22 September, 1401 SR , The Party Field, Hobbiton

I am 33 years old today. Being 33 means many things. It means I am of age--today I am supposed to take up the serious business of living. It means that I am come into my inheritance--the money my father and mother had, before they died, and much more if Bilbo goes through with his plan. It means that, if my aunts have their way, I can pick any one of a dozen pretty lasses for a wife. Mostly, to me, it means saying goodbye.

I see Bilbo over there, laughing with Paladin and Eglantine Took. (Peregrin has disappeared, but I have my suspicions--I saw him casting covetous looks at Gandalf's fireworks, and no doubt he is, at this moment, bewitching some hapless group of 11-year-olds into making a raid on the store.) Bilbo looks happy, but there is more than happiness in his sparkling eyes, in the stories he tells to the children, in his grand gestures and cheerful voice.

There is escape, too, and I cannot grudge him that. He has been here a long time, writing his poetry and translating his stories and going his queer, wild, solitary way--just as I plan to go mine, though it won't do to tell the aunties that, at least not straight out. No, they will just have to discover the hopelessness of their plans through Time.

Merry Brandybuck is on the dance floor with a lass a few years older than him; he is barely on the proper side of innocence, these days, looking so handsome they swoon over him, but still blissfully unaware of it. One day soon he will become (blissfully, no doubt) aware of it, and Buckland's fathers will have to be on the alert. I have the cheering prospect of his company for the next week, as his parents have given their permission that he might stay at Bag End for so long.

Sam Gamgee is out there as well, all too aware of the lasses but unsure of his own appeal (not that he needs to be, he is a fine figure of a hobbit and there are plenty of lasses who seem to agree with my assessment). He dances well, and is happy. He knows Bilbo is leaving--we could not have kept it from him--and he will miss the old fellow, but as long as there is a Baggins at Bag End he will have a place, and friendship besides, and he also knows that, I am sure.

Bilbo handed out birthday presents early in the day, standing at the white gate to the Party Field for quite a long time as the enormous stack of gifts slowly dwindled. Late-comers weren't left out--Bilbo posted one of the Grubb solicitors at the gate, to hand out gifts to the tardy and guard the few remaining treasures. I gave my gifts this afternoon, to those who know me well or are closely related, a much smaller group, thankfully. After tonight I suppose it won't matter, but my coin was quite depleted just in buying gifts for the 30 or so people who expected them.

I left Bilbo's gift inside that battered red book he writes in: a letter, a thank-you for all his time, and love, and wisdom, and patience. I owe him so much, so much, and the letter is the last try--I threw away so many versions, and then had so little time left that I scrawled down the only words that came to me, and slipped it in there. I also gave him a pipe, a sturdy one of teak, that I hope may be useful on the road; but that I gave to him yesterday.

He gave me a leather-bound book like his own, full of creamy blank pages. "For your writing, my lad," he said, and pressed a dry, firm kiss on my brow. The book lies on the table by my bed now, waiting. I shy away from that thought for now.

I am 33 years old today, and torn between happy and sad, melancholy and glad. I am glad, for my own majority and for Bilbo's impending escape, but to be alone again will be hard. I have so much more now than I did then, when I was first left alone, and Bilbo to thank for it all. Solitude fits me well, I think, too--I am comfortable in my hole, with my books and my ink and my thoughts, or outside rambling through the woods. Or in the garden, for that matter, sitting on the grass and reading, while Sam cuts the grass nearby.

I suppose loneliness is all relative, come to think of it. I have Sam, after all, and always will--he is the most faithful of friends, servant or no, and he will still be within hale of my voice. And Merry will come visiting, and Freddy Bolger and Folco Boffin will pop by constantly--to visit the Bag End cellars, if not me. Young Pippin is shaping up to be a hardy lad, and he shall be ready to tramp through the woods soon, too--probably wearing Merry and me to the bone, if early patterns hold true. There is The Green Dragon when I want to go out, and Sam to trade tales with when I want to stay in (my stories all of Elves and dragons, his of rumor and gossip, and both of us satisfied by the exchange). I don't suppose I will be given much time to become lonely, now I think of it.

This is a cheering thought, and leads me direct to a new one: I am 33 years old tonight, so why am I sitting here turning a mug of ale in my hands? This is, after all, my party as well as Bilbo's, and I may as well get a bit out of it. I have no plans to marry, but I am not averse to dancing, and perhaps Merry and Sam need a bit of competition out there on the floor, in the Handsome Young Hobbit category.

A partner is easily found--my cousin Pearl, Pippin's oldest sister, is sitting nearby, and I grab her hand and whirl her into the dance. The music is cheerful and there is time, yet, to enjoy myself before mourning the loss of an old friend--to celebrate the gain of my own grown-up self.

* * * * *

It is much later now, and the guests are gone at last. My joy in the evening vanished along with Bilbo (though I did enjoy his little magic trick, and also Gandalf's quick-thinking addition to it), and when I saw the wizard in Bag End, he seemed as solemn as I felt. After he went to bed, I stood at the door and smiled and smiled and saw people off; Merry came in and stumbled to his room, and now I am in mine. I suppose at some point I will take Bilbo's room--it is far the nicest, and he told me specifically that I should--but at this moment I am so glad to be in this little, comfortable room, with my familiar things around me and the lamp glowing on the table by the bed--

--the table. There is an envelope on the table, atop the book Bilbo gave me for his birthday.

I sit on the bed and open the letter.

My dear Frodo--

I tried to write this a dozen times, but the words just won't come for me. So now I am on my way out the door, and I must say something, for some things must be said. What a sad mess I am making of this, but really all I want to say is, thank you. Thank you for coming to live with me and making these years the happiest I have known. Whatever path you choose for your life, I know it will be a good one. Take care of our beloved Bag End, take care of our family and friends, and most of all, take care of yourself. I look forward to the day when we will talk with one another again. Write everything down, Frodo, and we will pore over your tales and my scribbles, and bridge the years that came between.

Namárië, my dear, dear lad.
Bilbo

I fold the letter carefully and reach for the book Bilbo left. The letter goes inside the back cover, and then I reach for the inkwell and quill (they are always nearby, everywhere in Bag End). I turn to the first page of the book.

22 September 1401 (SR)

I am 33 years old today. Being 33 means many things. It means I am of age--today I am supposed to take up the serious business of living. It means that I am come into my inheritance--the money my father and mother had, before they died, and much more if Bilbo goes through with his plan. It means that, if my aunts have their way, I can pick any one of a dozen pretty lasses for a wife. Mostly, to me, it means saying goodbye.

6 April 1413 SR, Bagshot Row, Hobbiton

About an hour ago the Gaffer put us all out the door, saying our noise wouldn't bother the dark but it was sure bothering him, and he was for his bed. I think he scared the lasses, but after a while their voices came back up, and now we're a noisy, merry group. Tom and Jolly and my brothers are practicing their roopie in the road, and I hope they don't smash a window--there'll be the devil to pay and no pitch hot if the Gaffer has to deal with that in the middle of the night. Now Rosie Cotton's gone to join them, and bless me if I don't want to play, too. The ale I had after dinner limbers me up most pleasantly, and I'm game for the game.

It's just us left now, the Gamgees and the Cottons, and the air is chilly but not cold, and fresh--it has that green smell, the one that comes in April no matter what, and makes me glad I was born in this month of all others. The moon is at the half, and shining down clean and white, strong enough to cast shadows. There'll be rain tomorrow, I smell, but today stayed clear.

I gave presents to my family this morning at the table, and to Mr. Frodo when I got up to Bag End a little later. Mr. Frodo acted surprised to see me--him and his cousins were sitting around the kitchen table in their nightshirts, and I smelt mushrooms and eggs. I felt bad because I had no gifts for Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin--I clean forgot they were visiting, I guess they got to the Hill last night after I'd gone home--but they are gentlehobbits, both of them, and they fussed over me and made me sit down and eat with them. "Why are you here working on your birthday, and this birthday most of all?" Mr. Frodo asked, and I didn't know quite what to say--why wouldn't I work, it being a weekday and the weeds still growing, whether I'm 33 years old or not? He must have seen it on my face, my confusion, because he smiled after a second, and said I wasn't to work past two o'clock, and if the Gaffer asked, it was by his orders. Anyhow, I ate (while the others had second helpings), and then I went out to work. At one-thirty Mr. Frodo called me into his study.

"I just wanted to say happy birthday once more, Sam," he said, and I noticed the little potted plant I'd given him that morning was right there on the corner of his desk. "You've come of age, now," he said, "and I just wanted to remind you that your wages will reflect that, as of today."

Now, the Bagginses have always paid better than any other family in the whole area--Bywater, Hobbiton, Overhill, and all--and I opened my mouth to tell him no, but it seemed like he was just waiting for that, and he stopped me. "Not a word, Sam," he said, "you've been doing a grown hobbit's work for years already. Don't think I don't know how much you do for the Gaffer, to save his knees. This is overdue, and you're not to say a word about it." Well, I'm not so mean as to throw a gift back in someone's face, so I just said thank-you-very-much, and he stood and walked me to the door. "Have you a party planned, Sam?" he asked.

"Just a little one, sir," I said, "my family, and the Twofoots'll be over, and the Cottons for sure, plus the Widow of course--she's practically family anyhow."

"I'm glad, Sam," he said, and it was half in my mind to invite him and Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin, but then I thought of what the Gaffer would say, and how nervous Marigold and Daisy and May would be, and so I just smiled and nodded and walked away, toward home.

Now the stars are hard and bright overhead, and the lads are passing the ball, running halfway up the Hill, using two sticks they picked up from the road. Jolly passes to Ham, who catches the ball wrong and sends it soaring up the road, out of sight in the direction of Bag End.

"Ow!" comes a voice out of the darkness, and we all freeze, horrified. Peregrin Took comes trotting out of the shadows, carrying the ball, and lofts it to Jolly, who barely has the wits left to catch it, rather than dropping it. Mr. Merry and Mr. Frodo follow after him, grinning, their hands stuffed into their pockets, out for a stroll, or coming down to see us for all I know. "Well, where's the goal, and who're the sticks, and who's in charge of this game?" Mr. Merry demands.

Halfred has always been the quickest of us Gamgees, and he swipes the ball from Jolly's hands. "I expect we'll have to get the girls to play, for proper teams," he says, and Rose looks happy, and May, too, but Marigold and Daisy take some convincing. Before long we've got two teams of seven, and I'm guarding one tree and Mr. Merry is guarding another.

Mr. Frodo is a wicked stick, but he fumbles it once and the ball flies over Nibs's head and across the garden and then--o save and preserve us--right against a window. The window doesn't break, but the noise it makes--a sharp, echoing clack--stops my heart. And of course it was the Gaffer's window, of course it was. Before you can say "quick as a wink" the window crashes open and my father's night-capped head thrusts out. The warm hum of the beer is gone, replaced by a cold, uncomfortable sloshing feeling in my stomach.

"Samwise!" he roars. I sprint toward him, but Mr. Frodo is faster (and closer besides) and beats me. "Master Hamfast, I am so sorry, I humbly beg your pardon. That was all my fault, the ball was mine and I passed it disgracefully. Is the window cracked? I can assure you that I shall have it taken care of, by tomorrow afternoon at the latest, if it is." I skid to a halt, panting, right behind him.

I know I am only supposed to give gifts on my birthday, not get them, but seeing the Gaffer's chin drop like that--well, it's a mighty treat, that it is, and Marigold has to turn right around to keep her grin hid.

"Why, Mr. Frodo," he manages after a moment, "Tweren't naught at all, there's no crack and all. So you're out here--"

"--and us!" Mr. Pippin pipes up, waving a hand cheerily.

"--you're all out here, are you?"

"We are, and we've been far too noisy--I'm sure you're not the only person on Bagshot Row we've woken," says Mr. Frodo. "If it's all right with you, perhaps I could just steal these youngsters away up the Hill, and we could continue our roopie on my lawn."

"Oh--I, ah--well, yes, that would be fine I suppose. Though mind you don't step on them flowerbeds under the windows," he adds in a hissed aside to me.

I nod solemnly. "I'm sorry we wakened you, Gaffer," I say, as meek as a mouse though I think my insides may explode from trying to hold in a belly laugh.

"Well, no real harm done," he grumbles. "As the window ain't broke, and as it's your birthday... But mind you act more like a grown-up, now you are one, Samwise."

"Aye, Gaffer."

"All right then. Off you all go, where no-one else will be woke up by your shenanigans."

"Thank you, sir."

And so I find myself sitting on the counter of the Bag End kitchen at one o'clock in the morning, eating cake and biscuits and drinking (more) ale. The window is open to let in the cool night air, as it's quite cozy with 14 hobbits packed in cheek-to-jowl. I lean over to look out; the sweet April smell is powerful here, rising from the green grass and the sleeping daffodils just below the window. I can see clouds rolling in from the West, slowly covering the stars. There'll be rain in the morning, and at least 14 hung-over hobbits who will moan and groan their ways home through the damp. But for now I am pleasantly full, and the ale is making a fine buzz in my head (I would make a rotten goal guard right this minute), and I know that the Gaffer will let me sleep in tomorrow. It appears to me that it is a fine thing to be 33 years old, and surrounded by friends, and I lean over to tell Mr. Frodo so and fall right off the counter.

Thanks as always to Baylor for the entertaining game of roopie.

6 March 1415 SR, Brandy Hall

I am 33 years old today, and my parents have helped me throw the biggest party Buckland has seen in years--and that's saying something, since we at Brandy Hall love to celebrate, and throw parties at the drop of a hat.

The main dining hall is dolled up in yellow and green and red, streamers and ribbons trailing from anything that stood still long enough to be anointed so (and some things that didn't; Lucy Hornblower swans by with ribbons twined round her wrists and ankles, ribbons that recently adorned one of the doors, I do believe). The trestles absolutely groan with food and drink, though they are admittedly quite a bit lighter at this late hour than they were when the festivities began, this afternoon.

I have eaten--and eaten and eaten and eaten--and drunk--and drunk and drunk and drunk--and I have handed out birthday gifts, not a mathom among 'em, and now I am sitting cross-legged on top of a table, 33 years old. These tables that I keep mentioning--they are pushed back against the walls now, so the dancers have a clear run. I would like a smoke, but I gave Pippin my pipe earlier (he forgot his in our room) and now he is hopping around the dancefloor and there's no pipe in sight. Heaven knows where he's laid it, but I am sated and tipsy and feeling much, much too lazy to go looking for it.

My folks hired a paid band for the dancing, but the musicians have long since vanished (into the kitchens for food and ale, I'd wager, having known a few musicians in my time), and the tunes are now provided by amateurs: at the moment there are three viols and a harp, and someone has a tambour, and pipes of various sorts (clarinets and flutes and at least one shepherd's pipe), and drums. The players are mostly skilled despite their lack of practice, and when they forget to compete for volume, something like beauty appears, for a moment or a phrase or a song, and even they are surprised--you can see Tom Halflily's eyes widen in surprise behind his flute, and Dilly Hoarfoot's fingers falter on her harp.

I turned 33 years old today, and outside it is a cold night, blustery and chilly--winter's last word, I hope, though as it is only March sixth this is doubtful. The grown-ups and gaffers and gammers and children have all gone off to bed, and it is only the tweenagers and younger adults left now, lads and lasses who will dance until their feet ache, and drink ale until dawn comes and someone announces that it is time for milk and tea. The cooks are all off--they have worked hard for the past several days, baking and boiling and frying--and so when the sky lightens, those left awake will troop into the kitchens and scramble up eggs and fry up rashers and stir up porridge until everyone is fed. When all that is done, there will be very few left awake, and those few (unlucky souls) will clean up the mess. And when that, in its turn, is done, they will roll their friends into blankets (and leave their enemies to lie on the floor) and then go to sleep themselves, in whatever comfortable corner they can find.

I am 33 years old today, and I am thinking of stretching out here, on this bare (though slightly sticky) table. Just for a nap, you understand.

And should the nap become slumber, I know that someone (most likely Frodo, as Pippin will be stealthily courting some pretty lass) will cover me with a blanket, and then I will not have to cook or clean, and that thought satisfies me thoroughly. So I yawn, and smile lopsidedly at the dancers, and lie down on my side, facing them. I close my eyes, but I can still see them in the safe darkness behind my lids: my friends, all dancing. The cacophony of talking and singing and instruments blurs into a comforting noise, much like the steady hum of the Brandywine on a summer day, over the rapids up by Girdley Island. I am 33 years old today. What a pleasant thought.

24 October 1423 SR, Crickhollow

I don't know what it means: coming of age. I was at Tuckborough a week ago, and my parents held a small party for me. I gave away gifts but I didn't feel any older (or younger, it's true) than I had before. So I thought I had to wait a little, for The Day. But today is The Day, and this morning I woke up and felt just the same, and now it is night, and I still feel just the same.

Well, not quite the same--I mean, I am very, very drunk. I announce this to the room at large, and there are responses from those few left awake. Crickhollow is absolutely stuffed with tiddly hobbits, but most of them are snoring in the bedrooms (or the dining room, or the kitchen... in fact I see that Doderic and Ilberic Brandybuck dropped where they stood, and are now stretched out quite peacefully beneath the window). The responses come from Merry, who raises his mug to me, and Folco and Fatty, who nod like owls, and Berilac, who shouts "I'll drink to that!" from the kitchen. (Sam Gamgee is not here; he was invited, but Rose is quite near to her confinement with her second child, and he didn't want to go so far from her. And I am quite proud of myself, for remembering the word confinement. Really, isn't that impressive?)

I am very, very drunk, and I do not feel as though I have come of age today. (I am still speaking aloud, apparently, as Merry replies: "You don't look it, either.") No, honestly! Did I not come of age a long time ago--years ago, in fact? When I escaped from Old Man Willow, for instance. ("You were rescued," says Merry.) Or when the Barrow Wights spat us four travellers out--did that mean naught? ("Rescued again," Merry says, most irritatingly, and I pause to scowl at him, my fiercest scowl; he looks away, properly chastened, or else he is laughing.) Did I not come of age atop Weathertop? In the depths of Moria? In that horrid run across the plains of Rohan, with the whips at my heels? (I pull up my trouser cuff to display one of the better scars, a lovely thing really, and the others look suitably impressed, except for Merry, who sticks his tongue out and shows me his scars.) What about Fangorn? Was Fangorn not a true test of a hobbit?

I am standing on my chair now, and my ale sloshes rather alarmingly--can't have good ale spilt, now can we? I take a moment to drain the tankard (Fatty looks appreciative) and then resume my oratory.

I have been a grown hobbit for lo! these many years, I cry. Minas Tirith and the plains of the Pelennor--the madness of Denethor, may he be finally at peace--the Black Gate, for the love of heaven, the Morannon and the troll and the long recovery!

Merry has climbed to his feet and set his mug down--quite carefully--and is coming toward me. I think I have stopped talking. In any case, the room is swaying slightly (maybe it's me, now I think of it), and I am happy when Merry arrives, because I can lean down just a little and put my hand on his shoulder.

"I already came of age, Merry," I say, and I can hear my own plaintive voice, over-loud in the quiet room. Fatty and Folco are snoring now, and Berilac may have joined the Boffin brothers, sleeping it off in the kitchen. What awful heads they shall have in the morning. I nearly giggle at the thought. It seems quite unconnected to what my own morning will be like.

"I know you already came of age, Pip," says my Merry. He pats my hand and helps me climb (perhaps collapse would be a better word) from the chair. Walking down the hallway with our arms round one another (and why have I bumped the wall twice on my side?), he goes on. "You are all grown up, my Pippin-lad, and today is just the day everyone else finds it out. I've known it for years. Now let me tuck your grown-up self into bed."

Everard Took, my great ninny of a cousin, is snoring in my bed. Merry lets go of me (rather startling, and I grab on to the doorframe) and pushes Everard unceremoniously to the floor. We used to call him Everarse, when no-one would catch us at it, and pushing him requires strength and commitment--luckily Merry has both. Everard lands with quite a thud, but his snores don't falter for a moment, and Merry looks satisfied. He turns to me. "Now, last time I checked, Nibs and Nick were camped out in my bed, so you won't mind if I cop a kip in here, will you?"

Of course I won't mind. It will be lovely, I'm sure, and I don't want to go to sleep by myself anyhow. In fact I am not sure if I am ready for bed at all--I am a bit peckish, I think--but Merry doesn't agree. "The sun will be up in an hour, Pippin. Now shut up and get into bed." He tosses me about a bit, and somehow I end up in a nightshirt and under the covers. "Drink this," he orders, and I meekly obey, even when I discover that it is water (very disappointing).

Then I am lying down and the room is blessedly dark. Merry is a warm presence beside me, and I snuggle into him. There is a very warm spot, right against him, with my head tucked under his chin, and although I haven't slept this way in years, I find that spot unerringly and sigh in contentment. I feel his body shake and hear laughter under my ear, in his chest. "What is so funny, may I ask?" I say. I mean it to be indignant, but there is only so much indignance--indignity--indig--oi!--irritation that can be summoned up when you are this cozy and you have your arms flung about your favorite cousin and you are one inch from sleep.

"Nothing at all, my Pippin-lad. Go to sleep." I feel him stroking my curls and begin an inexorable slide into dreams--good ones tonight, because I grew up a long time ago, and what is there to fear now? "O, my dear, you are going to be so sick in the morning."

"Not," is all the answer I can manage, because I am so very sleepy... Well, I suppose I can fear Merry's revenge should I wake up and be sick all over the bed, but I can't be bothered with that idea, and after all, I feel absolutely lovely at the moment. I am 33 years old, and today I have come of age.