Disclaimer: I own nothing Tolkien. I promise to put the characters back safely.

Sixth and Lastly

By Elendiari

   He was fainting from hunger, willing himself on. Up ahead was the kitchen of his cruel, demented captors, who delighted in torturing young hobbit lads with the scent of good things cooking. If he could only get to the cake sitting on the table, he would live. Slowly, he snaked his hand out. Closer, closer…he almost had it…he had his hand on the prize…he was going to live…

     “Peregrin Took!” roared a voice so loud that Pippin hurtled backwards against the wall. “How many times have I told you, no cake before dinner?”

    Pippin squealed in response, and ran from the room as fast as his legs could carry him. Esmeralda Brandybuck sighed and shook her head. Not even Merry had been such a bottomless pit when he was a ten year old. She went back to her scones with a sharp eye on the cake.

     Pippin ran all the way to the old storage room that Merry had shown him, that he used as a hiding place when he was at Brandyhall. As soon as he thought himself safe, he flopped down on a broken sofa and grumbled a bit. He was a growing lad; he had every right to a bit of cake! Aunt Esmie just wasn’t being fair. If Merry were here, she would let him have a piece of cake. Right?  

   She should just have given him one little slice for his doggedness, Pippin thought. That had been his fifth attempt at liberating the cake; anyone else would see that as valor.

      Pippin sighed again and looked around the storage room. It was big and dim, the only light sneaking in through the partially open door and the big candle that he had lit. In the wavering light, the trunks and boxes had a magical look. Pippin was suddenly struck with the thought that maybe there were hidden treasures here that could win the hearts of people, like in the dragon’s cavern in Bilbo’s tales. Or, like in the Elvenking’s palace…

   He rolled off the couch, and idea nagging in the back of his mind, and tiptoed over to the nearest trunk. He would need a costume, and a crown, and a few pieces of the finest mathoms that the Elves could make. Pulling an old drape out of the trunk, Pippin smiled. Perfect! he thought. A cloak fit for a tragic king. Tossing it back onto the sofa, Pippin began scrounging around in the other trunks that he could open. A pile began to grow on the worn old sofa.

    Finally, he was ready. Pippin adjusted his cloak, picked up his treasures, and strode purposefully from the room. He had a mission to make.

*****

        Esmeralda was pulling the freshly baked scones out of the oven when she heard an odd moaning, dragging sound. Setting them down on the counter, she looked over towards the door, and bit back a roar of laughter at what she saw there.

    Pippin came staggering into the kitchen, covered in cobwebs, wearing a long, worn burgundy drape around him like a cloak. A too big, mangled-looking hat was perched on his head, and in his grimy hands was a collection of old jewelry that had seen far better days. When he saw her, Pippin dropped to his knees and advanced slowly, his hands held out beseechingly.

        “Oh, wise and beautiful Mistress of Buckland,” he said. “I am the Elven prince of Mirkwood. My kingdom has been invaded by dragons, and I have only escaped with my life and these few mathoms. I have not eaten for days on end! I will give you these bits of my family’s past in return for just a little bit of that good, rich cake that I see sitting upon the counter.” And Pippin laid the broken jewelry at Esmeralda’s feet.

     Oh, but this was rich! Esmeralda stood shaking with suppressed laughter as she looked down at her nephew, who knelt before her with bowed head and one hand on his heart. This was the best trick he had ever pulled for food, before. In another moment, her mind was made up.

      “Oh, my poor Elven prince!” she cried in as worried a voice as she could muster. “I am so sorry that your kingdom is in trouble! If you will wash your hands and face, and sit down at this table, I’ll be quite honored to give you some of our humble teacake.” She curtsied to him, as dignified as a hobbit could.

    Pippin looked up at her, amazed. “Really?”

       “Why, yes! Such hardship and endurance deserve a bit of cake. Come along, now,” Esmie replied.

     Pippin decided not to push his luck, and hurried to wash his face and hands, which were dusty from digging around in the old trunks. Then he sat down at the table, and greedily ate the large slice of cake that Aunt Esmie laid down in front of him. Esmie took a bit, as well, thinking ruefully that Pippin’s charm and imagination would be the death of him, someday.

*****

      Years later, when Pippin met the real Elven prince of Mirkwood, he remembered that day in Buckland, and silently hoped that his fellow hobbits had never heard the tale. After all, how would Legolas feel to know that he had inadvertently been impersonated by a hungry hobbit lad? Pippin blushed to himself. No, it would be best for all involved if he never found out.

The End.