandalf to the Shire instead of that horse-place,” Rose said.

“They’re not messenger birds, love,” Sam said. “They had their own battles to fight before they could come to help anyone else.”

“Well, then, there’s your answer,” Marigold said. “Now get off your lazy bums and get into the kitchen. We can’t do everything, you know.”

“Looks like we’re on supper duty, my friend,” Tom said. “Let’s get into the pantries and see what’s to cook.”

“Sitting around reading from books and debating over make believe, while we’re here working our fingers to the bone; yes, I’d call that lazy,” Marigold said.

“And what is that supposed to mean? Tom is quite happy, aren’t you, Tom? ... Tom? Don’t pretend you don’t hear me!”

“Will you look at all these taters?” Tom’s voice floated out from the pantry, overly exuberant. “We could make mash!”

Marigold threw up her hands, Sam wisely waited until he was in the pantry to start laughing, and Rose simply shook her head. She returned to the parlor with Marigold. It was time to wake the children and continue with the daily adventure of family and friends.

It was Ted Sandyman who spilled the milk, as it were. He came into The Green Dragon like he was the King returned, and it was no coincidence that he sat in the table just behind ours, his back to Sam’s so as he wouldn’t miss a word. He ordered his drink, toasted the Shire’s good health, and went on to yammering about everything he’d done that day to anyone who would listen, as if anyone of us was interested in hearing about him tagging along after Mr. Lotho like a whipped mutt.

It weren’t for Sam’s benefit that he said it either, and that’s a guarantee, or my name ain’t Tom Cotton. It certainly weren’t out of any respect for Marigold. Ted would just as soon take Goldie’s hand as he would slap it away, temper depending. She or any other lass would be naught more than a decoration to him; he never could tell the true worth of anything without a scale to tell him its measure. Whatever his purpose, and whatever he thought would come of it, he certainly weren’t expecting this!

Between the three of us, Sam took it best, much to my surprise. Robin looked ready to dump the nearest cask over Ted’s head, though that’d be a poor waste of ale and that’s about all that stopped him. I had to clench my fists round the edge of the table to keep myself from getting up and cuffing Ted over the ear. Only a shake of Sam’s head kept me in my seat.

Ted was regaling his audience with a recounting of his and Mr. Lotho’s trip to the market earlier that day. The story started innocent enough, but Ted’s a crafty fellow, for all he’s a nuisance to decent folk. We weren’t paying much attention to him, truth be told, till he leaned back and clapped his mug on the table.

“That’s when sweet young Marigold Gamgee came through,” Ted said. He sounded boastful, and that got our guard up in an instant. “She was looking right pretty, as usual, wearing that flowery dress of hers, though she’s getting a might big for it 'cross the top if you want my opinion. She was in something of a hurry, so Mr. Lotho, to slow her down some, pretended interest in some weaving. When she was passing behind him, he stepped back as though to get a better look at the weaves hanging from the doorframe. She bumped right into him, she did, and when her wee basket spilled over the ground, he just stood there and watched while she knelt down to pick up her things, apologizing for being so clumsy as to run into him. He helped her up at least, acting cordial as you please, even if he held onto her hand overlong. Then she was off again, onto wherever she was headed.

“Mr. Lotho just smiled after her and you know what he said? He said, ‘Ted, my lad, if it were proper, I’d marry that lass.’ ‘Would you?’ I said, surprised to hear him talk so. I’d never heard him talk so before, though with a mother like his, one can understand why he’d be hesitant to take a wife. ‘Aye, I would,’ he said, ‘and I’d give her aught she wanted.’ ‘Would you then?’ I asked, wondering what this was leading to. Mr. Lotho just nodded and said, ‘Shame she’s just a laundress, though I can think of some things I’d not mind her washing, if you taking my meaning.’ Oh, I took his meaning all right. Figured it best to pretend as I didn’t. That’s all that’ll get him to give up a conversation, if you want to know.”

Our part of the inn had gone real quiet by the time he was finished, and it was at this point that Robin was searching for something other than ale to dump on Ted and I was losing grip on the table. That’s when Sam shook his head, subtle like, for all eyes were now on him, waiting to see what he’d do. He stood up and after only a heartbeat made up his mind about something. He pivoted on his heel to come face to face with Ted, crossed his arms and said, loud enough for all to hear, “I’m that sorry, Ted, but I don’t think I do get your meaning.”

“That’s no surprise,” Ted said. “What’s confusing you this time, Sam?”

“The part where you’re speaking ill of your betters,” Sam said, surprising us all, “not to mention spreading false rumors about a proper maid’s virtue. If Mr. Lotho’s done somewhat to offend you, I suggest you take it up with him and leave my sister out of it.”

Well, as you can imagine, Ted didn’t know what to make of this, nor did anyone else. We all just sat there looking at Sam like he’d grown himself a second head. It weren’t till later I realized what he was doing, making Ted look the fool rather than the other way around. No one really believed aught that Ted said anyway and by calling him out on it, it would make it that much more difficult for Ted to get anyone else to listen to the tale, much less believe it.

Oh, but that tale was true all right. Sam went straight home that night and asked Goldie if she’d had a run-in with Mr. Lotho and what all had happened. Goldie’s side of the story was more innocent that Ted’s had been, and no surprise. Goldie wasn’t yet of an age where she saw things in such a manner, bless the stars. According to her, she’d been on her way to the fabrics store for some lace when she bumped into Mr. Lotho. She’d apologized immediately, of course, and Mr. Lotho had been more than generous, accepting her apology and even helping her up after she cleaned up her mess. It had never crossed her mind to expect Mr. Lotho to help her gather her things, of course, what with him being gentry and all. As far as him not letting go of her hand in a proper manner, she had just shrugged it off to him wanting to make sure she really was all right. That was the end of the matter, so far as she was concerned, and Sam was determined to keep it that way.

Robin and I were able to confirm the second part of Ted’s tale. The weaver was an old gammer with poor hearing, but next to her shop was the stationer’s shop. The stationer’s daughter, a poor homely-looking thing he’s always trying to marry off to Mr. Frodo, had been sitting outside when all this happened. She’d seen and heard everything, and she was right eager to tell someone about it.

“He’s such an awful chap,” Lila said, eyeing Robin. “I couldn’t believe what he said, even so! Thank the stars that Goldie didn’t hear it, nor anyone else.”

“He didn’t, and that’s the truth,” Lila said, pinking a little under Robin’s gaze. “He looked right shocked, if you ask me. When he didn’t respond, Mr. Lotho just went on his way home as though naught had happened.” She leaned towards Robin, doing her best to look becoming.

“Well, that’s something at least,” Robin said, missing Lila’s interest, so preoccupied he was with Goldie. “Thanks, Lila. Tell your father hullo for us, won’t you?”

“All right then,” Lila said, deflated. She went back to organizing the invitation cards.

Robin and I were nearly to the farm when Robin stopped me. “We have to do something about this. Mayhap we should go to Mr. Frodo, if Sam hasn’t already.”

“What can Mr. Frodo do?” I asked. Sam might think the Shire of Mr. Frodo, but even he admitted that the Baggins had his limits. “We best talk to Sam.”

It weren’t till Highday next that the three of us were able to get together again. We met on the road to Tookland and hiked over the Green Hill Country to the Woody End. As children, we’d often come out here to help Sam hunt for Elves. We never did find any, though he thought he’d spied one once. Later on, he couldn’t be sure if he had dreamt it or not. Nowadays we went there just to get away from prying eyes and perking ears. It was the best place to go to plan a conspiracy.

Naturally, Sam was just as determined to make sure that Mr. Lotho paid for his remarks about his sister as we were. As it turned out, he even had a plan already as to how to go about avenging Goldie’s honor. Obviously, we couldn’t do aught as would make folk suspicious. Sam’s confrontation with Ted had worked wonders. Ted was too ashamed to go repeating the story where anyone with plain sense would hear it, if he repeated it at all. It would be more than counterproductive to start the gossiping now.

“I’ve been watching him as much as I could the last couple of days,” Sam said. We were sitting in the hollow off the road where we used to go to wait for Elves. We sat around a tree, leaning against the bole to keep an eye out in all directions. “Course, it’s a busy time of year, but I was able to find out that Mr. Lotho always takes his tea outside in his garden. I also know that he’s planning to return to Sackville soon to start preparing for the harvest.”

“How did you find out all this?” I asked. Sam was right about mid-summer being the busiest time for gardening. I found it difficult to believe he could have found enough time to spy on Mr. Lotho to discover all this.

Sam smirked. “Mr. Frodo had him over for tea the other day, and I just happened to need to change the flowers in the vases and tend the house plants at the same time.”

“I figured it best that he not know anything,” Sam said. “Just in case.”

Robin and I glanced at each other upon hearing this. Sam had that tone in his voice that suggested this was no mere romp through the woods he had planned. By the time he got through telling us his plan, we understood why he’d want to keep Mr. Frodo out of it.

“I don’t know,” Robin said uncertainly. “That’s a tall order, Sam. Tom and I would have to be quick to not be caught.”

“We’re supposed to get caught, the way I understand it,” I said. “I’m in.”

Robin frowned but we both knew he’d give in. Of all the things Sam had talked us into doing over the years, this was by far the riskiest endeavor, but as it was for Goldie there was no way of turning away from it. We gave Robin a few more minutes to come to that realization.

Finally, he nodded. “I’m in, too, though if I get beat, you’re going to have to explain it to my mother,” he said.

We put our hands together. “For Goldie,” we chorused and finalized our plans as the sun waned.

It would be another four days before we could make our move. Sam had found out, during Mr. Frodo’s tea, that Mr. Lotho would be returning to Sackville on the evening of the fifteenth. Mr. Lotho preferred traveling at night, so that he could sleep in his carriage while the poor coachhobbit had to stay up and get him to wherever he wanted to go. With tea being conveniently close to his departure time, Sam had deduced that would be the most opportune time to seek our revenge.

The plan was simple really. Mr. Lotho took his tea outside on his lawn, as Sam had reported. Robin and I had each seen him outside at that time to believe this to be a fact. Robin and I were to distract him by acting like a couple of drunkards and stumbling into his mother’s prized garden. Never mind that Mistress Lobelia ain’t been to Bywater since Mr. Bilbo took off for the Blue, that didn’t stop Mr. Lotho from making sure her garden was well-tended the year round.

While we were doing this, Sam was going to come from the other side, sneak into the garden and slip some medicaments into Mr. Lotho’s tea. He had recently acquired a couple of springs of sacred root from Miss Camellia, claiming to be backed up.

Sam had shaken his head. “It doesn’t taste harsh, for all that, or so she assured me. She said to seep a half-sprig in a couple of cups of water. I figured on boiling the two sprigs in half-cup and let it get good and strong. We’ll let nature do the rest.”

So come four o’clock on Wedmath the fifteenth, Robin and I left the farm and headed towards the home of the Sackville-Bagginses. Even knowing that Mistress Lobelia was far away in Sackville, we were plenty nervous about our role.

“What if she’s here and we just don’t know it?” Robin asked for the hundredth time that hour.

“What if Mr. Lotho tells her we trampled her asters?” Robin asked next. “She might just decide to come for a visit after all, if only to box our ears.”

“Absolutely. She’ll just write our gaffers instead,” I said, smiling cheerfully.

We rounded the bend in the hill. Up ahead, the S.-B.’s home came into view. Mr. Lotho was just settling into his chair. A small table next to him held a book and his tea service.

“What about the servants?” Robin asked. Besides Ted, Mr. Lotho kept only a couple of servants on hand at all times to see to the running of the home and garden.

“If Sam’s right, and I’m betting he is, then one of them would be fixing Mr. Lotho’s dinner, and the other will be sleeping so he can stay awake while he’s driving the old pimple to Sackville,” I said. “Ted’s working at the mill today, so there’s naught to fear from him.”

We were close enough now to make out individual flowers on the bushes. I grabbed onto Robin’s elbow to keep him from bolting. He’s game for most anything but this is asking a lot. If I were honest with myself, I’d admit to wanting Robin to bolt so I could go with him. Barring that, I don’t want to have to do this alone.

We come nearer the smial and soon are at the garden. We each take a simultaneous breath. It’s no or never.

Robin shoves me and laughs hard, as though we had been sharing a joke for the last half-mile. “No, you don’t say! That don’t - hiccup - sound right to me,” he said, making his words run into each other. He staggers a little, as much from nerves as pretending.

“I do say, I tell you! I said I say it,” I said, shoving him back and slurring my s’s. “He really was that big!”

“No, that’s a lie, that is. It’s got to be!” Robin said and giggled. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought he was drunk myself. “No hobbit’s as big as that big. How does he... how does he... how does he get out of his house? Ha!”

I snorted and waved a hand with abandon. “How does he get into it, more like,” I said.

Robin bent over, slapped his knee and wheezed so hard I thought for certain he’d make himself pass out. Instead, he just toppled into me, making me lose my balance and we both fell over into the garden. We did our best to prevent any lasting damage to the flowers (neither of us were looking forward to even a letter from Mistress Lobelia, after all) but we were undoubtedly in the flowers all the same.

“HEY!” Mr. Lotho shouted a half-moment later. We looked up to find him marching towards us, his face clouded like a thunderstorm. He glared down at us, hands on hips. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“He really is!” I said. For added effect, I burped and tried to look bleary-eyed.

Mr. Lotho stepped back and studied us. He didn’t like drunkards and would do his best to avoid them, unless they were currently squashing his mother’s prized asters. Seeing as we’d likely cause more harm trying to get up on our own, he eventually decided that helping us us was the best course for all.

“Break it up, now,” Mr. Lotho said. “Wait until you’re in your own gardens to continue this discussion.” He reached down and from just behind him, I could see Sam darting over the lawn from the other side of the smial. Robin and I took as long as we could to get up, even falling over a couple of extra times for good measure. Not that Sam needed the help, as he didn’t take more than a moment to sabotage the tea and disappear, but just for the fun of seeing Mr. Lotho trying to keep his temper.

Once we’re stood on the lane, Mr. Lotho crossed his arms. “You should be at a teahouse at this time of day, lads, not drinking it up at the inn. I’ll be sending a word to both your fathers.”

“Yes, sir,” we said, hanging our heads in supposed shame. We could only hope that Mr. Lotho would soon be so out of commission from the tea that he would neglect to send the posts.

“Be gone with you then,” Mr. Lotho said after another minute passed. He stood there watching us as we bumbled down the lane and out of view.

As soon as we were out of view, we made a dash for it, running over the hills to the spot where Sam was waiting for us. We took cover there behind some bushes and peeked through the branches for what we hoped would be a grand show. Mr. Lotho was already seated and sipping his tea again by the time we got ourselves settled. It seemed for a long time that naught would happen after all.

“Patience,” Sam said when Robin huffed impatiently. “Miss Camellia said it could take up to an hour to work. I’m hoping with the stronger dose, it’ll take effect sooner.”

An hour might seem like a long time to wait for something to most hobbits, but we’ve waited far longer for Elves that never showed up. We took turns watching the road behind us and Mr. Lotho in front of us, until finally after a half-hour Mr. Lotho sat up. Slowly, he put down his book and set his hand over his belly. He sat frozen for some time after that, and we held our breath as we waited to see if anything else would happen. A few moments later, Mr. Lotho was scrambling out his chair and to the privy, where he remained for some time.

It was everything we could do not to burst out laughing. We were safe enough in our refuge from being spied ourselves, but sound traveled well down this hill. We were settling down to snickering when Mr. Lotho returned from the privy, looking pale and possibly sweat-browed. He took his seat again and, bless Sam and his brilliance, took another drink of his tea. We doubled over with silent laughter again, tears streaming down our cheeks and stitches forming in our sides.

It was clear that Mr. Lotho didn’t connect the tea with his sudden case of trots. If anything, from the way he started downing cup after cup, it seemed as though he thought the tea would help move the illness along.

Sam grinned and winked. “He likes peppermint tea,” he said, sending us into giggles again. Peppermint was well-known for curing stomachache.

Mr. Lotho’s dance between his chair and the privy continued for the rest of the afternoon and early evening. He would just get to settling himself back in his chair when up he’d get again. By the end of the hour, he was all but running to the privy, doubled over and agitation written so clearly on his face we could see it from our perch, and as the privy was shared by the other smials on the lane, it didn’t take long for others to notice Mr. Lotho’s ordeal. A handful of them suddenly found things as needed doing in their gardens or gossip that needed sharing over the fence posts.

Sam, Robin and I were laughing so hard at times, we could have sworn ourselves overheard. Finally, we had to leave, for our families were expecting us. We went back to the Bywater Road, congratulated ourselves on a job well done, and promised to meet up later at The Green Dragon for a celebratory quart.

Robin and I reached the Dragon first. Not surprisingly, news of Mr. Lotho’s trots reached the inn before us and it remained the talk of the night.

“Your Gaffer was right,” Robin said to Sam after we downed our second mugs. “Knowing your betters will lead you to no good, but I think in this case, it’s worth it!”

“Thanks for helping, lads,” Sam said. “I’ll take the blame with your fathers, if Lotho does send those letters.”

“No you won’t,” I said. “Only one to blame here is that pimple. And Ted. Ever figure out why he told us that story?”

“To Ted,” I said, lifting my mug. “May his trouble always be as entertaining as this!”

We clicked our mugs together and drank deep. The ale never tasted as good as it did that night.

Of course, it turned out, as it so often did, that we needn’t have bothered with our revenge. Mr. Ponto had been in the stationer’s shop the same time Mr. Lotho was harassing Goldie and had seen and heard everything. He later told Mr. Frodo about it, who promptly wrote Mr. Lotho a missive telling him to stay from Goldie at all costs. We also found out, again from Ted, that Mr. Lotho had got to Sackville after a ride that included not a wink of peaceful sleep but plenty of emergency stops on the roadside. That news was icing on the cake for us.

Our prank on Mr. Lotho quickly became a local legend, for it wasn’t long before our friends put two and two together. They whispered amongst themselves in the fields as we worked. We told it often, but as all such stories go, it was kept out of the ears of the gentry.

And as far as Goldie was concerned, it all remained naught more than an innocent encounter in the market.

“Don’t you know my name yet? That’s the only answer. Tell me, who are you, alone, yourself and nameless?”

You answered to this name because others called you this. They said it, and so you believed it. They are no longer here, so you can no longer be as they said. Only I am here, so you are what I say you are.

To Nothing, any other thing is Everything. I am not Nothing, therefore I am Everything. Does Nothing know of anything else other than me?

Everything’s master is Nothing’s master. Nothing wants to go back to our master.

If I say it does, Nothing does. Nothing does as Everything says. If I tell Nothing to cut off its hand, Nothing will do so.

Heat vapors from the mountain plays tricks with Nothing’s eyes. Do not trust them. Only Everything sees as everything truly is. It is a rock. Slash it with the sword.

No! I am Frodo Baggins of the Shire, son of Drogo and Primula. I am a Hobbit, Master of the Hill, and Head of the Bagginses. You are nothing. Nothing more than a trinket that has outlived its usefulness, if you ever were useful at all.

Nothing forgets because Nothing has nothing to remember. Every night, Nothing forgets itself sooner and gets closer to cutting the rock. Nothing resists less and soon Nothing will do as its told.

You will never destroy me. You will cut the rock. You will sever it and it will never be whole again. You know I speak the truth. You are nothing to me and my lord.

Frodo wakes with a shudder and a gasp and finds to his horror that his left hand clutches the hilt of his sword. He releases his grasp and stands, startled. He is greeted by the vast emptiness of Mordor, and whatever relief he had felt upon waking from that horrid dream vanishes in the swirl of ash and dirt. Even so, he cannot look at Sam, not yet. Better to look at the mountain and the end of the road than his dearest of friends.

Frodo closes his eyes, pulls in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. He opens his eyes again and stares at the mountain in defiance, but this is soon leeched from him by the great weight of the Ring. “I can’t manage it, Sam. It is such a weight to carry, such a weight.”

Sam is still. Frodo can feel the weight of his friend’s eyes upon him. He hears Sam’s sigh, full of worry and disappointment. Disappointment at what?

Sam remains silent for many long moments until finally he speaks, quietly determined against all hope. “Then let me carry it for you, Master. You know I would, and gladly, as long as I have any strength.”

“Stand away!” Frodo turns to look at his friend for the first time, a wild panic in his eyes. “Don’t touch me! It is mine I say! Be off!”

His hand reaches for his sword, but in this motion he sees not the grasping orc creature nor the wheel of fire ever on the edge of his vision, but Sam. He looks so tired, so thin. The once robust hobbit is dwindling away before his eyes and there is nothing he can do about it.

Frodo shrinks, hunching over from the weight, and releases the sword. “No, no, Sam,” he says. There is something he can do, for he is Frodo, Master of the Hill and so Sam’s protector and guardian. It isn’t much but it is something, and that is everything he needs to know.

He backs away from Sam. “But you must understand. It is my burden, and no one else can bear it. It is too late now, Sam dear. You can’t help me in that way again. I am almost in its power now. I could not give it up, and if you tried to take it I should go mad.”

Sam sighs again, this time resigned. He nods, attempting to look braver than he feels. “I understand,” he says. “But I’ve been thinking, Mr. Frodo, there’s other things we might do without.”

So Frodo follows his friend to the great chasm to dispose of their gear and armor, yet even as he rejoices in the lessened burden, he sees surrounding them the wheel of fire and flame.

There the Ring remains silent but watchful, biding its time for when Frodo is weary and weakened again. It can be patient, for nothing can destroy it.

Written for the LOTR_Community's "Short and Sweet" challenge. This was a fixed length challenge. My element was 250 words.

“I’ve liked you since you poured honey on my pillowcase that night we were camping by the pond. When I discovered it was you who framed me for stealing the post, I knew you were a worthy opponent in every way. When you lectured me about proper dining etiquette, all the while with mustard smeared on your cheek, I knew then I was in love with you. Pervinca Took, will you marry me?” Everard asked, hope in his eyes and heart.

“I think she’ll be asleep by the time you finish with that proposal,” Ferdi said. “You should keep it short and sweet, like ‘I love you, so marry me already’.”

At this exact moment, Pervinca entered the sitting room where they were hiding. She arched an eyebrow. “That’s unexpected.”

“Me first,” Pervinca said, holding up the torn parchment that began her hunt for Everard an hour ago. “What’s this? I said you could borrow my sketchbook, not violate it.”

“It’s just the one piece,” Everard began, then quickly changed strategy. “It was an accident. I’m sorry.”

“Not yet you aren’t, but you will be,” Pervinca said, turning to leave. “And the answer is yes.”

Ferdi shook his head. He still didn’t understand it, but there was no denying they were a perfect match.

As I was getting my fic journal at LJ ready, I came across a few fics that I posted on LJ that never got posted here. I'll post the others over the next few days.

Written for the LOTR_Community's "Two Sides to Everything Challenge". My prompt was "Is it Frodo's fault that Gollum fell into the Cracks of Doom?" I couldn’t fathom anyone in Middle-earth arguing that it was Frodo’s fault, though certainly such short-sighted/ill-informed people did exist, so this is what I came up with instead.

Gollum looked around the darkness. Much to his surprise, his wide eyes, so well-adapted to seeing in the darkest of dark after half a millennia at the bottom of the Misty Mountains, could see nothing at all. There was not a trickle of light nor a hint of shadow anywhere. He did not even know where he was.

The last thing he remembered was holding his Precious in his clasped hands and dancing for joy. Triumph at last! It had been stolen from him, stolen away by Baggins. He should have known, he had known, that the other Baggins would be just as tricksy. But Sméagol, for all his contempt and cunning, had believed the Baggins. He had thought the master kind and trusting, and so trustworthy, at least enough to keep his word in treating Sméagol kindly, but it was all a ploy, yes it was, Precious.

And where was the Precious now? Gollum looked in vain but could not find it. Always, even in his lake cave, he had been able to see the Ring, for it seemed at times to shine with a light of its own. Sighing in frustration, he sat up and stretched out his hands. He felt all around himself but something wasn't right. Something felt off, wrong. Something was different.

Not only was his Precious nowhere to be found, felt or sensed, but neither was there anything else. Slowly he came to the realization that there was nothing at all surrounding him. He sat not upon the ground, for there was no ground to sit upon. He stretched out not his arms, for as he attempted to clasp his hands together, he realized that he had no form, no substance, no body.

Panic set in. What new trickery was this, Precious? He attempted to run, for what little good it would do him, but he could not do even this. With nothing to set foot against, and no feet to carry him, he was stuck where he was, in the absolute and complete darkness of the ether.

‘Tricksy Master. He did this to us!’ he said though he had no voice to speak. And yet he had heard... something.

He paused, surprised. His thoughts here in this place were louder than his voice had ever been in life. They echoed out in all directions, rippling through space. The ripples created an unusual sound, an odd sort of music, full of malice and rage. He found he liked it quite well.

‘RAAAAAHHHHHHHH!’ he thought, and the ripples grew more wild. ‘We hates him, we do!’ Plinks, as pebbles in the pond. ‘He told us he'd take care of us, he pretended to be kind, only to tricks us. Isn't that right, Precious? He made us swear upon the Precious, and when we gets it back, he puts us here!’ The plinks and plunks sounded like rain against metal, hard, high-pitched, and unrelenting, a constant droning.

Gollum raised his hands to his ears, or thought to do it, would have done it had he still a body to follow his command. He could not escape the maelstrom of sound and music he had created.

‘RAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!’ he thought again. The malice returned, cold and quiet, waiting. Gollum relaxed and looked around again. Still, despite the music and sound - he was certain he really had heard it and not merely imagined it - there was still nothing to be seen. Nothing smelled here, nothing breathed or grew. What an odd place.

Gollum felt Sméagol stirring within him, the old curious grubber. Always on his hands and knees, looking, examining. Gollum had no use for him. Sméagol's hope had caused this. After five-hundred years of exile, Sméagol had forgotten. Too eager he had been to see another creature similar to himself, what he once had been. Too eager he had been to be treated with kindness.

‘And look where that got us, my love,’ Gollum thought. Pling! Plink! Plank!

‘Not my fault!’ Sméagol insisted. The rain turned to hail. ‘We swore, we did, on the Precious! Master was kind. Master was fair. But Master lied. He tricked us, let those ugly men capture us. He betrayed us!’ An avalanche. ‘HE BETRAYED US! So we betrayed him.’ A long slow rumble. ‘We betrayed him.’ A soft wind, morose.

‘We paid him back,’ Gollum thought. ‘We needed the Precious. He knew it. He used it against us.’ The rumble returned.

‘We swore on the Precious,’ Sméagol thought. ‘We swore not to betray him, and betray him we did.’

‘Because he betrayed us! We only wanted the Precious back. We wouldn't have hurt him had he just given it to us.’ The rumbling became a roar. ‘We would have let him and the other one go.’ Thunder sounded, and the rain turned to hail. ‘RAH!’

‘You wanted them both dead, for taking the Precious from us,’ Sméagol thought, and was surprised when instantly the maelstrom of sound ceased. ‘But they didn't take the Precious. The other Baggins did. It was him whose neck we needed to crack, not Master's.’ The rain returned accompanied by a howling wind.

‘All of them needed to crack,’ thought Gollum. ‘We could have done it, my love. Be done with them in the marshes, throw their bodies in the water. No one would know, and we'd be home with our Precious.’

The crack they heard though was that of lightning. This was the most maddening sound so far, for no light accompanied the sound. The dark prevailed, as though in mockery of them, even as they mocked each other.

‘Instead, you wanted Master to like you. You wanted to Master to trust you. Now look at us! We are nowhere. We are nothing!’ Another crack of black lightning. ‘And the Precious is nowhere to be found. He stole it from us!’

‘No!’ Sméagol thought, though what he was denying he could not be sure. He wanted the deafening noise to stop, to go away. ‘We betrayed him.’ It had worked before, and it worked again now. The soft, wistful wind returned. ‘We betrayed him. He... did not betray us?’ The calm continued.

‘He did! Gollum! He lied to us! He took the Precious from us and used it against us! He hated us!’ Thunder, crack of lightning, hail and howling wind returned in an instant. ‘We did everything he asked, showing him secret ways into Mordor, and still it was not enough to please him. He... He... We fell with the Precious.’

Memory came suddenly to Gollum. He recalled it all. Biting off the master's finger, dancing with joy, the Ring in his hands, and the fall... not to the ground, but into the lava! Into the fire!

‘RAH! He waited, he did. He waited for us to take the Precious back and then he pushed us into the fire! He killed us!’

The racket was so loud now that not even his shouted thoughts of accusation could be heard over the torrent. The storm filled the space entirely, pushing against the fabric of the ether, trying to get out only to be pushed back, back onto them, a blanket of suffocating contempt.

‘NO!’ Sméagol thought. ‘We betrayed Master.’ Silence followed and Sméagol sighed with what was left of his being. ‘We promised not to hurt the Master, on the Precious we did this. Master was kind. Master trusted us.’

‘They would have killed us,’ Sméagol returned. ‘Master was... saving us.’

‘No. Not to kill us, never to kill us, my love,’ Sméagol said. ‘He wanted to save us, Precious. And we betrayed him. We were warned, my love. The Precious warned us not to betray him, that It would destroy us if we tried to take It from him.’ A humming began beneath the whisper of the wind, low, almost indiscernible but ever present. It seemed to confirm this thought, to approve of this connection made far too late.

‘So the Precious wanted to be thrown in the fire, my love?’ Gollum scorned. ‘No, my love. Master tricked us.’

‘NO!’ Sméagol thought before the roaring could return. ‘No! You tricked us.’

‘You tricked us. You came to us after the Precious. You told us to do things we shouldn't have done. You got us kicked out of our home!’ The humming stopped and howling wind returned. ‘No, no! No, we tricked ourselves!’ Silence returned, waiting. ‘We tricked ourselves. We thought if no one could see us, then we weren't really doing tricksy mean things. Only they saw it anyway. They saw us and threw us out. It was our fault. My fault.’

The humming grew louder, but not unpleasantly so. Sméagol bathed in the warmth of the sound, low and long, a slow ripple of understanding.

‘Master was kind. We betrayed him. We were the tricksy ones. We brought ourselves here. From the moment we saw the Precious, and all because of our guilt. We killed Déagol, my love. We had to think we were better, clever, stronger, or we'd be crushed under the guilt. I was lonely. I didn't have my friend anymore. And it was all my fault. My fault, precious.’ The wind seemed to lift Sméagol, to carry him, though he was aware that there was nothing of him to carry anywhere.

‘No!’ Gollum thought, anguished. ‘You can't leave us!’ He too seemed to sense the shift, the change in Sméagol. ‘We are tricksy, but only because others were tricksy with us.’

‘The smelly ranger dragged us through the marshes. That crotchety old wizard asked too many questions. Those mean, nasty elveses kept us locked up.’

‘Because we deserved it, my love,’ Sméagol thought. ‘We couldn't answer their questions. We tried to be tricksy. We couldn't come with them nicely. We had to fight them. The elveses let us outside, let us climb the trees.’

‘YOU hates the trees. I always liked them, before. And Master was kind to us, and we betrayed him. We let Her bite him, and then we bit him, and stole the Precious from him after It warned us not to. It is our fault! Our fault! Can Master forgive us?’

‘Master's and his friend's, for hitting him and trying to strangle him. He didn't trust us, he didn't hide it, and he shouldn't have. He was honest with us always, but even when he'd rather strangle us he was kind. His words were harsh, but his actions gentle. He did not tie the rope very tight at all, my love. He could have killed us on the mountain, but he didn't.’

‘Master only wanted us to show him ways into Mordor. We could have left then. He said so. Please, Master, forgive us. Forgive me.’

‘Forgive me,’ Sméagol pleaded. ‘Forgive me, Master. Forgive me, Grandmother. Forgive me... Déagol. I am sorry.’

Gollum began to sneer but at that moment something amazing happened. A light, a pinprick in the unfathomable distance, appeared. After so long in the absolute darkness of this space, the light should have been blinding, but it was as soft and gentle as the humming wind. Sméagol's heart filled with the sight of it. Too long, the light had hurt his eyes, even the moonlight had been too harsh for him, but he had now no eyes to see and yet he saw more clearly than he ever had in life.

The light came closer, glowing soft, flickering with a playful radiance that filled Sméagol with joy. True joy! Oh, how could he have forgotten that feeling!

Sméagol tried to move towards the light and found that he could not. He stopped, wondering why this was.

The light began to fade as Sméagol doubted himself. Could that be true? Could no one forgive him? Or... ‘But I forgive you,’ he thought of Gollum.

When next he woke, he was lying in a wide open field of greenest grass. At his head and feet and all around him were fragrant and brilliant wildflowers, filling the air with their sweet scent. He looked down and shouted for joy. He had a body again! His own body, young and spry and tanned with long exposure to the sun, not shriveled and bedraggled from hiding under the mountain. He jumped up and delighted in the feel and crunch of grass beneath his feet, his lovely, fur-covered feet. He jumped up and down and sprinted down the field, singing wildly and freely, laughing with astonishment. At last he came to a stream, and he dipped his hands into the cool, clean water. He drank deep, though something told him this was not necessary here, for he would never know thirst again. Still he drank, for the sheer pleasure of the cool kiss of water upon his lips, for the refreshing trickle as it washed down his throat.

They stood there for a long time, or perhaps mere seconds, before Déagol laughed. “I've been waiting for you. It seems like forever! What took you so long? Welcome, friend!”

He held open his arms and after only a breath’s hesitation, Sméagol stepped into them. They hugged and Sméagol knew he was home. He was forgiven.

Written for Lbilover's birthday, prompted from a question she posed in her LJ some time ago: Why was Sam able to see the Elven rings at the Grey Havens? Was it because he had been a Ring-bearer, or because the rings had faded in power? I offered a third possibility and have finally been able to write a fic for it.

‘Do you feel any need to leave the Shire now – now that your wish to see [the Elves] has come true already?’ [Frodo] asked.

‘Yes, sir. I don’t know how to say it, but after last night I feel different. I seem to see ahead, in a kind of way.’

'And did you not see and recognize the ring upon my finger? Did you see my ring?' she asked turning again to Sam.

'No, Lady,' he answered. `To tell you the truth, I wondered what you were talking about. I saw a star through your finger.'

[Sam] was reminded suddenly of Frodo as he had lain, asleep in the house of Elrond, after his deadly wound. Then as he had kept watch Sam had noticed that at times a light seemed to be shining faintly within; but now the light was even clearer and stronger.

Elrond wore a mantle of grey and had a star upon his forehead, and a silver harp was in his hand, and upon his finger was a ring of gold with a great blue stone, Vilya, mightiest of the Three. But Galadriel sat upon a white palfrey and was robed all in glimmering white, like clouds about the Moon; for she herself seemed to shine with a soft light. On her finger was Nenya, the ring wrought of mithril, that bore a single white stone flickering like a frosty star.

Gildor waited until the hobbits were asleep before gathering his people together. Of his company, only Faeglin lingered behind. The others watched as he stood over the hobbits, stooped and touched the one named Samwise upon his brow. Faeglin said some words before rising and joining the others. Gildor lifted an eyebrow and waited.

“His love of his master is great,” Faeglin said. “To us he swore never to leave his master’s side, though I deem he needed not our request to do so. I foresee that his path will be much entwined with that of our new Elf-friend.”

“Indeed,” Faeglin said, nodding as he remembered the determination in Samwise. “His fëa is strong, and his will resolved. There will be little that can sway him from his path. For him to be companion to the Ring-bearer, he will need to see beyond what is plain to him now. I asked for Elbereth to watch over him and lift the veil from his eyes, so that he may see what he must.”

Gildor startled at this but remained silent as they proceeded down the road. He had been too preoccupied with Frodo to pay much mind to the other perian. If Faeglin sensed something within Samwise to call upon the favor of Elbereth, then he would trust to Faeglin’s judgement. Still, he doubted Samwise’s ability to bear such a gift, if granted.

“He will need to be trained,” Faeglin said, speaking aloud Gildor’s own thoughts. “He is a simple creature at heart and not one to see himself as grand or important. The Lady will be careful in her teaching.”

“Perhaps, but I deem he is willing, for the love of his master,” Faeglin said.

“So it is with all of us for our masters,” Gildor said. “It is in the Lady’s hands now, and his. Come. We must not tarry. Estel awaits us.”

Faeglin did not see Samwise again until some years later, when the last of the Ring-bearers arrived upon the shores of Tol Erresëa. He was not surprised to see a light shining out of the old hobbit’s wrinkled face, nor was he surprised to discover that Samwise had heard the Sea Calling for many years, only succumbing to its call after the passing of his beloved wife. After hearing of Samwise’s many deeds during the final days of the Ring War, he knew that Elbereth had answered his request and that Samwise had proven a good pupil.

He was surprised however when Sam came up to him during his homecoming feast and greeted him as an old friend.

“Remember you I do,” Sam said. “You were one of the first Elves I’d ever seen. I’ve never forgotten it.”

“Nor have I forgotten you. You were one of the first Hobbits I had ever seen,” Faeglin said. “Is Elven Home as you imagined it?”

Sam nodded enthusiastically. “I thought as Rivendell and Lothlorien were paradises beyond imagining, but I was wrong. There’s naught like this in Middle-earth! I think I can even hear the Sea singing!”

“Is it real then? I thought I was just having a fancy,” Sam said. “I don’t hear so good anymore, so I can never be sure.”

“Never doubt your ears when it comes to the Sea, Panthael,” Faeglin said, raising his voice to be better heard.

“Nor my eyes,” Sam said with a wink. “Gandalf, or Olórin as you folk call him, told me about what you did, asking Elbereth to see after me.” He blushed but chuckled with amusement rather than embarrassment. “I don’t know what made you do it, but I thank you. I’m not sure as it did any good, but it certainly didn’t hurt!”

Faeglin studied the perian closely. Is it possible that after all these years, accomplishing all that he had and holding a position that among his own people was considered prestigious, that Sam was still the same, unassuming hobbit he had met that night in the Woody End? Simple and humble he was indeed!

“Her help would have been poorly wasted on me, but I think now, after learning all I have, that she helped Frodo a good deal,” Sam said. “He had a light about him. I first noticed it in Rivendell when he was recovering from his wound. I thought then that mayhap it was something that Lord Elrond did to heal him, but after we left I knew as there was something more to it. He always seemed more alert and energized whenever I saw that light.”

“I had time after luncheon to flip through some of Frodo’s journals that he left me,” Sam said. “He mentioned you many times. Thanks for helping him get settled here.”

Sam yawned and looked up at the stars. “They seem closer here,” he said musingly, then laughed. “Closer than my bed even. I could curl up and sleep right here on the balcony. I think I’ll take a stroll along the beach first though.”

Faeglin offered to accompany him, seeing that Sam was indeed quite tired after a day of travel and merriment, but Sam declined. Faeglin thought to persuade him, but he could sense the Mayor of the Shire squaring his shoulders against him. Though Samwise was ever jovial, the spark in his eyes told Faeglin there was little point in pressing the matter.

“Rose and I would walk by the moonlight, you know,” Sam said in the end. He sighed and stretched his bent back. “It was the only time we had to ourselves. It seems right somehow that the stars are closer here. It makes her feel closer anyhow. Good night, Master Faeglin.”

“Good night, Panthael.” Faeglin watched him go, a small figure against the vastness of the night sky, a faint silver light shining from within him. Sam might be too humble to see it, but Faeglin had no doubts: Elbereth smiled upon him still.

Author's Notes: I used the following elements from the original story: a frantic Pippin, a missing Faramir, an unordinary cat and the great outdoors. This story mentions events in “The Quest for the Hairless Cat” and “Distractions” but it is not necessary to have read those.

The Whitwell farm grew smaller on the horizon as Pippin and Faramir headed down the lane. Pippin led his pony, Muffin, who was loaded with supplies for their two-day adventure. Faramir hugged the targets his father had constructed. Fam would eventually grow tired of carrying them and relinquish them to his father, but for now he was too eager to let them go.

They were headed for a glade just a few leagues from the farm. In this glade, Pippin and his sisters had learned archery, and Pippin wanted his children to have their first lessons there as well. He would also show Fam how to lay traps for small game and tomorrow morning would take him fishing. While some among the gentry scoffed at the idea of learning such things, Pippin remembered too well when he had needed those skills in a pinch, and he wanted all his children to be able to utilize them.

To pass the time, Pippin pointed out the various fauna as they passed. Thanks to his long friendships with Sam and Merry, he knew most of their names as well as some of their more common medicinal uses. He didn’t know how to prepare the plants for use as medicine, an important fact about which he sternly warned his son. When in doubt, seek a healer.

“Is Mayor Samwise really going to see the King?” Faramir said after Pippin told him about the athelas that Sam grew in the Bag End gardens.

Pippin nodded. “He, Mistress Rose and Elanor left just a couple of weeks ago. They’ll be approaching Rohan soon, if they haven’t arrived already, and in another month they’ll be in Minas Tirith.”

He sighed wistfully, wishing he had been able to go. He may not have as many obstacles as Sam and Rose had faced, but with Diamond expecting so soon a journey at this point was simply unthinkable. Merry had been tempted to join the Gamgees, as his children were old enough for the journey, but he’d had sympathy for his cousin and decided to wait until Pippin could go as well. Perhaps he could go in another year or two, when Diamond could spare him.

One thing was certain: whenever he went to Minas Tirith, he’d need to ensure that both Faramir and young Bergil would be old enough to accompany him. Otherwise, he’d return to find his youngest son bound and gagged in the cellar for the better part of a year, his punishment for tormenting Diamond with his whining. Pippin grinned, imagining the scene that must be taking place at the farm right now. If Bergil were smart, and he was, he wouldn’t hound his mother now: Diamond could be short-tempered in her pregnancies.

“Tell me about Minas Tirith again, Da,” Fam said. He loved his father’s stories of the Quest, the White City and the King returned.

Pippin thought for but a moment. Perhaps it was the fact they were going camping that brought it to mind. Perhaps it was knowing that Sam would soon be in Rohan and meeting some of their friends, perhaps even one Rohirrim soldier and his Haradrim wife.

“Did I ever tell you about the hairless cats?” Pippin asked. Fam shook his head, immediately interested. “They are believed among the Haradrim to have been spies for the Enemy, and there are some who believe them to be descendants of the cats of Queen Beruthiel and to have the ability to understand the speech of Men.”

Pippin shrugged. “I wouldn’t know that, but there was really nothing odd about that cat, other than it’s lack of fur. It was a dreadfully ugly thing, all wrinkles and big eyes, but it was as graceful in movement as any other cat and just as proud. When I first saw it, I was astonished! Not that it was hairless but because when I was a lad your Uncle Merry and I had gone searching for one in Buckland. We even camped near the Hedge for a night in hopes of spying one, or at least I had hoped. Merry’d thought he was just making it up at the time, so you can imagine how amazed I was to discover they were real and in Minas Tirith. I immediately took Merry, Frodo and Sam to see it. Sam was suspicious of it, called it an orc cat even and didn’t much care for a cat that needed a sweater in winter to keep it warm.

“A week or so later, an embassy from Harad arrived in the city to breach peace with the King. It was from one of their women that we learned of the cats’ history in the Sunlands. They believed these cats to be agents of the Enemy, for the kings and queens of the Enemy kept these cats for just the purpose of spying. Some even said they could cast spells on you if you looked into their eyes. She couldn’t believe that such a cat could be found in Gondor and was little appeased when she learned that one of our captains had rescued it as a wee kitten from the Sunlands for his wife. She thought surely the captain must be mad or under some spell, and refused to go near the cat, as did the rest of the embassy when they learned of its presence.

“One of the Haradrim men in the embassy was actually a former soldier of Gondor, who had been forced to seek refuge in Harad during the war. Not everyone in Harad was under the Dark Lord’s sway, you see, and he found some that were friendly to us. When he learned about the hairless cats, he wondered if they had any connection with the cats of Queen Beruthiel. She was a dark queen of ancient Gondor who had these ten magical cats, nine black and one white. The white one would remain in the Citadel with her, while the black ones would go out into the City and spy on the people. The white one could see and hear all that the black ones did and reported this to the queen. The people of the City feared those cats and never went near them. Eventually, the queen and her cats were expelled, set sail upon the Sea. He reasoned she and her cats could have landed in the Sunlands and befriended the Black Númenóreans.

“In any case, this particular hairless cat was really a very sweet and lazy cat. If he did spy, it was only for the fishermen so he could snag a fresh catch without having to go and catch it himself.” Pippin chuckled ruefully. “I have to admit, the first time I heard the legends, I was quite pleased to get away from it myself, and every time after that when I saw it, I wondered if it could understand me. Thankfully though, no one in the City could understand him!”

Pippin shrugged. “The Enemy used many creatures for spies. Why not a cat? But that particular cat was good, of that I have no doubt. Even King Elessar liked him.”

He went on to tell Faramir about some of their other adventures while living in the White City and the many people they had met. By the time they reached the woods, the sun was high overhead and Pippin had just finished recounting the marriage of Arwen and Aragorn on the Great Lawn of the Citadel.

Pippin took them directly to the glade to set up their camp. The rest of the afternoon was spent setting the traps, readying the practice field, lecturing Faramir on safety and lastly showing him the fundamentals of using his crossbow. Faramir watched attentively and though he was eager to put the targets into use, he didn’t complain when he wasn’t handed an arrow for this first lesson.

The sun was going down by the time Pippin called an end to the lesson. Tomorrow, Faramir would practice firing the bow, first with flat-ended shafts. If he did well with those, Pippin would graduate him to arrows.

They ate dinner from their stores, and Pippin told Faramir about his own adventures learning to hunt.

“You’re lucky, being the eldest,” Pippin told him. “I was the youngest, and while lasses don’t typically learn to hunt, both Pimmie and Vinca did. Pimmie never did much with her skills, but Vinca had become quite adept by the time I was to learn. She never held it over me, but as we were ever competing with each other I felt I had to prove myself at least equal to her. It took a few years, but eventually, we were nearly matched for accuracy, though she was still the quicker draw. There was never a target she couldn’t hit.”

Fam looked at his father closely. He had only heard his father’s tone become strained on a few occasions and always when he was talking about the War and the Troubles. “Isn’t that a good thing?” Fam asked, for surely the point of learning archery was to be able to hit your target.

“It depends what you’re aiming at,” Pippin said. He put more wood on the fire, his shoulders set.

“Did Mum tell you what Dottie did the other day?” Fam asked after the silence stretched too long. Pippin shook his head so Fam launched into a tale about his sister Peridot, who was just out her faunthood. “She got into the larder and started climbing the shelves to get to the apple preserves! Then she got there, looked down and was too afraid to move. She started crying and fussing to bring the house down, and when Mum rushed in to grab her down, she brought the jar of preserves with her! Then when Mum tried to take it away, she ran and hid beneath the bed.” Fam giggled. “And you know what else?”

“Mum said a bad word when she couldn’t reach under the bed to get Dottie out,” Fam said. “I’d tell you which one, except she made Berg and me promise never to repeat it. I don’t remember Mum being this grumpy when she had Berg and Dottie.”

“Trust me, she was, with all of you,” Pippin said. “I can’t imagine it’s a very comfortable thing to go through. Your mum is amazed that Mistress Rose has done it twelve times!”

Fam yawned. “When will we visit the Gamgees again, Da? Surely we don’t have to wait until Mayor Samwise returns. I want to see Merry and Hammie.”

“We’ll invite them to the farm, how’s that? They can come back to the Smials with us for a time if they want,” Pippin said. “Now, it’s time that someone be in bed.” He saw Faramir to his sleeping roll before getting into his own. They were both asleep as soon as their heads hit the pillow.

Faramir didn’t know what woke him, but he figured since he was awake he would relieve himself behind a nearby tree. He slipped out of his bedroll and took up the torch his father had made earlier. He managed to get a small flame burning from the embers, enough to light a path for his feet. He walked along the edge of the clearing until he reached the trees where the targets still hung.

The night was dark. The quarter moon was already low in the west, and the stars peeked from behind the early spring gloom. When Faramir went behind the tree, he was plunged into near blackness, and his small torch lit only the ground around him. He had expected this though and wasn’t alarmed. Neither was he concerned about the rustling of small game in the brush or the owls hooting quietly in the branches above. What did startle him was the sudden hiss, so near his ear he actually squeaked.

“Get ahold of yourself, lad,” he chided himself. Still, he quickly did up his laces and turned, squinting, into the dark woods. What could have made that noise? It almost sounded like a... “hairless cat,” he finished his thought aloud. Could it really be?

“Perhaps they only spy at night,” Fam mused to himself. He waited and the minutes ticked by. He was starting to think he had imagined the whole thing, his torchlight fell upon two glowing eyes. A thrill ran up his back, tingling the back of his neck, and his breath hitched. He froze, staring back and thinking furiously.

During dinner, his father had gone into more detail about that long ago camping trip with Uncle Merry. The trip had been rather uneventful until that night when Pippin and Merry were sitting up, looking out for the hairless cat. They had seen a pair of glowing eyes in the distance near the High Hay, but the creature, whatever it was, never came any closer. Faramir knew it was silly to think that the eyes he stared at now could belong to the same creature his father and uncle encountered all those years ago. Still, he had heard the regret in his father’s voice that they never discovered what the creature was.

Faramir risked a peek at camp. His father was still sound asleep. Perhaps if Faramir moved slowly enough, the creature would let him approach and not dart away. He had to at least try, and he would be back in his sleeping roll before his father even knew he was gone.

Pippin woke from a wonderful dream about cinnamon rolls, sticky icing and Diamond. He sighed, glad he would be back in his wife’s arms tonight, if she permitted it. She was always so sensitive during her pregnancies, he could never predict what sort of reception he would receive.

“Keeps things interesting,” he murmured to himself. Opening his eyes, blinked at the fog-filled sky and yawned. “Still asleep, Fam?”

Only silence greeted him. He looked at his son’s sleeping roll and sat up when he noticed his son was missing. He looked around the clearing, attempting in vain to pierce through the fog. He felt the sleeping roll - cold. Faramir had been gone for a while then.

Pippin scrambled to his feet and tried to remain calm. Faramir knew not to stray too far, and this clearing was near the middle of the woods, so it would be difficult to get lost. Pippin pulled Fam’s sweater from the saddlebag and set out. He proceeded to circle the glade, calling out every ten feet or so and checking for tracks. He finally found some near the targets trees and stepped into the woods, looking for more.

He found a few tracks on the other side of the tree and headed in the direction they pointed, cursing the fog under his breath. “Faramir!” he called again. “Time to wake up, lad!”

Why had he gone into the woods at night? Had he fallen and hurt himself? Had he just fallen asleep? Pippin wasn’t worried about Faramir stumbling upon one of the traps, as the rigged cages and nets were too small to catch a hobbit lad. He was opposed to using claw traps, a fact for which he was extremely grateful now. Still, where could Fam be and why wasn’t he responding?

He took a deep breath and looked around the woods for more tracks. He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Faramir! FAM!” Over and over again he called. The minutes ticked by until the fog eventually burned off to a cool spring morning. Pippin had circled the entire wood and was panic was setting in. He wondered if perhaps he should return to camp in case Fam was there by now and turned in that direction.

As he neared camp, he called again and heard, to his delight, a far-off, faint pleading: “Daddy!”

Heart leaping, Pippin darted off in the direction of the cry, calling Fam every so often and adjusting his direction when his son returned the call. Step by step he came closer and step by step he felt his anger brewing. He wasn’t sure if he would hug Faramir or strangle him when eventually he found him. As it turned out, he did neither.

“Da!” Fam called a last time. Pippin was standing near a tree with twisting arms and scratched bark. Tangled in the roots was the burnt-out torch. At his son’s call, he looked up into its limbs and laughed. Fam pouted. “It’s not funny.”

This only made Pippin laugh harder. High above him in the tree sat his son, weary-eyed from sitting up most of the night. His feet, hands and clothes were covered in dirt and his curly hair stood out in all directions.

“Whatever are you doing up there, lad?” Pippin asked when he was finally able to speak again.

Pippin looked around but saw not even a sign of a brock hole. “It’s gone. Did it chase you up there?”

Faramir nodded. “It got tired of me following it. I saw its eyes and thought it might be a hairless cat.”

“Didn’t I tell you there are none to be found up here?” Pippin said. He leaned against the bole and dug in the dirt with his toes. “Don’t break your arse coming down now. Your mother would throttle me if you did, and I’d rather she just throttle you for ruining your new hunting clothes.”

“Ha ha,” Fam said. He sighed heavily and after a few moments began to make his way back down the tree. He dropped the last couple of feet and stood up next to his father. “Do you really think she’ll throttle me?”

“You’d deserve it,” Pippin said. He placed his hands on either of Fam’s shoulders and looked him in the eyes. “Don’t ever do that again.”

“Come back to camp then,” Pippin said, placing Fam’s sweater over his shoulders. “I’ll cook breakfast and then we can go to the stream and try to catch some fish for your Mum. Catch enough and she might reduce your sentence.”

The rest of their trip was uneventful, and Faramir wasn’t too upset when Diamond sentenced him to a week of laundering duty instead of a month.

What little energy their restorative sleep had granted Frodo and Sam was gone the morning following the celebration on Cormallen. Aragorn was called to the Ring-bearer’s tent as soon as he awoke. He went with haste and found Frodo and Sam awake but weary.

“We’ve done naught but sleep from what Gandalf tells us,” Sam said, a whisper of a smile on his lips.

The two friends looked at each other then laughed. Aragorn chuckled as well. Tired they may be, but that was only to be expected. Their spirits appeared high, and that was what concerned Aragorn most. He called for hot water to be brought and it was promptly spared from the cooking cauldrons. He set to work crushing the various herbs he kept in the tent for the salves and teas needed. As he worked, he could feel the hobbits watching him.

“We did,” Frodo said. “So you’re king now. I never would have expected it when first we met you, our scraggily ranger an heir to the throne of Gondor. How does it feel?”

Aragorn chuckled at Frodo’s description. “I am not yet king, for I have yet to be crowned. That will happen soon enough.” He paused, considering Frodo’s question. “I thought I would relieved for this day to come at last, and indeed I am beyond description for the Darkness to have passed. I always knew there would be a weight to my burden. I am just now beginning to feel its full measure.”

“You’ll do all right,” Sam said. “At any rate, you can’t do any worse.”

Aragorn laughed outright. Leave it to Sam to put things in perspective. “Indeed I cannot, though I would wish that more could be said of my reign than I ‘didn’t do worse’.”

Aragorn finished his preparations and went to Frodo first. He massaged his temples, neck and shoulders, easing the tension there, before giving him the medicinal tea to relieve his headache. As Frodo sipped, Aragorn went to Sam and unwound the bindings on his feet. He washed the feet clean with a soft rag before applying more salve and wrapping them with fresh bandages. The feet had bled, but not much. Any pressure Sam put on them for the next few weeks would result in some bleeding. So long as it remained minimal, Aragorn was not concerned.

“There you are lads, good as... well, not new, but certainly not worse.” He grinned. Frodo and Sam laughed heartily.

“Well we be getting proper clothes, sir?” Sam asked, easing back in bed with a contented sigh as the salve began to numb his feet.

“Yes, you will,” Aragorn said. “The envoy should be arriving within the next couple of days, and they will have clothes for you that should service you until we return to the city. We will find you a taylor once we are there.”

“So until then, we’ll be walking around in naught but our skin?” Frodo asked. Beside him, Sam giggled.

“I’ve asked the soldiers’ wives to see what they can do about getting you some robes, at least. As you won’t be wandering about very much until it is time to depart, robes should suffice you,” Aragorn said and waited for their protests at the unspoken command for them to remain in bed.

Aragorn lifted his eyebrows, more concerned at their lack of protest than anything else so far. The celebration truly had worn them out. He would issue orders that no one, save himself, Gandalf and Merry and Pippin be allowed into the tent, and then visits were to be kept short. Frodo and Sam were still in need of much rest.

“Rest well, my friends,” Aragorn said. He kissed them each on the brow. “Food will be brought to you shortly. I will check on you at luncheon.”

“The thanks is mine,” Aragorn said, pride filling his heart as he looked up his brave friends. Little in stature they might be, but their spirits were greater than the mightiest of warriors.

For Shirebound - she requested a Yule fic where Sam finds Frodo sleeping outside, but I figure, why should he miss out on the fun? Also, since we weren’t able to witness last night’s lunar eclipse due to the rain, I figured someone should enjoy it. :)

I had woken that morning to an astonishing surprise: Gandalf had come to visit, and just in time for Yule! He had a glint in his eye, as he often did, but this one seemed to me to be quite secretive. He’d meet my gaze over Bilbo’s head as my uncle went back and forth setting the table, and whenever our eyes met, he’d wink. Whatever he had up those sleeves, which were quite considerable in size, he clearly wasn’t about to tell us anytime soon. Indeed, he waited until the following afternoon, when Sam was taking a break from his lessons, before he told us his exciting news. There was to be a lunar eclipse the eve of Yule!

“What’s an eclipse?” Sam asked, and instantly blushed scarlet for daring to speak in front of the wizard. Even seeing Gandalf squished at the kitchen table, bowing his shoulders to avoid brushing the top of his head against the curved ceiling, did little to make Gandalf seem more approachable to Sam. He ducked his own head and did his best to hide behind me.

Gandalf smiled. “An eclipse, Samwise, is what happens when the moon, or the sun, is covered by the other, or by the earth. In this case, the earth will come between the sun and the moon, and when the moon is fully in our shadow, you will be witness to a magnificent sight indeed!”

Sam looked confused. I knew what questions were bubbling up in that inquisitive mind. I knew also that Sam wasn’t likely to brave speaking again. We all waited for Gandalf’s answer.

“I saw an eclipse once,” Bilbo said, surprising Sam and myself. “It was on the way back from my adventures. A great shadow passed over half the moon’s surface. It was quite astonishing. Will this be the same then?”

“I’m not sure I understand,” I said. “How can the earth cover the moon?”

“Oh, that’s really quite simple,” Gandalf said. He picked up an egg, two halves of a walnut shell and an apple. “Bilbo, if you’ll oblige?”

Bilbo took the apple and held it up. I stepped forward at Gandalf’s arched eyebrow and took the egg, and Gandalf held up the the walnut shells, holding them together as though they were still a whole. “The sun,” he began, pointing at the apple, “sits in space. Arda,” he wriggled the shells in his hand, “goes around the sun, and the moon,” he crooked a finger at me and I came to stand next to him and held the egg next to the shells, “goes around Arda. They dance around each other in an unending waltz, and every so often,” now he held the shells directly between the apple and the egg, “they’ll line up. When that happens, the sun will cast a shadow of Arda over the moon. Now, Samwise, tell me: what do you think will happen to the moon then?”

“The eclipse,” I said. “Oh, do you think Master Hamfast will let Sam stay with us that night, if we promise to have him home first thing Yule morning?” I gave Bilbo my most beseeching stare. Sam helped with a little pout.

“I suppose it never hurts to ask,” Bilbo said and bit into the apple. No food survives a meal at Bag End, after all.

As it turned out, Master Hamfast did agree to let Sam stay the night. It took some coaxing on Bilbo’s part and much pouting and hopeful sighing on Sam’s part, but he finally gave in to reason. I suppose it didn’t hurt that I baked him a plate of biscuits to thank him for allowing Sam to sleep over before he even gave Bilbo his answer.

The eve of Yule, Sam stood at the gate and watched his father walk down the lane to Bagshot Row below. He had his coat, as the weather was chilly, and a change of clothes for the morning. His father turned just before walking out of view, and Sam waved cheerily.

“Good night, Dad!” he called and a few moments later, he heard Hamfast reply, “Good night, Sammy! Be good!”

“I will!” Sam called back and bounced up the steps to the porch. He grinned up at me. “So do you really think there’s going to be aught to be seeing, Master Frodo?”

We had beef stew with potatoes for dinner that night, and bread pudding for dessert. Gandalf said the eclipse wouldn’t start until after midnight, so Sam and I went to our beds to get some sleep before the big event. I don’t know how long it took for Sam to drift off, but I seemed to just barely get a wink before Bilbo was shaking me awake again. I jumped out of bed and went to get Sam, who woke with some prodding. He stumbling behind me out the back door. The cold chill of the midwinter air woke us fully.

Bilbo had started a fire in the clearing near the compost heaps. We sat near its warmth and wrapped ourselves in blankets of thick wool. Sam’s nose turned red within ten minutes, but he didn’t complain and held his mug of hot cider in his mittened hands.

Gandalf looked up at the sky. The night was clear and the stars shined brightly alongside the full moon. He smiled. “Ah! It has begun!”

We looked up as well and saw the slightest sliver of a dark curve over the moon’s face.

“I wouldn’t think so,” I said. “It’s always dark when he’s awake after all.”

“Oh, aye, it is ain’t it? Do you think he knows what’s going to be happening?”

“I should imagine so,” Bilbo said. “How did you know about this, Gandalf?”

“When you’ve been around as long as the Elves,” Gandalf said, “you start to see the patterns in things.”

“The moon travels slowly,” Gandalf said. “The usual time is nearly four hours from start to finish.”

“That long?” I asked. It was already nearly one, and I wasn’t sure that Sam could stay awake for another four hours, despite his earlier nap. He was wide awake with excitement now, but that could quickly fade.

Gandalf knew the remedy to that. To pass the time, he told us stories of the Elves, and Sam became so enthralled he forgot to be nervous. He leaned against my side and watched Gandalf in awe as he spun one tale after another. Bilbo chipped in with a story every now and again, about his time spent in Rivendell and some of his lesser known adventures returning from the Lonely Mountain.

Finally, at just past two, as the fire was dying to glowing embers, Bilbo glanced up at the moon again and gasped. We all looked up, and Sam and I gasped as well.

The shadow was now nearly completely covering the moon and in a few more minutes, the eclipse was complete. Rather than growing dark in the shadow of Arda, the moon was glowing a rusty red with a yellow ring around its edges!

“It’s like a sunrise!” Sam said. “There’s a sunrise on the moon! But there’s no sun. How does that happen, Gandalf?”

Gandalf laughed. “If I knew the answer to that, I would consider myself wise.”

“Well, isn’t that amazing!” Bilbo said, in awe. “A sunrise on the moon! The Man in the Moon must be ecstatic!”

“I’ve never seen anything like it!” I said, quite unnecessarily. “How often do they happen, Gandalf?”

“More often than you would think,” Gandalf said. “Twice a year to be exact, though you’re only privy to the winter one. It’s not always a total eclipse.”

“I imagine most Hobbits are sound asleep in their beds by this time, are they not?” Gandalf asked with a laugh. “I’m just glad the weather decided to cooperate.”

We sat, bundled up and watching the moon. It looked quite eery to me, but amazing at the same time. I shivered, though whether from the cold or something else, I couldn’t say. Sam sighed and snuggled in closer to my side. He was shivering slightly as well. The cold air was remembered now that the excitement was over. Gandalf poured us all some more cider to warm our bellies.

It took another hour or more before the shadow began to recede. The moon turned from fiery red to silver-white and black more quickly than I would have thought. Sam yawned and I found I could hardly keep my eyes open.

“When does it happen again?” Sam asked. “I want to see the moon sunrise again!”

“In another year’s time, you might be able to see it again,” Gandalf said and patted Sam’s head. He didn’t say it, but I could tell that he was impressed with Sam’s reaction. Most Hobbits who witnessed such an eclipse would take it as a bad sign - even I had been somewhat afraid at first - but not Sam, who could only ever see the beauty in things. “There’s no point in waiting up for that. Off to bed with you, young hobbit, and you as well, Frodo.”

He pulled out a pipe and Bilbo did likewise. I knew they would be out here talking for a long while yet, so I took Sam’s hand and led him inside to the guest room next door to my bedchamber. I tucked Sam in and fully expected him to rattle on about what he had just seen, but he yawned widely instead.

Hopefully Bilbo would remember our promise to have Sam home before first breakfast, and thankfully we hadn’t promise that Sam would be awake when we took him back.

For Dreamflower, who had requested Pervinca and Everard's first Yule as Newlyweds.

I take my head off Ev’s chest and narrow my eyes at him. Of course, he has that crooked little smile plastered over his face, and his eyes are laughing kindly at me. He does enjoy this, a little too much. He wants me to say the words, say them so he can respond and chase away my doubts. Instead, my fingers find one of his tender spots and pinch.

“Ow!” That wakes him up completely. He rubs where I had pinched him and frowns.

I give him a quick kiss before I slip out of bed and hurriedly put on my robe. During last night’s activities, I had lost track of where my nightgown had gone, but I make sure to always leave my robe on the chair next to the bed. I tie the sash and sit at the vanity. Ev rolls onto his side and watches me as I began to brush the tangles out of my hair.

“Do you have to wear that? You know I love looking at you.” He never worries about saying what was on his mind. Most folk will say the same about me, and for the most part they will be right. There are some things though I like to keep to myself, but in the five weeks since we’ve been married, Ev has heard nearly all of those as well. I am constantly surprising myself with him. To think that only a couple of years before we had been sworn enemies is staggering.

I stop in mid-brush and meet his gaze, a curt response ready on my tongue. The look he is giving me makes me forget all verbal skills I had ever acquired in life. That look lights a fire under my skin. It can melt ice. My heart starts racing and I am tempted to forget hygiene and climb back into bed with him, which is clearly what he wants. I turn back to the vanity and commence brushing.

“You’re looking now, aren’t you?” I feel a little thrill of triumph that I manage to sound calm. I had been aiming for curt with a twinge of boredom, but under the circumstances, I will settle for calm.

Ev chuckles. That one little sound stokes the blaze under my skin to sizzling, the flames of which feel like fingertips caressing all the right places. Damn him. I had been told much about what married life would consist of, but no one had mentioned starting every morning with a tangle in the sheets. Five weeks. You’d think by now we’d be capable of walking past each other without the urge to do things to each other that up until now I hadn’t even imagined were physically possible, much less feel good. Oh, by the stars, how good they feel.

Our first month of marriage had been spent in a secluded hideaway spot, far away from the Smials and away from taunting young pranksters. That first week had been like a windstorm. How we survived it is beyond me. That we even remembered to eat is a miracle in itself. We had actually gone outside the second week, not that our activities changed all that much. We slept most of the third week, having exhausted ourselves beyond endurance during the previous fortnight. The fourth week, we had started making plans on what we will do to establish our new apartment at the Smials. It would have been be furnished by the time we got back, and all our things put where practicality dictated they should go, but it wouldn’t be home.

After a week being back, it still doesn’t feel quite like home. There have been more than a few occasions when I wanted to go to my parents’ apartment and crawl into my old bed, pretend I was tween again and everything made sense. We’ve had tea with at least half the Tooks already and plans to have tea with the other half next week. Everyone still seems amazed that Ev and I are together and married. Or rather, that I am married to Ev. There had never been any doubt that Ev would eventually settle down.

“Aren’t we going to meet Ferdi and Aidan to go hunting for the Yule log?” I ask, determined to keep my mind off, well, everything it seems determined to linger over, including Ev’s smoldering look.

“They’ll understand if we’re late,” Ev says. “Per.” He had told me once he calls me that because it reminds him of a contented cat. I feel like my whole body is purring and the way he says my name doesn’t help matters.

He knows. He has to know. I swallow the lump in my throat that rises out of nowhere and attack my hair with renewed vigor. “We shouldn’t be late. We’ve been late every day this week.” The understanding smiles, the suggestive raising of eyebrows and the teasing whispers that greet us whenever we arrive somewhere late are starting to wear thin.

I finish with my hair, clip it back with the butterfly clips Ev had given me on his last birthday, and go to the washstand. I pour some water from the ewer and add a dash of scented oil. I undo the robe and pretend not to notice Ev watching me in the mirror. “You should be getting ready as well,” I say when I finish. I go to the wardrobe and dress, avoiding his gaze. If I look at him, if I even go near him, we will be late. We will be very, very late.

When I finish, I look at myself in the mirror, nod approvingly and turn away from the bed to head for the door.

Damn him. My skin was tingling again. I know if I stand here long enough, he’ll get out bed, come behind me, brush my hair aside and kiss the back of my neck. I shiver but determinedly open the door. “Don’t dawdle, love.” There is no hope of sounding even close to calm now. “I’ll get a basket ready.” I slip outside into the parlor and close the door behind me. I lean against the door with a sigh of relief. Finally, we will begin a day like normal folk.

I wait until I hear the sounds of Ev shuffling around the room, then push myself off the door and go into the kitchen. I pack a basket with luncheon and make a quick first breakfast of eggs and ham with tea. By the time he emerges, fully dressed and presentable, I am calm once again and eager to go. Ferdibrand and Aidan had wanted to leave by eight. We will just make it if we eat quickly.

“Here you go.” I set our plates on the table and sit down. A few moments later, Ev joins me. He takes my hand as I reach for the sugar for the tea. I look up.

Ev isn’t one for deep thought, at least not this early in the morning, but he looks thoughtful now. He watches me for a few seconds, then asks, “Did I do something?”

“No,” I say, alarmed that he will even think that. Despite my greatest reservations, he has been a model husband, so far. “Why? Because we didn’t start the morning pawing at each other? I just wanted to get us going on time. You were the one jabbering on about the Yule log last night, how you, Ferdi, Aidan and Cedric would go every year since you were old enough.”

Cedric is a sore subject at times, and this seems to be one of them. He drops my hand and digs into his food without another word.

Our cousins Ferdi and Mora are already at the barn, waiting for us. We see Aidan Chubb and his betrothed, Sapphire Banks, coming over the hills from the east door of the Smials. We reach the barn at the same time. Ferdi and Mora have prepared the cart and pony and gathered the necessary tools already. Sapphire carries a basket, this one containing elevenses, and Aidan carries the water bottles. Ev has brought a bundle with him as well. Whatever is in it, he’s been working on it for a week. We add our supplies to the cart and Ferdi takes the pony’s reins.

It had snowed earlier in the week and here and there white patches still stand despite the mild heat of midwinter. A thin frost covers the rest of the land, but this quickly melts as we walk and the sun rises higher. By the time we reach the Woody End, all hint of winter is gone.

We had talked the night before about where we will hunt for the Yule log and quickly decided on the small glen where we had been waylaid by ruffians earlier in the year. I had expected Ev and Ferdi to reject the idea out of hand, but seeing the determination on Mora’s face, wee Cedric asleep on her shoulder, they had both given in far quicker than I would have thought possible. Apparently, Mora isn’t the only one who needs to see that glen.

Mora and Sapphire walk arm-in-arm, and Aidan walks beside Sapphire. Ferdi and I walk on either side of Ev. I take Ev’s hand and he squeezes it gently. This morning’s earlier awkwardness is forgotten, at least for now. I know better than to hope Ev won’t come back to it eventually.

Ferdi concentrates on the ground. His limp is more pronounced in the cold morning air, but as the day warms it slowly improves. He never complains about it and enjoys showing off his scars to the little ones. We had been afraid he would lose the foot after getting caught in one of the ruffian’s claw traps. We had been a long way from help and by the time we got him to a healer, the wound had developed an infection. The healer had been competent and saved the foot, and her apprentice had taken sweet on Ferdi. They corresponded at least five times a week. After the Battle of Bywater, Merry and Pippin had organized troops of volunteers to go through all the woods and copses, looking for traps. They had found many, but there is always the possibility that they overlooked some. No one goes into the woods without a walking stick any more.

We are all full of energy for the day’s hunt and in good spirits despite our destination. As we walk over the hills, Ferdi starts to sing. It is one of Bilbo’s songs and has always been a favorite. The rest of us soon join in, our voices lifting to the skies.

Here we go a rambling
To meadows vast
To rivers fast
Here we go a trampling
Towns go past
The gate at last

Beyond it lies unending Blue
Of dragon lore
Of Elven shore
Beyond it lies Adventure true
The Eagles soar
The goblins roar

Along the way we meet some friends
Man turns to bear
The Elves so fair
Along the way Gandalf portends
The goblins‘ lair
Lobs in the air

To journey’s end we onward stride
Locked into cells
Ring dinner bells
To journey’s end a barrel ride
Oh Lake Town swells
Fresh fish he sells

Nearby the Lonely Mountain sits
A bounty’s share
In dragon’s lair
Nearby the Great Worm sleeps and spits
Fire warms air
Cup took with care

Up in the air worm flies and roars
Lake Town alight
Master takes flight
Up in the air the Bowman scores
Valor and might
His mail shines bright

Now back to home I gladly go
To green round door
And peace is sure
Now back to home, the world I know
The Blue no more
In bed I snore

“Except it wasn’t the Blue no more for Bilbo, was it?” Mora says. “He went off again, didn’t he? I can’t imagine why.”

“Nor can I,” Ferdi says. “Pippin told me that for everything we went through, out there the battles were ten times worse, if not more. Bilbo must have been mad to want to go through all that again.”

“Didn’t Pippin also say that Bilbo’s been living with the Elves all these years?” Sapphire asks.

“I can’t imagine he’s still alive. He’d be as old as the Old Took!” Ev says.

“Oh, I know that well enough,” Ev says with a shake of his head. “I just can’t imagine it.”

“Another song then,” Mora says. “No point wasting time on things we can’t imagine, after all.”

We each take turns coming up with walking songs and within an hour-and-a-half we reach the wood’s edge. The sun is climbing, shortening the shadows of the trees. The frost on the hillsides is melted now and the wet ground ends just a few feet into the forest. The ground is littered with leaves, hiding the condition of the road beneath and making walking even more difficult for Ferdi.

Mora hands out the walking sticks from the cart and we continue onward. The glen is another hour’s walk into the woods, just a few yards off the road. We continue singing, enjoying the crispness of the air and the chirping of the birds in the boughs overhead. When we reach the glen, Ev clears the ground near a tree and tethers the pony to a low branch. He takes his secret bundle and tucks it under his arm. We look around the glen, so tranquil and serene. It’s no more than ten yards wide and in the center, the grass shows bright under the cool winter sun.

“This is it?” Mora asks, looking around the peaceful patch of green. I can see her trying to imagine how it must have been that night when we were ambushed, but she can never imagine it, not really. It’s best that way.

Sapphire and I stand on either side of Mora as she continues her slow observation of the glen. I place an arm about her shoulders, and Sapphire takes her hand.

Ev, Ferdi and Aidan stand in a semi-circle around us. We stand in silence for several moments, Mora and Sapphire lost in their contemplations while the rest of us remember that fateful day. We let the calm surroundings quiet our turmoil. There are birds calling and small game scampering under brush. The sun now tops the trees, shining its gentle glow over the glade, and a cool breeze sweeps through, lifting the curls from our faces, drying sweat and easing spirits.

At last, Mora takes a deep breath and steps forward. “Where did it happen?” she asks. She already knows how it happened, had heard how one of the ruffians had come from behind the trees and clubbed Ced over the head before we even knew what was happening; we hadn’t expected the men to walk so quietly. She had been there when we brought Ced back unconscious. She had held his hand all through the night, fighting sleep, waiting for him to wake up. Instead, he had passed on while she was dozing and she woke to find his hand cold in hers.

Ev, Ferdi, Aidan and I look around the glen, trying to remember how we had been positioned that day. I had been looking to the east. Ev and Aidan had been going through their packs, looking for something to munch on. The others who had been with us were either tending the ponies or watching in the direction of the road. Cedric had been to my left, slipping off to relieve himself behind some trees.

We go to the spot and Mora kneels, reaching into to her dress pocket to take out several small stones. She piles them into a cairn and picks up a handful of dirt, which she pours into a small memory box. She snaps the lid shut and stands, with the help of Ferdi and Aidan. Ev steps forward next and unwraps his mysterious bundle. It is a Yule wreath and he places this next to the cairn. He steps back again and I take his hand. He leans against me and I can feel the small tremor running through him. I had never cared for Cedric much. He had been a pompous lout for most of his life and only in the last year or so of his life did he manage to turn into a halfway decent fellow, most of that Mora’s doing, but he had been a steadfast friend to Ev, Ferdi and Aidan. Had he the choice, he would have gladly taken that blow on purpose to give us the few seconds we needed to ready our weapons. He would have had no regrets over what happened that day, and if we have any regrets, it’s only that he never got to see his son.

Mora wipes her tears away and sniffs back any more from coming. “We may as well eat now before we start the search,” she says and we return to the cart to do just that.

After elvenses, the lads take up the saws and axes and we head out into the woods, walking sticks in hand, to hunt for the perfect tree for a Yule log. We reminisce about previous Yule logs and some of our favorite Yule memories as we stroll through the woods. We’re soon laughing again, and Ferdi starts singing a Yule carol. We sip at our bottles when our throats get dry and when we come a tree that looks promising, we circle it and vote yes or no.

Finally we find a tree we’re all happy with and we all take turns on the two-handle saw. We fell it within a half-hour and we all take up axes to clear the branches. We then saw the trunk into thirds and Ferdi walks back to the glade for the pony and trap. When he gets back, we load the cart with the trunk pieces and branches, then Ev takes the shovel, digs a deep hole and plants a seed. He covers the hole up and we lean against the tree stump to rest.

We eat luncheon, then head back to the road. I start the caroling this time, and once we go through our favorites, we begin telling Yule stories. Ev tells one of Bilbo’s old larks about dwarves and holly, and Ferdi tells the one about The Scrooge of Tookland who was visited by three fairies on Yuletide Eve. Then Mora recites an old Took poem. It is told on Yule every year but no one knows quite why, as the poem has nothing to do with the holiday. It’s simply tradition.

In times of old there was a lad
who looked ‘round him at all he had.
He had him a mum and a dad,
a sis while loved could make him mad,
always she held him when he was sad,
and for all of this he was most glad.

In times of old a lass he found
lying asleep upon cold ground
in the middle of a grassy mound.
Lovely and fair was her face round,
a wreath on her head, silver-crowned.
She woke and sang, an enchanting sound.

In times of old they were be wed
and through all the land it was said
a life contented they both led.
The path to their door oft was tread
by children and friends, all well fed
with pork and berries and warm round bread.

In times of old his years grew long.
Their love grew ever bright and strong,
to each other did their hearts belong.
Then late one night his life went wrong,
he woke not to her lovely song.
He too soon passed for the life beyond.

Songs there were sung of their love true
in all the lands out in the Blue.
Through their children the family grew.
Across the wilds to this land into
which they came where the West winds blew.
Their legacy is these times of new.

Soon enough, we return home and the ostlers come to unload the cart. We go inside to help with whatever preparations still remain for tonight’s Yule ball. The lads are soon drawn away to help chop wood and set up the tables and chairs in the ballroom, while Mora, Sapphire and I are directed by my mother to string the ribbons in the dining room and foyers. The work lasts us until tea. I manage to sneak off to my apartment for a couple of quiet hours.

I get out my sketchbook, which I haven’t touched in months, and begin to draw lines absently. Slowly, a picture begins to take form, a lass sitting alone under a tree. Smiling wistfully, I put a book in her hand and add a lad standing in front of her, a bouquet of flowers clutched behind his back - the day Ev declared himself to me. I still have the card that came with the bouquet. “To the loveliest shrew I ever knew,” it reads. I remember sitting there, stumped and speechless as he walked away, thinking he had made the greatest mistake of his life. It had taken me a whole five minutes to snap out of my stupor and chase after him, eventually catching up with him in the tunnels and dragging him into a sitting room to demand what he meant. I accepted his intention that same day, and my stomach has been a knot of nerves ever since. The last year fighting the ruffians hadn’t helped.

Finally, it’s time for dinner. Ev finds me at the head table and leans over my chair to kiss the top of my head before he sits down. He looks as exhausted as I feel, but he’s smiling.

“Very,” he says. He reaches a hand under the table and squeezes my knee. “I saw Pippin. He wants me to help with lighting the Yule log.”

“What can I say? I have this annoying knack for self-preservation. I can’t say the same for you,” I jibe in return.

I know he doesn’t mean it the way I hear it, but I jerk my knee away from his touch before I can think about it. “My point exactly,” I say, a little forced, and kiss his cheek.

After dinner is the Yule ball. It is wonderful to see Pippin on stage, playing his lute, when last year we had thought to never see him again. Mora comes over with wee Cedric. Already, he’s a split image of his father, another heartbreaker in the making. He’s passed around from one set of arms to another and by nine o’clock, he’s fast asleep on his grandfather’s shoulder. Ev and I dance around the ballroom floor to all our favorite songs, switching with Aidan and Sapphire from time to time, and even Ferdi is able to manage the slower songs.

As midnight grows closer, the band finishes the last song and we separate into one of three large foyers. I go with Ev to the main foyer, and soon my dad and Pippin are there with us. Ev leaves my side to stand with my father and brother at the hearth. The Yule log sits in its grate, covered with dried flowers. Pippin stands at least half a head taller than Ev, who up until a few months ago had been the tallest hobbit in the Tooklands. Pippin gives Ev a nod and Ev readies the striker and flint.

The lighting of the Yule log is the same every year, but even so this year is special in a way it had never been before. We’ve seen how quickly we can lose our freedoms, and how easily we can take them back. If not for the last year of Troubles, we will not now know how truly blessed we are.

Pippin steps forward but what he says is not the traditional speech. “The third age of this world is coming to its close. The Dark Lord has been defeated and the King has returned to his throne in the South. Many lives were lost in the battle to rid Middle-earth of the Menace and now for the first time there is indeed Hope for the future. May the days of peace be unending.”

Only a handful of us really understand what he said, but we all clap. I see many folk exchanging glances, clearly wondering what is coming next. Then Pippin nods at Ev again and I pause in mid-clap.

Ev steps forward next to Pippin. It is tradition for the Took or his heir to give the Yule speech. For Ev to say it instead means that Da and Pippin recognize him as a leader in equal standing. I can see that Ev is nervous, though no one else will be able to notice. He cannot possibly forget the words, but I find myself holding my breath all the same.

“We gather this night to give thanks for the old year and to welcome the new. For this year, we give thanks for the many blessings we have enjoyed, and we go into the new year with the remnants of the old.” He lets out a small puff of air, then turns and lights the fire to much applause. The flame catches on the dried flowers and slowly spreads to the log. Within minutes, the flame is high in the hearth and the room is filled with the scent of the flowers.

I throw my arms around Ev’s neck and reach up on my tiptoes to kiss him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

I kiss him again and snatch Pippin’s shirtsleeve as he’s walking by. “Thank you, Pip.”

“Merry Yule, Pigeon,” I say. It’s an old nickname he used to deplore, but he grins now and kisses my cheek. Then he and Da are off to the other foyers to the light the logs there.

“Sleep,” he answers, yawning. He slips an arm around my waist and we head for our apartment, eager for bed.

I sleep soundly through the night and wake early the next morning to find the spot beside me empty. I sit up instantly and look around the room, but Ev is not there. “Ev! Ev!”

I sink back into the mattress and wait. A few minutes later, he enters the room with a tray in hand. He’s wearing his robe and seems to have come from the main kitchens, where he had wrested us a couple of pieces of Yule cake and a tea service. A small box sits on the tray as well. He puts the tray on the bed beside me, takes off his robe and slips back into bed. He hands me the box.

Grinning, I untie the lace and open the box. The inside is stuffed with shredded, used parchment. I raise my eyebrows at him. He grins in return. I turn the box over and shake the box until it’s empty then dig through the parchment pieces until I find it. It’s a small pendant of colored glass, shaped like an hellebore blossom, my favorite flower and the ones Ev had given me the day he told me he loved me. He picks up the lace, slips the pendant through one end and ties it around my neck. He kisses my shoulder, sending shivers down my spine.

“My turn,” I say. I reach into the drawer of the beside table and hand him a wrapped parcel, the size and shape of a small, thin book.

He tests the weight before he unwraps the cloth. It’s a sketch I had drawn last year when we were first courting. He had fallen asleep under one of the birch trees outside, and he had looked so handsome that the image stays with me even now.

He laughs. “I love you.” He cups my face, his expression so tender I feel like crying. “So much.”

He hands me a piece of cake and we eat and drink our tea. He puts the tray on the bedside chair after we’re done, then lifts his eyebrows in question. “Are we at risk being late anywhere today?”

Only that isn’t the question that he’s asking. I sigh. “I suppose we’re not.”

“Do you want to tell me what you meant then, about never thinking you would be here? Here with me or here at all?”

“Most of the time I do. Sometimes I wonder though, why me? You could have picked any lass and she’d have said yes in an instant.”

“I wanted you. You challenge me and excite me, and I never know what to expect from you. You’re my match, Per.” He thumbs the tear the falls from my eye and kisses my cheek. “Do you think I never wonder why you chose me?”

“I didn’t exactly have any other prospects,” I say. He gives me a half-smile. I swallow and clear my throat. It is true enough, but that isn't the reason and we both know it. "I chose you because you’re sweet and you’re kind, and you’ve never let me down. You’re my match.”

“Perfect.” He kisses my lips. “Now, I want to see you wearing your pendant.”

“Only your pendant.” He pins me down with a smoldering look and kisses me again.

My body starts humming and I know already we’re going to be very late for first breakfast, possibly even second. Damn him.

Sneezing, wheezing, shivering, cold and sweaty forehead. Even Sam could no longer deny what everyone else had seen coming for the last week. He was ill, an uncommon occurrence for him, and he was going to have to miss the meeting with the shirriffs in Frogmorton. Rose didn’t say it, but her expression that morning when she was awakened by his explosive sneezes made it clear that he should have listened to her on Trewsday. It was traveling to Michel Delving and back that did it to him. If he had stayed home and rested that day, he wouldn’t be laying here miserable now.

He listened to the high chiming of his children’s voices in the kitchen. Goldilocks was crying, Rosie-lass was complaining about something, Merry-lad and Pippin-lad were attempting to talk over their sister. Sam wondered where Elanor and Frodo-lad were. They should be helping Rose. He was getting ready to pull himself out of bed when a sudden silence ringed through the smial. Either Goldilocks and Rosie-lass were being seen to or first breakfast was being served.

Sam sank back into his pillows and tried to ignore the dull throbbing in his head. He pulled the blankets tighter around himself and willed the fire to stir itself. It didn’t. He closed his eyes, wishing Rose had opened the curtains before leaving. He’d open them himself but then she would know he’d left the bed. He was under strict orders to leave the bed only for the chamberpot. Not even the privy. Suddenly, walking more than five feet was deemed beyond his capability. He knew better than to argue.

A few more minutes passed and the door opened. Sam peeked and saw Rose carrying a tray. He sat up, his stomach grumbling eagerly. A true sign of how ill he was, he hadn’t realized he was hungry until now. Rose set the tray over his lap and propped up his pillows so he could sit comfortably. She draped his robe over his exposed shoulders and opened one curtain, letting in some light. She added a couple more logs to the hearth and prodded the fire back into life.

Sam watched her from the corner of his eye as he concentrated on his food: porridge with honey, toast spread with bramble berry preserve, and tea. Medicinal tea. Sam managed to swallow it without gagging or scrunching up his nose. He should have expected it, but the bitterness of the herbs tasted even sharper than usual after the sweetness of the porridge and toast.

Rose kissed his brow before leaving again, closing the door softly behind her. He ate his food and dutifully drained his cup. He placed the tray next to him on the bed and lay down again.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, but the next time he woke, both curtains and windows were open, a warm spring breeze wafted into the room, and the hearth fire had dwindled to embers. Rose sat in the rocking chair, mending clothes over an expanding belly. Sam watched her for a few moments, awed as always by her loveliness. Feeling his gaze, Rose looked up and smiled warmly.

“There you are,” she said. She set down her mending and came to his side. “Feeling better?”

Sam nodded but was immediately given away by a thunderous sneeze. Rose withdrew a handkerchief from her dress pocket and wiped his brow and nose. She poured him some water, then left to bring him some more of the medicinal tea, which he drank without complaint. While he struggled with the tea, Rose disappeared again, returning a few minutes later with his portable writing table. She settled this over his lap and snapped down its legs. From her never-ending pockets she pulled a stack of correspondence to which Sam had been meaning to reply.

“Where are the children?” Sam said, realizing belatedly why the smial was so quiet.

“I sent them off to Tom and Marigold’s,” Rose said. “They’re going to help them make baskets for the Spring Feast. They’ll be back for supper.”

Rose arched an eyebrow but smiled. “Not that you’re any good to me at the moment.”

Sam chuckled, for she was right of course. By the slant of the sunlight, it had to be near midmorning, and yet after all that sleeping he was still tired. Even if he could persuade her into bed, he’d likely be conked out again before he could do anything about it. Better to reserve his energy and work on his correspondence. He did manage to get a kiss from her before she returned to the chair and her mending.

Sam flipped through the stack of mail and saw that she had brought him only his personal missives. No business for the Mayor today. There were the usual letters from Merry and Pippin, as well as some letters from Halfred and Hamson - Sam recognized the scribes’ handwriting as well as he did his own. There was a rather thick letter from Diamond - not unusual as she tended to fill in the many gaps left by her husband - and even a note from Robin. And far down at the bottom, letters from Outside. Sam grinned, recognizing Strider’s hand, as well as Faramir’s and Beregond’s. There were even a few letters from Rohan. Eagerly anticipating news from afar, Sam began with the topmost letter and slowly, between fits of napping and sneezing, made his way through the pile.

Rose kept him company most of the day, disappearing only to fix him luncheon and tea. She listened as he read some of the news from the various letters and reminded him of accounts for putting into his responses. When he napped, she removed the table so it wouldn’t disturb his tossing, and when he woke, she rearranged the sheets and pillows around him. She brought him a stack of clean handkerchiefs and found things to do around the smial when he needed to use the chamberpot.

After tea, she remained in the kitchen to prepare dinner and the smells of boiling meat drifted down the tunnel to tease Sam’s nose and belly. He must be feeling better, for he was as hungry as ever. On the other hand, for all his sleeping, if he closed his eyes for any length of time he knew he’d be asleep for the rest of the night. He concentrated on his letter to Strider, determined to stay awake long enough for dinner.

When he heard his children return and the sounds of the table being set in the dining room, Sam snuck out of bed, washed at the basin and comb his hair back. He didn’t have the energy to change from his sleeping gown and saw no point in doing so in any case. He tiptoed down the tunnel and peeked into the dining room to see Elanor securing Goldilocks in her highchair and Rose serving the meal.

Goldilocks squealed when she saw Sam. This was followed by a chorus of Da-da’s, Daddy’s and Sam-dad’s as his children greeted him good evening. Sam kissed them all on their heads and met Rose’s eyes. She frowned but pulled out his chair and retrieved his plate from the bed tray she had set on the hutch. They all sat and Sam listened happily as his children told him about their daily adventures. The food tasted delightful and the ale went down cool and sweet.

Rose shooed him back to bed as soon as the meal was done, handing him a deep mug of the medicinal tea before he could make his escape. He went to bed, drank the tea and settled down, his eyelids already heavy. He was just regretting missing the children’s nighttime story when a soft knock sounded on the door.

“Come in,” he permitted and in came his children, Elanor carrying Goldilocks. They climbed up on the bed with him and Goldilocks crawled over to Sam’s lap. “It’ll have to be a short one. I’m afraid I’m right tuckered out.”

“No, Sam-dad,” Elanor said and took a book that Merry-lad had been hiding behind his back. “We’re going to read to you. Just lay back, close your eyes and we’ll tell you the story of Farmer Giles of Ham.”

Sam chuckled, closed his eyes and settled into his pillows as his children began the story. Try as he might, he was fast asleep before the giant got an arrow in his eye. He didn’t stir until a couple of hours later when Rose climbed into bed next to him. He managed just enough energy to return her kiss and pat her hand. She cradled him from behind and lulled him back to sleep by running her fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp, and humming gently.

He didn’t stir again until dawn and he wasn’t surprised to discover he already felt ten times better. A day at home with his wife and family was all the cure he needed.

I’ve not seen her since the day before last. It’s all I can do to keep from walking up to that carriage and opening the door. Finally, it opens and I hold my breath, waiting. I’ve an absurd fear she won’t be inside, but it’s for naught of course.

She steps out, takes her father’s hand. Her feet touch the ground and her eyes are on me. She’s as bright as day in her yellow dress. The white ribbons in her golden curls match the trim of her dress. I’ve never seen her so lovely, so radiant. Even the Lady Galadriel would pale next to her.

With each step she takes, I feel the tension slip away. By the time she’s standing next to me, I feel myself grinning, glowing. I take her hand, and it’s as clammy as my own. We hold on tight, and it hits me all of a sudden. I’m about to marry my best friend, my dearest cousin. It’s been coming for months, but somehow, only in this moment does it seem real. Or even possible. I had been so sure it would all end in Mordor. But no, I won’t think of that today.

I hold her gaze throughout the ceremony, hardly knowing when I’m talking. I hear her speak, in sounds rather than words, soft and melodious, like a gentle, meandering brook. Then we’re kissing. Her lips touch mine and all fades away. I put my arms around her. My Rose. My wife.

A little background: In my story Distractions, the hobbits discovered that Aragorn had withheld information from them regarding Arwen, namely that she would soon be arriving to marry him. Rather than tell Aragorn that they knew about his secret, they devised a scheme in which they invited some barmaids to a ball honoring the visiting Haradrim so that the barmaids could entertain Aragorn.

This is for Dreamflower, who wanted a follow up on the barmaids’ perspectives. This story takes place between chapters 24 and 26-28 of Distractions. Some of the dialogue and text comes from those chapters.

A Night at the Ball

Minas Tirith

21-22 Forelithe, 1419 SR

“So, what are you and your friends doing tomorrow night? Would you like to go to a ball?”

I of course assumed Sir Meriadoc was merely jesting. He was well in his pints by then and while it does seem true that hobbits hold their liquor more successfully than do men, surely such a large amount of hops would impeded even a hobbits’ senses.

My sister Isolda and I shared a laugh over it in the kitchen. “Can you imagine it, Laine?” Isolda said, wiping tears from her eyes. “The periain truly are jesters!”

Marja and Esti merely shook their heads and returned to the common room with their trays of drink and food. I couldn’t imagine it. To think, a bar wench in the High Court attending a royal ball? Serving at one would be a stretch in itself, but attending? What a lark!

The joke was on us however. Sirs Meriadoc and Peregrin found us at the end of our shift as we were preparing to leave. They grinned up at us toothily. For all their drinking, they seemed remarkably clear-headed, but I’ve known men who don’t show their drunkenness either.

“So, ladies,” Sir Peregrin said in that lilting accent that made it sound as though his words were curling in upon themselves. “Have you thought about Merry’s proposal. We do need to bring a guest with us, and Sam and Frodo will need a guest each also. So how about it?”

“You’re serious?” Isolda asked.

“Of course we are,” Sir Meriadoc said. “There is one condition though.”

“What’s that?” Marja asked.

“While you’ll be going with us, your primary task will be to keep Strider company and entertain him,” Sir Peregrin said.

“Strider? Who’s Strider?” Esti asked uncertainly.

“I’m sorry,” Sir Meriadoc said. “We mean Aragorn, the King.”

“The k-king?” I asked, nearly choking on the word. They called the King Strider? They wanted us to entertain the King? At a royal ball?

I could see similar thoughts going through my sister’s and friends’ minds as well. Marja narrowed her eyes at the periain. “Of what sort of entertainment were you thinking?”

“Strider has been close with us, keeping secrets he ought not to keep,” Sir Meriadoc said. “And for that, he must pay.” They both grinned innocently. “Nothing too scandalous. We wouldn’t want your fair reputations tainted after all. Just flirt with him a little, like you do the lads here, and keep him company during the feast. I’m sure he’ll be more than gentlemanly enough to dance with each of you, which will keep all the other ladies from fawning all over him as is their wont. You may even get to dance with Faramir as well. The food is delicious, and I’m sure the Haradrim will put on an excellent show, just as they did for their welcoming feast.”

“I don’t know,” Isolda said, but I could see the excitement in her eyes. No doubt, that excitement was mirrored in my own eyes, as they were in Marja’s and Esti’s. “Flirt with the King? We wouldn’t get in trouble for that?”

“Of course not,” Sir Peregrin said with a dismissive flap of his hand. Trouble wasn’t even a thought apparently. Or rather, trouble was the thought, but of a different sort entirely. “It’s just a lark, and he’s a marvelous sense of humor. He’s an excellent dancer, or so we assume, having never seen him dance before. He is quick and sure on his feet; we can attest to that, having seen him in battle many times. What’s more, he’s been bathing regularly since returning to the city, so you’ve nothing to worry about in that regard.”

“Oh,” Esti said, which summed up our thoughts on this last declaration quite neatly.

“The feast begins at seven, but we will be arriving at five, which means you’ll need to be at our house by four-thirty at the latest.” Sir Meriadoc fished in his pockets for a scrap of paper. This revealed itself to be their address on the fifth circle and directions on how to find it. “We’ll see you then.”

“We’ll sort out who’s attending with whom once you get there,” Sir Peregrin said. They bowed gallantly and left.

The door closed behind them and we stared at each other, rapidly coming to the same conclusion.

“Do we dare go?” Esti asked. Yes, in other words.

“We’ve nothing to wear for such a high function,” Isolda said. But that wouldn’t stop us.

“I don’t even know how to curtsy,” I said. I’d have to learn, obviously.

Marja took the directions from Isolda and stared at the parchment. “Ladies, we shall have to make attendance with Lady Enora tomorrow.”

“Sir Meriadoc said nothing scandalous,” I reminded her.

“She has respectable dresses, Laine,” Marja said, “and we want to look good for the periain.”

Isolda took the directions back. “Oh, to dance with the King!”

“What sorts of secrets do you think he’s keeping?” Esti asked, standing on her tiptoes to look over my sister’s shoulder at the parchment.

“That’s not our concern,” Marja said. “We shall meet back here at seven in the morning. Agreed?”

We agreed and slipped out the back door. We separated in the alley, heading for our homes. Our beds were calling, but I doubted any of us would be sleeping much that night.

Lady Enora was the wife of Sir Baragon, an old and highly respected knight. Eyebrows had raised when he announced their engagement; Lady Enora had been working in a bordello at the time. She proved herself capable of conforming to high-class society, even if she was not accepted in all circles at first. She persisted, and being the wife of Sir Baragon, it was difficult for the other ladies to rebuke her for long. She attended the functions as she was expected to and now had a handful of ladies she considered true friends in the court.

Isolda and I sometimes worked for her, serving drinks and dainties at parties that Sir Baragon holds in his home. Sometimes we went simply to visit and enjoy her company. When not pandering to the court, she was a bawdy and delightful presence, and the stories she told about some of the lords were enough to make your ears burn.

We went to see her right after breakfast, and she wasted no time in getting us into dresses. She had an expert eye for size and coloring and pulled out dresses that would match each of us. She commanded her own seamstress, a withered looking woman who was stronger and quicker than she looked. She had us in and out of the dresses faster than we could have managed on our own. She paraded us around the house for Lady Enora’s inspection, so we could get a feel for the way the dresses moved and so she could analyze us in different types of lighting. Once Lady Enora gave her approval, we were marched back to the seamstress’s quarters, where she took measurements and pinned back the dresses where they would need to be altered.

By the time we left the seamstress, in naught more than our undergarments, Lady Enora had called upon some of the young women from Madam Philomena’s Red Velvet House. They wasted no time in sitting us before the washing tubs and going to work. We didn’t even have time to protest and before we knew it, we were washed, our hair was dripping wet and shiny, and the lasses were standing back, examining us with calculating eyes. Then they sat us in front of the vanity and set to drying and combing our hair.

“Are you really going to get to dance with the King?” “I saw the Ring-bearer once in the market. I couldn’t bring myself to even speak to him. Have you decided which one will be going on his arm?” “Will you be dancing with the periain? How will that work out, I wonder.” “Do you think you shall meet a lord and fall in love? Wouldn’t that be grand!”

The comments and questions swirled around us as we sat there like porcelain dolls being preened by daydreaming girls. I understood their amazement only too well. I still could hardly believe it was true. I imagined turning up at the periain’s house only to discover it was all some terrible misunderstanding, or they’d found more appropriate companions for the evening’s festivities.

The seamstress delivered the altered dresses as we were finishing luncheon. She frowned when she discovered we had eaten since her fitting that morning, as if we had done some ghastly unthinkable thing, but Lady Enora merely laughed. “They may not be working it off, but they’ll still fit in them,” she said cheekily. Isolda, Esti, Marja and I blushed but the other lasses laughed and followed us into the bedchamber to help us into the dresses.

“Beautiful!” “Stunning!” “That’s a neat fit!” “The ladies had best keep a firm grip on their lords tonight.”

“Can we see?” I asked.

“Of course, Miss Laine,” Lady Enora said and ushered us to the three-sided mirror that stood in the corner.

I almost didn’t recognize myself, though the change wasn’t so different. My lass had braided my hair, four little braids, two on each side of my head. The two on top started right at the crown, and the two at the bottom started near the ears, and these had silver ribbon weaved into them. She then pulled the braids back to meet at my nape and clipped them with a single butterfly clip that matched my grey eyes. The rest of my raven hair hung straight and unadorned. She had powdered my face and cleaned under my nails and dabbed scented oil on my wrists and behind each ear, why I didn’t know.

My dress was a white silk with soft blue for the sleeves and down the sides, and plaited into the skirt. White cords wrapped around the sleeves down my arms, both stopping just above my wrists. The bodice was v-shaped, dipping down between my bosom, showing far more than I remembered from my fitting that morning. I blushed and tried to cover myself, but Lady Enora batted my hand away and ordered me to stand taller, pushing my shoulders back.

“Don’t worry about the dresses showing too much cleavage. The Haradrim wear much less than this,” she told me. She added a brooch to the belt at my waist and silver bracelets for my wrists. “You’re a sight to behold, Miss Laine.” My sister and friends agreed.

It was then their turn for their final fittings. Marja’s hair hadn’t been braided as mine had, and instead the top half had been pulled back with a butterfly comb with trailing beads that hung down her back with the rest of her hair. Her dress was the fanciest, I thought, with long lace sleeves of pure white that dropped past her wrists, nearly covering her hands. The dress fit her snuggly, showing off her curves, and a long, wide belt of polished copper plates wrapped around her waist, clipping at the front and hanging down to her feet. A similar, albeit much smaller, necklace hung around her neck, clipping loosely at the base of her throat, the remaining links stopping to just above her bosom.

“This isn’t too... suggestive?” she asked, looking caught between approving and disapproving.

“It’s just suggestive enough,” Lady Enora said. “Believe me, the other ladies will be much less subtle.”

Esti’s hair was similar to mine, though with three braids on either side instead of two, and they were pulled back on either side by a pair of dove combs. Her dress was scarlet, except for a gold runner that went from her bosom down to her feet. The sleeves were attached at the sides with gold cords, leaving her shoulders entirely bare. A wide cut of gold lace wrapped around her waist and almost looked to be part of the gold runner on her dress. Lady Enora finished the ensemble with a small golden circlet in Esti’s raven hair.

“You look a portrait, Esti!” I said and everyone agreed.

Isolda’s hair hadn’t been braided either, but was pulled back by a clip similar to mine. She was a few inches taller than me and had been given a dress with a longer train that would have dragged behind me but on her merely pillowed against floor. Her dress was a soft blue, the sleeves ending in a v-shape on the backs of her hands. A fancy silvery design was sewn into the bodice and a silver chord wrapped around her waist, this too hanging to the floor. Lady Enora placed a silver circlet on her head and had her turn around so the skirt billowed out away from her legs in a bell shape.

“You’re a princess!” I said.

Isolda blushed and twirled again. “I certainly do feel like one.”

“And soon you shall act like one,” Lady Enora said. “To the parlor, ladies, where we shall practice your curtsies. Then I will teach you everything you need to know about dining in high society.”

“What about dancing?” I asked.

Lady Enora laughed. “Just do what everyone else does. You’ll be fine.”

“I don’t think I’ll be fine,” Esti said a few hours later as we made our way up to the fifth circle. We received many curious glances as we walked up the street. Four young women dressed in high fashion walking unescorted is an odd sight. We would have been overlooked entirely in our regular garb, but now people were bowing to us, confusion writ on their faces as they tried to place our faces with a title that refused to come to their minds.

“Why do you say that?” Marja asked. “You curtsied beautifully and remembered all the social cues for conversation.”

“Social cues for conversation,” Isolda repeated, shaking her head. “It seems so... fake. I much prefer saying what’s on my mind. How does Lady Enora put up with it all?”

“She does because she must,” Marja said, nodding her head to a pair of young men who bowed as we passed. “My neck is going to be sore by the end of the night with all this nodding.”

“It won’t be so tedious once we’re at the ball and introduced. Everyone will go back to treating us as they normally do once they know who we are,” I said, not quite sure if I should be relieved or saddened by this. I found the extra attention both flattering and intimidating.

“This is it.”

Marja stopped in front of a two-story house, narrow but quaint, just under the shadow of the Houses of Healing in the circle above. We stood at the gate for a moment, looking at the house. There was nothing to distinguish it as the home of the Fellowship, nothing to indicate that the Ring-bearer lived here. I wasn’t sure what I had been expecting, truthfully, but this common, unassuming house wasn’t it.

We waited for Marja to open the gate and we followed her through to the door. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her hand to the knocker and banged twice. A couple of moments later, the door was answered by none other than the elf, Legolas.

“H-hello,” Marja said, her nerve failing her. She fancied the elf and always rushed out to serve him whenever he came into the tavern.

Legolas smiled kindly. “Good evening, ladies. May I help you?”

“Is that them?” called Sir Meriadoc’s voice from inside the house. He materialized at Legolas’s side and grinned. “Good evening, ladies. So glad you could make it. Please, come in.”

He bowed and motioned for us to enter, which we did. And there they all were: the Fellowship. Sir Peregrin, Lord Frodo and Lord Samwise, Mithrandir, Gimli and Legolas. There was also a pair of older men, workers clearly and from the dirt under their nails I assumed they were working in the masonry. Another older gentleman was also there. He was refined with a kindly face and stood as tall as his frail body would permit him.

I was so busy looking at everyone else that I nearly missed Sir Meriadoc introduce us. “This is Miss Isolda, Miss Laine, Miss Marja and Miss Esti, the finest and loveliest serving lasses at The Eagle’s Peak Inn.”

We curtsied as Lady Enora had taught us to and we all felt a thrill of pride at performing it perfectly. And then it struck us all at once. This was real. We were here, in the home of the periain, with the Fellowship, and we soon would be on our way to attending a royal ball!

“Pleased to meet you,” Mithrandir said, looking perplexed as well as amused behind his beard and mustache. “You lads have chosen a most fetching quartet to accompany you. I admit I’m surprised, and thoroughly delighted, by your choices.”

“We only hope that Strider will be also,” Lord Frodo said. He had that same innocent expression his cousins had worn when they invited us. “Shall we go? We don’t want to keep the King waiting to receive his guests.”

“Indeed,” Mithrandir said.

Legolas leaned down and whispered something in Gimli’s ear, to which the dwarf grunted and said, “You and me both, my friend.” With that, he led the way out of the house.

We were only to the gate when Sir Meriadoc glanced at his hands and froze. “My gloves. I’ve forgotten my gloves.”

“Fine time to notice,” Lord Samwise said.

“It’s Frodo’s fault,” Sir Meriadoc said.

Lord Frodo shook his head.

“I’ll get them for you, Merry,” Sir Peregrin chirped.

Lord Frodo turned to others and bade them to go ahead of us. “We’ll catch you up once Merry is properly attired,” he said.

Mithrandir, Gimli and Legolas looked dubious at this announcement but after only a brief pause, they turned and continued to the Citadel with their guests. Legolas leaned down and whispered something else in Gimli’s ear, causing the dwarf to laugh with much mirth.

“You hid my gloves on purpose. You wanted me to see those droppings,” Sir Meriadoc said to Lord Frodo. I was startled to hear the ire in his voice.

Lord Frodo rolled his eyes and didn’t respond. Lord Samwise frowned but also held his tongue. I glanced quickly at my sister and friends, though they clearly had no more understanding of the situation than I did. Lord Frodo saw our curious glances and explained, sounding almost bored, “Merry thinks I’ve hidden a rat in his room.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” Sir Meriadoc said, eyeing Lord Frodo with great suspicion.

“Obviously, or you wouldn’t suspect me of it,” Lord Frodo agreed.

“Merry! They’re not in your drawer!” Sir Peregrin called down to us from a window upstairs.

“That’s because Frodo put them in the wrong drawer, accidentally on purpose,” Sir Meriadoc called back.

“That’ll be the left drawer, Pip,” Lord Frodo called up, grinning impishly.

Lord Samwise sighed. “We should probably figure out who’s taking who to the dance afore we get there,” he said, indicating us.

“Ah yes,” Sir Meriadoc said, all thoughts of rats forgotten. “I did ask Miss Laine, but I know Pip is fond of her - she always gives him extra pie. So if it’s no offense to you Miss Laine, I shall take Miss Isolda instead.”

“Of course, Sir Meriadoc,” Isolda and I said.

“Please, call me Merry. Just Merry. The ‘Sir’ makes me feel old.”

“As you wish, S-- Merry,” I said, blushing.

Lord Frodo and Lord Samwise didn’t seem to know how to decide between Marja and Esti, so Marja took charge with swift efficiency. “Esti, the coloring in your gown better compliments Lord Samwise’s attire than it would Lord Frodo’s. I will gladly accompany Lord Frodo, if that pleases you.”

This arrangement pleased the small lords entirely. They repositioned themselves next to Esti and Marja just as Sir Peregrin returned and handed Sir Meriadoc his gloves. “You don’t even wear these past the door,” Sir Peregrin stated.

“No, but we’re expected to at least wear them when we arrive. Don’t ask me why. Big Folk have such strange customs,” Sir Meriadoc said, donning them swiftly. “Shall we? Ladies?”

The periain offered us each an arm, and with that we were off, heading for the Citadel.

Nearly everyone in Minas Tirith has been to the Citadel at one point or another. It was customary to visit the White Tree, dead and withered though it may be, at least once a year. Papa used to take Isolda and myself when we were girls. Every New Year’s Day, we’d get up early so we could finish our chores ahead of time, and then we’d head for the Citadel and the Tower and picnic near the White Tree, pretending there was a shade there to protect us from the sun. When Papa passed on and we went to live with Auntie and Uncle, they started taking us during harvest and we wondered if the White Tree would change its colors. We never ventured beyond the White Tree.

Tonight, on the arms of the periain, we walked past the White Tree with hardly any consideration by our companions and on towards Merethrond. The buildings here were much as they were in the rest of the city, except that many of them were much larger, being the homes of diplomats or the guest quarters for visiting ambassadors. Sir Peregrin pointed out the house where the Haradrim were staying; it stood silent and still, its guests already being in the Hall of Feasts.

“Now remember when we get there,” Sir Meriadoc said, “you’re to flirt with Strider. The more uncomfortable you make him, the better.”

“He deserves no less,” Sir Peregrin said.

“And don’t leave him alone on the dance floor,” Lord Frodo said. “Stick to him like glue. We don’t want him accosted by all the courtesans preening for a chance to flirt with him themselves.”

“Are you really going to tell him this was my idea?” Lord Samwise asked, looking uncomfortable.

“It was your idea,” the three cousins said in unison.

“You know that isn’t what I meant,” Lord Samwise said, blushing deeply.

“Don’t worry, Sam,” Sir Meriadoc said, draping an arm around Lord Samwise’s shoulders. “If Strider gave you permission to spy on him, then he can hardly complain about the outcome of that spying.”

“Spying? On the King?” Esti asked. The horror in her voice matched the one in my mind. Marja and Isolda were equally stunned.

Sir Peregrin considered us for a moment. “Perhaps you ladies could attempt to wrangle some information from Strider for us.”

“No,” Lord Frodo said sternly.

“But... female persuasion and all that,” Sir Peregrin said. “They might be able to get something out of him.”

“No.”

“Besides, if Strider won’t tell us, he’s not going to tell them,” Lord Samwise said.

“Still, he’s telling someone,” Sir Peregrin said, a little pout forming on his bottom lip. “Gandalf must know. And his brothers. Strider’s brothers, that is, not Gandalf’s brothers. So far as I know, Gandalf doesn’t have any brothers. Or maybe they’re all brothers. How does that work, exactly? He’s not doing a very job keeping track of them all. First Saruman, then there’s supposed to be some blue ones out there somewhere.”

“Pardon me,” I said when Sir Peregrin paused for a breath, “but are you always like this?”

“Like what?” Lord Frodo asked.

“So normal and strange,” I said.

“We think we’re normal enough,” Sir Meriadoc said. “Big folk think we’re strange, but we think they’re strange, so it all works out.”

“It was Mr. Merry who took my words and twisted them about,” Lord Samwise said to Lord Frodo.

Lord Frodo smiled gently and patted Lord Samwise’s shoulder. “I know, Sam. Don’t fret. I’ll make sure Strider knows.”

“Thank you, Mr. Frodo.”

“Now, when you flirt with Strider,” Sir Meriadoc said, apparently having missed this last bit of conversation, “just pretend he’s a regular bloke in the bar. That’s how we met him, you know, in a tavern in Bree. He looked rather seedy and unsavory. He tried to abduct Frodo.”

“He did not,” Lord Frodo said.

“He threatened us with his sword,” Sir Peregrin said.

“He did what?” Marja asked, her hand rising to her chest in alarm.

“Oh, don’t worry. The sword was broken,” Sir Peregrin said. “He was a very good guide, actually. Other than Frodo being stabbed by the Nazgul and nearly becoming a wraith, we made it Rivendell relatively unharmed. Our feet were sore for days afterwards though. Do your feet have little tiny hairs like Boromir’s did?”

“What?” Isolda asked. ‘Our King threatened the periain with a sword and got Lord Frodo stabbed, and Sir Peregrin is asking about our feet?’ is what her tone said.

“Try to be sly,” Sir Meriadoc said, ignoring with ease everything Sir Peregrin had said. “Double entendres, innuendos, bat your eyelashes, flip your hair about, all those things ladies do. Don’t be shy about it.”

Esti bit her bottom lip. “Are you sure we won’t get into trouble for this?”

“We’re sure,” all the periain said as one.

“And if Strider should get his knickers in a twist about it, Frodo won’t allow anything to happen,” Sir Peregrin added. “Strider owes him one, on account of the stabbing and all.”

“You’ll be fine,” Lord Frodo assured us.

“All right,” we said and tried not to feel too overwhelmed as we made our final approach to Merethrond, where Mithrandir, Legolas, Gimli and their guests were waiting for us outside the large double-door.

We aligned ourselves into pairs and entered the hall in a line. The first thing I noticed was the noise, quickly followed by the press of people all around. Then I looked up and everything else was forgotten. Merethrond was huge, larger than I imagined. It would easily fit my uncle’s house inside, and Marja’s and Esti’s homes along with it, with room to spare. It was tall as well. I craned my neck back, wondering who would be sitting in the balconies and how did they get up there.

My sister tugged on my arm. “There’s no food!” she whispered in my ear. Or rather, she tried to whisper, but with all the noise, she ended up speaking in a loud hiss instead.

I dragged my eyes away from the balconies, the marble columns and the wooden arches in the ceiling to look at the tables lining the walls of the hall. They were draped in silver cloth and there were plates stacked at regular intervals but no food. On the far side of the hall, opposite the stage and the High Table where the King and his court would be sitting during the entertainment, there were three large fires roaring, adding to the heat of the hall, and servants were tending the meat cooking there. My stomach grumbled unhappily at the delicious smells and the empty tables. We would be fed, but it appeared it would not be served right away.

“Ah, there he is!” Sir Peregrin exclaimed, pointing.

The periain led us through the crowd. Everywhere we looked there were skirts swishing and coattails flapping, people talking and laughing. I looked down at my feet and could hardly see the floor, there were so many people! What I could see of the floor looked to be marble and highly polished. I hoped I wouldn’t slip on it; I felt clumsy enough in these shoes as it was.

“Good evening, Strider,” Lord Frodo said suddenly. I looked up to discover we had come to a stop in front of the King and... Prince Imrahil and Lord Faramir were there as well! I swallowed, grateful no one could hear it. Isolda, Esti and Marja looked equally distraught. Surely, the periain wouldn’t expect to flirt with the King in front of the Prince and Steward! Would they?

By Lord Frodo’s innocent grin - and innocent to periain seemed to mean mischief and mayhem for us - the answer was yes. Lord Frodo continued, “We wanted to introduce our companions to you. This is the first time they’ve ever been to a ball and they were most excited to meet you.”

“Scared is more like it, but we promised them you don’t bite,” Sir Peregrin added.

It seemed to occur to us all that we would soon be expected to perform. What had we agreed to? We giggled nervously, hoping that would mask our horror. “Strider, Faramir, Imrahil, this is the lovely Miss Laine, daughter of Mardin.”

I felt the blush creep up my face and was happy merely to execute a perfect curtsy, especially as my knees felt wobbly and my legs were turning to wet noodles. Then, to my amazement, King Elessar, Prince Imrahil and Lord Faramir bowed in return. “Your servant, Miss,” they said.

Sir Meriadoc introduced Isolda, then Lord Samwise and Lord Frodo introduced Esti and Marja in turn. Marja proved the boldest of us yet again, managing to pry her mouth open to return the greetings. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Your Highnesses,” she said, standing up from her curtsy. And then - my eyes nearly popped out of my head to see it - she lifted her hand palm down towards the King.

King Elessar hardly hesitated at all. He took her hand and pressed his lips to it. Esti sucked in her breath and almost forgot to exhale again.

“The periain have told us so much about you,” Marja continued. “We look forward to getting to know you better.”

At that moment, Sir Peregin cleared his throat and to our great relief, Lord Faramir departed to greet some lord, taking Prince Imrahil with him.

“These lovely ladies work as bar wenches at The Peeking Eagle,” Sir Meriadoc informed the King. “They were worried you would look down on them for that, but we assured them you would not.”

“I have heard many fine things of the establishment,” King Elessar said, smiling kindly. He had a gentle air about him, not surprising really considering the many stories we’ve heard about his exploits in the Houses of Healing. It was blessedly reassuring however. “I had some of the ale delivered for tonight’s festivities. It is a marvelous brew.”

“We only serve it, Your Highness,” said Esti, smiling sweetly. I could see her searching for a flirt, but this was no ordinary man, no matter what the periain said. While a coy comment would flow loosely from her lips at The Peeking Eagle, her mind seemed loathe to think of one now. “Though we are pleased that you enjoy it.”

“Your pleasure is of the utmost importance to us,” purred Marja.

“The ladies have all sorts of questions they wanted to ask you, Strider,” Sir Meriadoc continued. The more I see those innocent smiles of their, the more I’m convinced that is there way of conveying mischief. “I assured them you are a kind and patient King, and you’d be more than willing to give them a good chat and perhaps a dance or two. We leave them in your capable hands.”

With that the periain departed, leaving us alone with the King. None of seemed to know what to make of the situation. King Elessar was studying us with a keen eye. I’m sure he was aware of what taking place. I could only hope he’d have mercy on us quickly. As for ourselves, what little confidence we’d had while the periain had been here now faded, but we had a duty to perform despite our cowardice.

“Tell us, Your Majesty, if you will,” said Marja after several moments. “Do you enjoy living in the city? Is it what you imagined?”

“I have been here before, years ago,” the King said, “but it is not entirely as I remember it.”

“For truth, the city is quite banged up,” said Esti, frowning. She had lighted upon a flirt, but at the last moment couldn’t bring herself to utter it.

Isolda patted her arm. “She was one of the first to return after the war. At least when we came back, some of the rubble had been cleared away. But the Gates. That was a shock, seeing them like that.”

“Did you ladies grow up here in the city?” the King asked.

“Only Isolda and I,” I said. Swallowing my pride, I smiled sweetly. “We know all the ways of the city, all the paths and all its secrets.”

“We could give you a tour sometime,” said Isolda in a sultry voice, picking up my cue with ease. “We can show you places no one else knows.”

“That I do not doubt, but I enjoy discovering the ways of the city on my own,” King Elessar said. “It is much like scouting through the wilds and unfamiliar terrain.”

“A very apt description, Your Majesty,” said Marja, batting her eyes. “We’ve heard that you’re a master scout. If there is any man capable of taming our wilds, it would be you.”

The King grinned and huffed a gentle laugh. Our mercy was to be delivered swiftly after all, and before any of us had to flip our hair. “Ladies, I appreciate your interest, but tell me truthfully. Did the hobbits put you up to this?” he asked.

We nodded with great relief. “They did. Are you upset?” Esti asked, worried.

“Only at myself,” he answered. “I suspect they are paying me back for keeping a secret from them. I will be more than glad to share a dance with each of you after the ceremony. For now, there is food and drink aplenty. Eat and enjoy yourselves.”

“Sir Peregrin said you might try to get rid of us,” said Isolda. “He said we were to stick by you no matter what you said. They all say you’re lonely. We’ll keep you company.”

“That is kind, but not necessary.”

“This is a ball, Your Majesty,” said Marja. “You can spend the night with the four of us, or with every other lady in the hall, and all their single daughters.”

“You make a worthy point,” said the King. “In that case, go and find yourselves something to eat and join me at the High Table. You can meet my foster brothers and get a better view of the festivities.”

“You are most generous, Your Majesty,” said Esti. We curtsied, and just then a bell rang.

A silence fell over the crowd as we turned to the west and looked out the tall windows towards the setting sun. After a few moments’ silence, servants came forth carrying many trays of food and placed them upon the tables. Perhaps it was uncouth, but we were starving, having had nothing to eat since noon, and we quickly stepped up to the nearest table. There were several dishes that we recognized but also several that we did not: Haradrim food. Some of our patrons at the inn had told us about the food and we were quite curious about it.

“Wait a moment,” said Isolda, looking around the hall at all the lords, ladies and other guests. “Where are the Haradrim?”

We hadn’t even noticed, the hall was so crowded, but she was right. There were no Haradrim here, save for those serving the food, and despite all the talk we’d heard about the savages’ garb, they were clothed quite modestly. Now that I could hear some of the others’ conversations, it was apparent they were wondering the same thing, as well as what exactly had happened to the young lords who had been sent here earlier in the morning with nary a word of explanation as to why they were being beckoned. That was none of our concern though, so we merely shrugged and returned to the matter of our stomachs.

Looking up and down the tables, the variety of food seemed overwhelming at first, until we realized it was the same six dishes in a repeating pattern. There was some sort of rice mixed with cherries and walnuts, and next to this a plate piled high with thin strips of meat on long sticks. The meat was coated with a spicy baste and smelled delightful. The last Haradrim dish the strangest thing we’d ever seen, a bright yellow something the resembled a tangled bit of string more than anything you would eat. Next to these were dishes with which we were more familiar: lemon bars, roasted pork with apple sauce and pasta coated with a tomato-and-cheese paste.

We pulled our handkerchiefs from our pockets and glanced about. Lady Enora had told us the ladies of the court ate off their special kerchiefs, or doilies, at these high functions, which we could now see for ourselves. All the ladies my eyes landed up were picking up a few small bites at a time and putting these on their doilies, so they could wander off and talk as they nipped at their food. My stomach grumbled, approving of the little kerchief no more than I did.

Isolda stuffed her kerchief back in her pocket and picked up a plate.

“What are you doing?” Esti asked, hope gleaming in her eyes.

“They wouldn’t provide plates if they didn’t expect us to use them,” Isolda reasoned, and in truth, most of the men were making us of them even as she spoke. “Besides, this is likely the only royal function I shall ever attend. I’m eating the food!”

She started serving a generous spoonful of each dish onto her plate. After only a half-moment’s hesitation, Esti and I joined her. Marja stood there rooted, debating with herself to follow our lead or to continue the charade of a proper courtesan. Finally, her stomach ended the debate for her and we were heading for the High Table with high plates.

King Elessar rose as we approached. The twins were there, one dressed in green and gold, the other in blue and silver. We were introduced to Elrohir and Elladan and we somehow managed to curtsy without spilling our food. We sat as Lord Faramir arrived. Servants materialized at our sides, pouring wine into tall, clear glasses. There was also a cup of some sort of white liquid, which Elladan explained was a yogurt juice that the Haradrim made, as they don’t drink spirits. Strange food and unusual drinks, sitting at the High Table, and being served rather than doing the serving: it was all so overwhelming!

“Tell us something about yourselves,” Lord Faramir said once we were all introduced and eating.

“Well,” Esti said, hurrying to swallow the bite of rice she’d just eaten. She swallowed and continued. “There isn’t much to tell, in truth. We’re just bar wenches, with no tales of adventures.”

“I would think as barmaids that you’d have quite interesting tales to tell,” Elrohir said. “Do not be modest on our account.”

Elladan nodded encouragingly. “Any gossip you disclose here will not leave this table, I assure you.”

We each took a bite of our food to occupy ourselves as we thought. Or tried to think. The food was so grand and delicious that it was difficult to focus on any thoughts beyond the flavor and aroma of our meal. The Haradrim food was quite exotic, with spice that seemed designed to bring out every possible flavor in the food, heightening it. It also burned our throats after only a few bites, but we quickly discovered that their yogurt juice, an odd and bubbly concoction, lessened the burn considerably.

Once I overcame my distraction with the food, I searched my mind for stories suitable for entertaining the King and his court. Tales we could tell, indeed! Fist fights, bawdy songs, certain lords taking rooms for the night for special guests were just the beginning.

“Shall I tell you how I first met the Ring-bearer?” King Elessar asked when none of us spoke. “It was in a tavern much the same as the one in which you work.”

Marja nodded. “You tried to abduct him.”

“Then you threatened all of them with your sword,” I said.

“But it was broken,” Isolda added. “Not an effective tool.”

“That could explain how he got Lord Frodo stabbed later,” Esti finished.

King Elessar gaped at us, Lord Faramir tried to hide his laugh by pretending to drink his wine and the twins grinned.

“That sounds like an accurate retelling to me,” Elladan said.

“We told him to take a proper sword, but did he listen?” Elrohir asked.

That loosened the king’s tongue. “I had a proper sword.”

Elladan patted his shoulder, consolingly. “Of course you did, brother.”

King Elessar bit back his response with much effort, which only seemed to please his brothers more. “So ladies,” he said, striving for calm, “any interesting tales?”

“That we can tell?” Esti asked. “There is the one about Marcus, son of Darwin. He used to fight with the Rangers under Lord Boromir years ago until he... well, that’s a different story. Anyway, he was an extravagant man and quite well liked, but he did have a habit for gambling.”

“He wasn’t very good at it,” I said. “He rarely won and when he did, he’d squander it on more betting.”

“He was always in debt,” Isolda said. “He found a quite ingenious way of paying his debtors though.”

As if on cue, we lifted our glasses as one and sipped long, drawing out the reveal. When King Elessar and his brothers leaned forward, we put our glasses down and exchanged looks meant to convey unease. Lord Faramir simply sat back and waited eagerly.

“He had an uncanny ability to imitate Lord Denethor,” Marja said, “so he would dress up in the Steward’s robes-”

“Which he got from Lord Boromir,” Esti added.

“-and he’d wait until it was dark so that no one could get too close a look at him. Then he’d sneak up on the folk he owed money to and demand that they empty out their pockets because they hadn’t paid their due taxes to the city. Then the following day, he would pay those folk back with the very money they gave him the night before!”

“How long did he get away with that stunt?” King Elessar asked, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Not for as long as he would have hoped, a few days perhaps,” I said. “Lord Denethor found out what he was doing and ordered him to return his robes and repay his debts honestly. All his soldier wages were forwarded to his debtors, and with no coin to wager, he couldn’t accrue new debts.”

“Father had wanted to throw him in the stocks,” Lord Faramir said, “but Boromir convinced him otherwise. He said it would be more productive if Marcus were to repay his debts. Seeing as it was Boromir who gave Marcus the robe in the first place, Boromir insisted that if Marcus were to be put in the stocks, then Father must put Boromir there as well.”

“I hadn’t heard that before,” Esti said, “though I’m not surprised. Your brother was most noble.”

“My Lord,” Isolda said. “You said earlier that you had been here before. I do not recall ever hearing such a tale.”

“I used a different name,” King Elessar said. “I was known then as Thorongil.”

“Thorongil. I’ve heard stories of him,” I said, “but that was during Lord Ecthelion’s time.” My cheeks flushed with heat and I hurriedly drank more wine to keep myself from saying anything more. To think, I had nearly called the King old!

“Would you be so kind as to indulge us with some tales of your journeys, Your Highness?” Marja asked. “Did you really threaten the periain with a broken sword?”

For the next two hours, we shared tales of every sort, from childhood misadventures to the conflicts we endured during the war. King Elessar told us many humorous tales of his years growing up in Rivendell, his brothers adding details now and then. The table was often visited by the other lords and ladies in attendance, and when we finished the food on our plates, the servants came without beckoning to take them away or to offer to bring us more food.

The sun had set and the sky outside was black by the time the Haradrim arrived in grand fashion. The great doors swung open and they filed into the hall in a double line that seemed never to end. The lords and ladies on the floor moved to the edges to make room for them in the middle of the hall, and once they were all inside, the doors were closed and half the candles were extinguished, plunging the hall into semi-darkness, making the red embers of the cooking pits more noticeable. The Haradrim court filed onto the stage and joined us at the High Table. The Haradrim king and queen bowed to King Elessar, who rose and bowed to them in turn.

Left on the floor were the Haradrim musicians and dancers, seven men and seven maids. They formed two circles, with the musicians sitting on pillows on the inside circle, and the dancers standing on the outside.

The maids wore dance dresses with long, wide sleeves and skirts. Six of the dresses alternated between burgundy and sky blue, and one maid wore a dress of red-orange. Wide trim of white lace decorated the hems and white lace was sewn into strange patterns up the sleeves and skirts. The bodice was a block of fabric, a shade darker than the dress, with lace and beads embroidered in four sections of square or chevron patterns. Over their heads were scarves matching their dresses, held in place by beaded circlets, and their feet were bare.

The men, who turned out to be none other than the seven young lords of Gondor and Rohan, all wore beige kilts down to their knees, decorated with a simple belt, beaded the same as the ladies’ scarves. They wore closed vests that matched the patterns and colors on the ladies’ dresses, and tribal paint decorated their arms, legs and shaved heads. They stood in a line behind the ladies, waiting for the music to begin.

A quiet buzz started around the edges of the hall as people realized who the seven men were, and it nearly drowned out the opening notes of the song. The instruments were similar to those the court minstrels played, drums, fifes and lutes, but the sounds were odd and the rhythms unlike anything I’d ever heard before. The music reached through you into your soul, grabbing your heart and your throat, gentle but insistent. I leaned forward as the dance began.

And what a dance it was! I couldn’t begin to describe it in any coherent fashion, but it was sensual and sad and triumphant all at the same time. The ladies would dance around the men, then the men around the ladies, getting within a whisper of each other but never touching. With the musicians a steady circle in the center, the dancers seemed to almost form patterns around them, a star or a square or half circles. The dance told the tale of life, death and rebirth, the intricate music a hypnotic pulse from start to finish. I sat there at the High Table of the Court, but through the performance, I was transferred to the dry lands of Far Harad, under the blazing sun and swirling winds.

The dance ended and the hall erupted in applause. Esti and I jumped to our feet, the others rising more elegantly after us. The performers took their bows in their strange custom, lowering to the floor, their heads on the back of their hands. They rose and joined us at the High Table. More introductions came, and the young lords of Gondor and Rohan sat with the Haradrim, for the evening a part of their court.

A few minutes later, the Fellowship joined us as the court minstrels took the stage and began to play.

Sir Peregrin lifted his chin in the direction of the minstrels. That was all the prompting the other periain needed. “So, don’t you owe these ladies a dance?” they asked in unison.

“I do, but first they wish to dance with you,” said King Elessar, an easy grin lighting his face. “They are your guests after all, and they don’t mind about the height difference.”

Taking the cue our King gave us, we rose to our feet and joined the periain. Lord Samwise looked up at us and sighed, a shy blush creeping up his neck to color his face. “I knew this was a bad idea,” he muttered but gamely led Esti down to the dance floor, the rest of us following behind.

The first song was a step dance. We followed Lady Enora’s advice to do as everyone else was doing and managed to keep up with little issue. The next dance brought the periain to a pause and no wonder. Lords were lifting ladies in half spins and twirls, a feat they could not achieve. Lord Frodo had a thought and asked, “Would you like to learn the Springle-ring?”

“What is that?” Marja asked, and the next thing we knew, we were off to the side learning a Shire dance. It was quite vigorous, with too many steps to keep track. We kept forgetting ourselves or turning the wrong directions, bumping into each other. It was quite marvelous! By the time we had it learned correctly, a couple dozen other pairs we watching us and a dozen more were attempting the steps.

Lords Frodo and Samwise tired after that and returned to the High Table, but Sirs Peregrin and Meriadoc happily taught us many more dances. To our delight, King Elessar, Elrohir, Elladan and Lord Faramir soon joined us to learn the dances themselves, pairing with my friends and myself in turns. The King did prove to be quite a fair dancer indeed, learning the moves with ease. Once Sirs Peregrin and Meriadoc finished their lessons, the King and his court led us out to the dance floor for more merriment. We danced so long my feet soon tired, but I was enjoying myself too much to sit down.

The hours passed without us being aware. At times a young courtesan would attempt to whisk King Elessar away from us, but no matter which one of us was dancing with him, we pretended not to notice her and turned the King away before she could even utter a sound. We could afford to be rude; it was unlikely any of those ladies would recognize us once we were back in our normal garb. At one point, we saw Lady Enora. She winked at us and smiled slyly, highly amused to see us keeping company with the King and steward. We even got to dance with Prince Imrahil, and once they’d had their fill, the periain rejoined us for the dances that they could perform.

The ball ended at one, by which time we were back at the High Table, eating more of the marvelous food and sating our thirst with the ale. King Elessar gave a closing speech, short and simple, to end the evening. We waited as the press of bodies streamed through the doors, making us among the last to leave. We had been well while sitting, but once we were on our feet again we all at once noticed our aches and tiredness. We made our curtsies, and the King bowed to us each, taking our hands for a quick press.

“Ladies, I thank you for a marvelous evening,” he said, sincerity in his words and eyes.

“We thank thee for your generosity, Your Majesty,” we said and curtsied.

Walking back to the Fellowship’s house, the air was chill and a relief to our heated faces. We breathed deeply the scent of the sea, carried to us by gracious winds. We were all chattering to each other about our night, and the periain told us of what the Rohirrim lord had said regarding his involvement with the dance, which apparently was some ritual to join Harad and Gondor in alliance.

We reached the house on the fifth circle. Lord Frodo looked up at us, worried. “We should escort them to their homes,” he said.

“I shall take them,” Legolas volunteered. “You are tired and I am not. I will see them safely to their homes.”

So we took our leave of the periain, Gimli and Mithrandir with more curtsies and bows.

“We had a fine time.”

“Thank you so much for inviting us.”

“We enjoyed the dances.”

“And such marvelous food!”

“Thank you, ladies, for accompanying us,” Sir Meriadoc said.

“Did Strider happen to mention any secrets to you while you were dancing?” Sir Peregrin asked hopefully.

“Pippin,” Lord Frodo said, stern but amused. “Good night, fair ladies. I haven’t had this much fun in months.”

“Aye. If you weren’t so tall, you could pass for hobbits,” Lord Samwise said, a high compliment indeed.

Several more good-nights and farewells followed before we were finally on our way. Somehow, Marja managed to arrange it that Esti, Isolda and I were brought to our homes first, giving her more time with the handsome elf. We took Esti to her home, then Isolda and I led the way to our uncle’s house. We waved from the threshold, then closed the door.

Isolda and I fell upon our beds as soon as we reached our room, not even bothering to light a lamp. The shutters were open, letting in the moonlight, soft and silver. Isolda lay back, drew her feet up, slipped off the shoes and started rubbing her soles. I was humming the chords of the last song that had been sung, my eyes closed, pretending I was still in the Great Hall dancing with Lord Faramir.

“We should take our dresses off,” Isolda said, already sounding half asleep.

“We do need to take them back to Lady Enora.”

“I doubt she needs them back right away though.”

“Hmm...” I yawned, opened my eyes and turned to look at my sister. “Do you think we’ll ever have another night to equal this one?”

“Not unless we’re invited to another ball. I wonder what it’s like for them.”

“Who?”

“The Haradrim maids. They’re slaves but...” I think she must have dozed for a moment because she shook her head with a sudden jerk and struggled to sit up. “What was I saying?”

“Hmm...” Humming was easier than forming words.

“You’re right.” Isolda tugged on my hand. I hadn’t even heard her get up. “Come on. We don’t want to wrinkle Lady Enora’s fine dresses.”

I forced myself up and we helped each other undress, fingers fumbling over buttons as we swayed on tired legs. “We didn’t meet any young lords to fall in love with us,” I said. “I suppose it’ll be The Peeking Eagle for us tomorrow night.”

“That’s their loss,” Isolda said, stepping out of her dress. She didn’t bother with finding her nightgown, but slipped under the covers, pulling them up to her chin. I followed her example after hanging the dresses on their hangers.

“Isolda?”

“Hmm?”

“I’d rather be a barmaid.”

“Hmm... Two pints and a pence.”

I fell asleep with a smile on my face and the music and voices of the Great Hall ringing in my ears.

The end.

GF 12/3/11

This was not the soil of its grandsires. This land was untouched by the Elders, and the other trees here did not speak or sing. There were in fact no other trees near it at all, though it could sense the roots of one that had stood not too long ago where it now grew. This tree had been loved and had witnessed many celebrations. It had heard singing and many of the little inhabitants of this land had dance beneath its bows.

The mallorn grew tall and straight, strong as its forebears, alone but for the withered roots through which its own roots grew, entwining, learning the language of this land and its small people. One of the small ones came to it often. He wasn’t an elf and yet there was something Elvish about him: his sadness perhaps, mingled with hope, faint but ever present. Sometimes, the small one spoke to it, of his worries and fears, especially at nights when he couldn’t sleep. The mallorn was happy to receive his company at any time, not requiring sleep itself, and so it sheltered him during the long night of the Anniversary.

Afterward, the mallorn stretched its roots down deep, seeking all the nourishment it could. It was too early still, but it was possible, if only it could gather enough strength. Then the roots of the former tree gave over its last reserves, and the mallorn soaked them up through its roots, up its bole, into its arms and out to its fingertips.

So it was on a clear morning in spring when its small friend came to visit, he was greeted by the golden blooms of the mallorn, small still for its kind, but as glorious as its forebears, and to its great delight, its friend smiled.

Frodo was reading on his garden bench when he heard the yelp. Setting the book quickly aside, he followed the source of the yelp, which he would describe more as a strangled scream if pushed to it, around the smial to the shed where Sam had been putting away his tools for the day. Whatever Frodo expected to see, it was not Sam cradling his left hand to his chest, a rag held there tight and growing redder by the second. A thin trail of blood escaped the rag to run down Sam’s arm. The offending garden shears lay on the floor where they had landed, a tell-tale drop of red on its sharp blade.

Frodo didn’t waste time asking what happened. He took Sam by the arm, hauled him inside to the kitchen and sat him at the table, ignoring the lad’s protests. “Daisy can see to it and Gaffer’ll be wondering why I’m late.”

Frodo spared a quick glance outside. The sun was at four o’clock and teatime. Sam had promised to be home early to meet Daisy’s suitor. He must have been rushing and not taking proper care of his tools when the accident happened.

“The Gaffer would rather have you in one piece. Five minutes won’t hurt none,” Frodo assured.

He moved as he talked, grabbing some clean cloths, a cup of water and the jar of crushed black pepper. He lay a rag beneath Sam’s injured hand, dipped a cloth in the water and wiped clean the wound. He was relieved to see the damage had looked worse than it actually was. The cut was not deep enough to require stitches, though he would have run down to Miss Camellia’s if necessary.

Unfortunately, Sam realized this at the same time Frodo did. He tried to stand up. “Really, Mr. Frodo, it’s not all that bad. I’ve had worse trimming the brambles.”

Frodo placed a firm hand on Sam’s shoulder and pushed him back into his seat. He then poured a generous amount of pepper over Sam’s cut and pressed another cloth to it. “Hold this here.”

Sam complied and didn’t offer further protest as Frodo went into the pantry, emerging a few moments later with a piece of carrot cake. He dug a fork out of the drawer and set the cake in front of Sam. “Eat up. It’ll fortify you.” He then took over to tending Sam’s wound so Sam could eat.

Frodo held the cloth gently over Sam’s cut, much more gently than Sam himself had been doing. Frodo’s hands were warm, a reassuring weight over the wound. Seeing Frodo’s calm and business-like demeanor, Sam allowed himself to relax and concentrate on his cake. And he did feel much better for having eaten, he had to admit.

Sam finished his cake and watched curiously as Frodo pulled back the cloth and wiped away the excess pepper. “Well, I’ll be!” he exclaimed. “It stopped the bleeding good, and it didn’t even burn none.”

Frodo grinned. “I read about this in the herbal but haven’t had opportunity to use it. Pepper cleans the wound so it doesn’t get infected and it coagulates the blood to stop it from flowing. The herbal promised the pepper wouldn’t burn, but I was worried about that. You don’t mind that I’ve used you as a test subject?”

Frodo took another cloth and wrapped this around Sam’s hand, patting it when he was done. “There you are then, lad. Keep this on for a day or so, especially while digging in the dirt. If it hurts you too much tomorrow, you are to stay home. I don’t want to catch you wincing and moaning in the flowerbeds. And do take care you don’t do this again. You should never rush with sharp tools in hand.”

“Get on home then. I’ll clean up here and finish putting your tools away,” Frodo said. Seeing the protest about to spill out of Sam’s mouth, Frodo put on his stern Master face and pointed to the front door. “Go on.”

Sam didn’t dare argue then. He thanked Frodo sheepishly and apologized profusely, though what he was apologizing for Frodo didn’t even want to guess, and hurried out the door.

Only then did Frodo sink back in his chair with a deep sigh, his heart finally allowed to pound and rush as relief flowed over him. He sat there for many minutes until he could trust himself to stand, then he went to the shed to put away Sam’s tools.

For Iorhael, who wanted anything with Frodo. This takes place between "Sam's Hat" and "The Proposal", but it is not necessary to have read those.

Rosie heard his whimpers as she was passing his closed door. She’d gone to the kitchen for some tea to help her sleep, as the nights were still difficult for her. Knowing the Ruffians were gone and the Shire cleared out, all thanks to the Travelers, didn’t always ease her mind once the sun went down. They called them nightmares for a reason, and Mr. Frodo seemed to be having one of his own.

Rosie paused at the door and waited a few moments. More whimpering sounded, so she tapped the door gently and tested the knob. The door was unlocked and opened silently. Mr. Frodo was in his little bed in the guest room, the sheets pushed down and tangling his ankles. His brow was knotted with whatever he was dreaming about, and Rose guessed that the barely audible whimpers were screams in his dream-filled ears; sounds were always louder in dreams than they were in waking.

She took a cautious step into the room, keeping an arm’s length from the bed, just in case. “Mr. Frodo,” she whispered. “Wake up, sir. You’re having a terror.”

Frodo’s lips moved in silent speech. He hadn’t heard her, but she heard what he spoke next and it sent a chill down her spine. He all but breathed the words, as though even in his sleep he had not the strength to say them fully. “Please... Not Sam...”

“What about Sam?” Rosie asked. That was one of the things she had nightmares about, especially after the Battle of Bywater, when she and her mother tended his wounds. Seeing him with his shirt off, so thin and with so many healing wounds, most acquired long before the Battle, made her worry about him more than she had in the entire year he’d been gone. He’d finally told her some of it the other day, but she knew he’d held back the worst parts. Now Mr. Frodo was having a terror involving Sam - about something that happened? Or only might have happened?

With caution, she reached out and shook his shoulder. “Mr. Frodo, sir? Please wake up.”

What had Sam said to do? Ah yes. Primula Baggins’s lullaby. It was a standard lullaby sung the Shire over, but Mistress Primula had rewritten the last verse just for her son. Rose sat in the chair by the bed and began to hum. When his tension eased, she started singing under her breath.

He was calm and awake by the time she was done. His eyes caught the light of the single candle she had brought in with her, and when she stopped singing he smiled tiredly. “Sam taught you that.”

“I sang that to him when he sprung his ankle at Bag End. Miss Willow had just put his cast on, and he was so worried he’d end up crippled, so I sung him that song to calm him. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised he remembered it.”

Rosie smiled. Sam had told her about that once his ankle was healed and threat of being crippled was gone. That story, among others, had been the reason she hadn’t worried when she heard Sam had gone off with his master into the Blue. She’d known Frodo would look after Sam, just as Sam would look after him. What Frodo said next took her smile away.

“Of course, Mr. Frodo, but you’ll be here to take care of him too,” Rosie said, trying not to remember his strangled begging in his sleep. Just what had Sam neglected to tell her, and did she really want to know?

“But he’ll have you and you’ll have a family. You’ll take care of him.”

Rosie laughed and refused to let any tears spill at the sadness in the master’s voice. “Not if he never proposes."

Now Frodo did smile, a glint of the old mischief in his eyes. “I’ve found that many times waiting is overrated.”

“Oh aye. You ask Sam to marry you, and you’ll see he won’t be long to return the offer.”

Frodo chuckled too. “One of the best.” Then he reached down for the sheets and she helped him straighten them. She refrained from tucking him in, though she was sorely tempted to do so. Once he was settled, he rolled onto his side, closed his eyes and drifted off to peaceful sleep, a small smile on his lips.

Rosie watched him sleep for a time and decided that whatever he had dreamt about Sam, it was best she didn’t know, if only to spare Frodo from the answering.

Foe Dreamflower, who wanted something with Sam and Merry in the Conspiracy. This takes place shortly after the events in "The Trouble With Love" though it's not necessary to have read that.

We’ve been meeting every couple of weeks at Three-Farthing Stone when we’re both able to get away. Or when Sam is able to get away. As I’m currently ensconced at the Great Smials with no real responsibilities, the only thing I need worry about is coming up with an explanation for my constant disappearances. I don’t know whether to be grateful or irritated that everyone assumes I need all this time alone to lick my wounds over Estella becoming engaged to Gordibrand Burrows. I settle for grateful, as that means they don’t pay too close attention to anything I’m doing. Except Pervinca, but that’s another matter.

I turn my attention back to Sam, who’s standing there wringing his hands and looking ready to lose his breakfast. “What happened?”

“He’s having talks with the S-Bs, lots of them. He’s got in his head as he’s got to sell Bag End to make his excuse of running out of money believable.”

“And he’s planning to sell to them?” I shudder. Certainly, Frodo can’t be that desperate. Why would he sell Bag End? “Can’t he come up with some other story for moving? An ailing cousin, an extended visit, a much-needed holiday.”

Sam shrugs, looking miserable. The poor chap looks like he hasn’t slept in days. I think he’s lost weight as well. “He’s not announced it yet, but seeing how smug Mistress Lobelia was the last time she came for tea, I’m thinking it’s not far off. There’s more: Gandalf got him some maps leading away to Rivendell, and they’ve been going over all the various routes as we can take.”

Sam shakes his head. “It ain’t got that far yet, sir, I can tell you that much. Gandalf’ll be leaving soon though. Says he’s got some business or other down south a ways. He wants to gather information, find out what he can about what all the Enemy’s doing afore Mr. Frodo sets out.”

He gulps and fails to suppress a shudder. Thinking of the Enemy is daunting at best. Even I feel the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Better to get Sam thinking about something more pleasant.

Sam nods, but I don’t think he really hears me. If he were thinking about Elves, he’d have that dreamy-eyed look of his. As it is, he looks as resolved and exhausted as I’ve ever seen him.

“It won’t do Frodo any good if you pass out hiking across the Shire,” I tell him, speaking lightly. “You are taking care of yourself, aren’t you, Sam?”

“Of course, sir,” he says. The lie is so obvious, it doesn't bear acknowledging. He glances up at the sun and gets ready to leave. “I best be getting back. I’m supposed to meet Tom and Jolly at the Bush.”

We leave the shelter of the stone and Sam’s already walking away when I ask, “How much is he asking for it?”

Sam turns back but doesn’t stop walking. “That I don’t know, sir, but he’s sharp enough to ask whatever they’re willing to pay, and that’s a fair sum.”

I watch Sam walk away and return to the shelter of the stone. I sit down and lean my head back, planning to brood over what Sam had just told me. I close my eyes, but it’s Estella’s face that floats into my mind’s eye instead. I remember Estella’s kiss, the last one I’ll ever receive from her, and decide I don’t need to rush back to Tuckborough just yet. Perhaps everyone is right, and I do require licking my wounds after all.

GamgeeFest's Keepsakes by GamgeeFest