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

SUMMARY: Just a little post-Hobbit holiday vignette (written for hobbit_ficathon)

DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

Outside the snow swirled and the wind howled. Inside, the smial was redolent with the wonderful warm scents of Yule--the smells of baked goods and sweets mingled with the aromas of the evergreens cut to decorate the halls and of the candles that brightly burned and of the Yule logs blazing in each hearth.

Most of the adults were in the main dining hall, still filling up the corners, and enjoying various alcoholic beverages--ale or mulled wine, or brandy or sherry. But some of the tweens and children had gathered in this little side study, with its cheerily burning hearth, to listen to old Cousin Bilbo spin his tales.

Bilbo had been spending Yule in Buckland for several years--since his return from his mysterious journey, in fact. He said Hobbiton was too stodgy over the holidays, and Tookland was too noisy. He found that Brandy Hall was a nice happy medium, or so he said. And this year, he had brought along his cousin Drogo, who was the only other full adult in the room. He sat in an armchair alongside Bilbo’s, and held little Marmadas Brandybuck in his lap. Marmadas, only six, was nearly asleep, in spite of Bilbo’s exciting tale.

Primula Brandybuck, a beauty in her late tweens, sat on the settee between her dear friends Primrose and Peridot Took, with her little nephew Saradoc, who was only nine, on her lap. Primrose held her own little sister, Esmeralda, twelve, on her lap as well and Peridot held Primula’s other nephew Merimac. Their little brother Paladin sat on the floor at their feet, leaning back on Primroses’s knees.

“…and so, there I was, as you can imagine, feeling quite foolish. I had packed all the Dwarves neatly into a barrel apiece, and it was nearly time for the Elves to begin throwing them into the River. But *I* was not in a barrel, and there was no one who could have put me into one if there had been. I was beginning to feel a bit frantic, to say the least.” Bilbo waggled his eyebrows, and the children chuckled, as he seemed to expect it.

Drogo discreetly rolled his eyes. He had heard the tale many a time, and improbable though it seemed, he tended to believe most of it, if only because it *did* make his older cousin seem a bit foolish.

Primula caught his eye, and winked at him. He blushed furiously. It was not the Brandybucks’ lavish table, nor his cousin’s tales, that had brought him to Buckland for Yule this year.

No, it was the pair of sparkling blue eyes, the dimples, the dark curls, of the Master’s youngest daughter. It would be another long four years before he could formally court her, and she had any number of other younger and more dashing suitors. He could only hope that the attraction she seemed to feel for him now would still be there when she finally came of age, for he could imagine himself with no one else. And so from now till then, he would take every opportunity he could find to be in her company.

Bilbo was singing now, the song that he claimed was sung by the Elves as they threw the barrels into the river, though Drogo suspected the song was one of Bilbo’s own, and now Saradoc and Merimac were also losing the fight against sleep. Drogo caught Bilbo’s eye as the song finished, and glanced at the sleeping little ones. Bilbo smiled and nodded, and Drogo, Primula and the Took sisters carefully got up to take their sleeping burdens at last to bed. That left Esmeralda Took and her brother Paladin to listen to the story. They slid over and scooted up close to Bilbo’s feet.

SUMMARY: Frodo has a few words with Bilbo…(written for hobbit_ficathon's Rivendell challenge)

DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

“Bilbo, how could you do that to them?” There was more than a hint of anger in Frodo’s voice.

“Do what to whom, my lad?” although the old hobbit already had a fair idea of what his cousin was talking about.

“Talk Lord Elrond into sending Merry and Pippin along on this--this--this expedition!”

“First of all, I did not *talk* him into anything. I am the senior family member present here, and he *asked* for my opinion, as well as that of Gandalf.” Bilbo spoke firmly, and Frodo wilted a bit under the scorn in his tone.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Bilbo. I did not mean to be impertinent. But I’m sure you could have dissuaded him from such a thing.”

“Probably. But would that have been wise? Why did you allow them to come along in the first place?”

Frodo flushed. “Because they made it clear that short of my tying them up and leaving them bound in Crickhollow, they would follow at my heels.”

“Because *now* the journey is even more dire than we had supposed, and far more deadly!”

“Let’s put this in different terms Frodo. What if the Council had accepted *my* offer?”

Frodo’s eyes grew wide. For one brief second, he had almost feared they would.

“Of course…not…” his voice trailed off uncertainly. Chagrined, he looked at Bilbo, whose eyes twinkled gently.

“You see, lad? That’s what family is about. They would not abandon you for anything, and if you arranged for them to be forcefully left behind, they would never get over it.”

I let go of my cousin with reluctance. He has other farewells to make now. I cannot help but think of another autumn day, many years before.

We walk hand-in-hand, kicking aside the golden leaves that crackle underfoot, as we meander the way lads often do. The air is crisp and clear, a beautiful autumn afternoon, but I do not properly appreciate it.

He stops and kneels down next to me, to look my seven year old self in the eye. There is so much love in his blue eyes that I think I can touch it.

“You know that I do, sprout. I am Uncle Bilbo’s lad now, just as you are your mum’s and da’s.” He gives me a fierce hug, and stands back up, and we start to walk once more. I am not much comforted for his leaving, but I know not to say anything more.

Suddenly, our path brings us in sight of the Brandywine. Frodo makes a little gasp, and falls to his knees, stricken. I glance at his face, and it is a mask of pain. I am frightened; for though I have often known the unexpected sight of the River to distress him, this is the worst I have ever seen. It was not until some years later that I discovered we had stumbled upon the exact spot where he had watched them raise his parents’ bodies from the water. He looks as though all the world has turned to ashes in his mouth.

I know only one thing to do, for this dear cousin, who is my brother in all but name. It is what I have done to cheer him, ever since I learned to speak. With both my small hands, I turn his face to me, and I lean to whisper to him: “I love you, Frodo.”

He takes me in a hug, and I can feel his pain draining away, and he puts his brow against mine. “I love you, too, my Merry.” And the love is back in his eyes, and I see his gentle smile. He gets up, and without saying it, we know the walk is over, and head back to the Hall.

But I have finally come to realize why he can no longer bear to live in Buckland, and there will be no more pleas from me for him to stay longer when he visits. I do not like seeing that look on his face.

I was to see echoes of it in later years, when Bilbo left, and when he turned Bag End over to the Sackville-Bagginses. Somehow, even though he was grown, my words still brought the light back to his eyes.

But then came the Quest; no words of mine could override the whisper of the Ring, and after its destruction, more and more, I saw that look on his face. And though the love was in his eyes still, the pain never left them either. It was not only the Brandywine that distressed him, but all the Shire, a memory of what he could no longer appreciate.

I hear his words to us, to Sam, only dimly, like an echo. And now he walks up the quay and onto the grey ship at Gandalf’s side.

But as it casts off he turns to look back at us, and I see, finally a smile with no pain. And I am hopeful for him. Perhaps in the West, he *will* find healing.

We stand there, we three, bereft, and watch, even though there soon is nothing more to see. The great gulf of water is coming between us and the one we love. I can feel the cords of my heartstrings stretching and breaking with every moment.

When we finally turn away, I know that for me, the sight of the sea will always do to me what the sight of the Brandywine did to him.

The summer sun was quick to burn the dew from the ground, and felt warm and welcome on Marigold’s face as she smiled up at her father and handed him one of the little plants. The Gaffer returned the look, as he placed her namesake flower into the ground, and Sam followed with a sprinkle of water. Ever since she was a fauntling she helped to plant the marigolds when the time came.

“Oh and aye, lass, they’ll grow all the better for your little hands helping,” her father would say.

“Turn around, Mr. -- I mean, Merry, and let me brush off the back of your jacket.” Sam swatted Merry’s back briskly, and then tugged on the jacket to straighten it out. For once Merry was not wearing his livery.

“Turn around, Estella, and let me fix your curls.” Rose reached up to brush out her friend’s glossy chestnut hair. Then she arranged the bow at the back of the dress just so.

Estella breathed a sigh. Rosamunda could be overpowering at times. “You know, I thought this day would never come.”

“I know. We all wish Mr. Frodo could be here, too. But I know he would have been very happy for you both.”

Aragorn slumped wearily outside the tent, where three badly injured hobbits lay, watched over by one deeply grieving. He had no more comfort left to give without lying, and that he could not, would not, do.

“Gandalf? I am glad you are here now. I do not know what is left to say to Merry that will comfort him. There is still so much doubt as to the state of the others, and he begins to despair. If he does, I fear a return of the Shadow.” He shook his head, and blinked as tears came to his own eyes. “I could not bear it if we lost them all.”

Gandalf nodded. Merry had arrived with the first of the hurriedly sent supplies. When they sent for him, they were nearly certain that he would be saying a last farewell to his cousins and friend, and yet by the time he arrived, Frodo and Sam were in a healing sleep. And with his arrival, Pippin’s spirit had also strengthened. But, as Aragorn said, there was still a lot of doubt. “I will see what I may do,” said the Wizard, a troubled look in his own eyes.

He entered the tent, where in the dim light of a dark lantern, he saw the three occupied cots: two at one end of the tent where the battered and thin figures of the Ringbearers lay. The other end of the tent held two more cots, but one was empty. The other held the broken and bandaged form of young Peregrin. Next to it Merry knelt, his head pillowed on his arms and his shoulders hitching with his silent sobs.

Gandalf knelt and held out his arms, and Merry turned and buried himself in the Wizard’s comforting embrace, sobbing even harder. “Gandalf,” he said brokenly, “I can’t do it. I can’t *do* it by myself. I can’t lose them all.”

“There now, Meriadoc.” Gandalf gathered him up and patted him on the back, rocking him like a fauntling. “We do not know that you will lose any of them, let alone *all*. They are already much better since your arrival.”

“And no more should he make such a promise. No one knows for certain what the next moment may bring. Yet even should such a dire thing occur, this would not be a reason to give up. They would not have it so.”

“No,” Merry shook his head. “No. I can’t go home alone. Please don’t make me. I can’t face Uncle Paladin and Aunt Tina and tell them I didn’t take care of my Pippin. I couldn’t look the Gaffer and Rosie in the eye and tell them what became of their Sam. And to tell Mum and Da of what I let happen to Frodo--oh, Frodo!…no, no, I can’t.” And again his tears were renewed.

Gandalf too, felt the bite of guilt. If any blame lay anywhere outside the evil of the Dark Lord himself, it was his own in not recognizing sooner the stink of the Ring in the Shire. He had already pictured in his own mind making these same explanations to the families of the hobbits, and he knew exactly how Merry felt.

“Meriadoc. Listen to me. You must not despair, for you know that your kinsmen were returned to you beyond all hope. Frodo and Sam were brought out of Mordor yet alive; Pippin, even though at death’s door, was saved from going through, largely by your presence at his side. I do not make promises, and I do not give comfort lightly, but I can say this much:

I do not believe they would linger here yet, if it were not *meant* that they are to live, and to return with you to the Shire.”

Merry looked at the Wizard in astonishment. In the dim light of the tent, Gandalf seemed to almost glow with a faint light, and in his eyes, Merry could discern the wisdom that he usually kept masked from mortal ken.

“Do not apologize for your grief, Merry. It is only natural. But it is not yet a time to mourn, it is a time for hope.”

“Look at Peregrin. He breathes still, and I believe he will breathe yet, come morning. Would you like to lay alongside him? I know that would bring comfort to you both.”

For the first time a hopeful light appeared in Merry’s eyes. “Do you think it would be all right? I would not want to hurt him.”

“I daresay you will be careful. And these cots are meant for Men. There is plenty of room for you by his side.”

He carried Merry back to the cot, and lay him down by his cousin’s side. Merry turned so that he could face Pippin, and carefully placed his left hand lightly on Pippin’s arm. Merry breathed a shuddering sigh, and seemed to relax.

Gandalf sat on the floor by the bed, and smoothed the curls from Merry’s brow until he finally relaxed into slumber.

Author’s Note: In this story, Frodo is 31, Sam is 20, Merry has just turned 18, and Pippin is not quite 10. (The equivalent of 20, 13, 12 and 6 in Man years.)

“What was that Merry?” asked Pippin, alarmed. They had been playing at Stones on the front steps of Bag End, waiting for Frodo and Bilbo to wake up.

But Merry had already jumped up and headed toward the hedge, where he had last seen Sam.

Sam was holding up his left hand with his right, and blood was running down his arm. There was a long gash across the palm.

Pippin came up, eyes wide. “Ooh! Sam, are you going to die?” He sounded as though he were going to burst into tears. The sight of the blood had frightened him.

Merry had whipped out a handkerchief, and started to tie up Sam’s cut. “Where’s the Gaffer?”

“He had to go into town, to pick up some seeds as we had ordered,” said Sam, his voice a bit shaky.

“What happened?” Merry asked. Then his eyes fell on the bloody knife, the same one he had given Sam as a birthday gift, just a couple of weeks before. “Oh, Sam! I’m sorry!”*

“It weren’t the knife’s fault, Mr. Merry. I was trying to dig at that root with it and it slipped. I shouldn’t have been using a knife for that, and I knew it. I was just too lazy to go to the tool shed.”

“I will never believe you lazy, Sam.” Merry had finished tying off the handkerchief, and began to help Sam up. “Come on, let’s get you up to Bag End. I would imagine Cousin Bilbo is going to want a healer to look at that. It might need stitches.”

“Oh no, I can’t--the Gaffer’d peel me for putting Mr. Bilbo to that kind of trouble and expense.”

“Mr. Bilbo will decide for himself to what kind of trouble and expense he will be put, Samwise.” It was Bilbo himself, still tying on his dressing gown. Frodo was right behind him, dressed. He had already been awake when Pippin came pounding into his room. “And the Gaffer would not grudge his lad a healer, and you know it.”

He took Sam’s hand, with the bloody kerchief tied round it. The blood was still seeping through at an alarming rate. “Good job, Meriadoc. Now, do you know where Mistress Salvia’s smial is?”

Merry nodded, and pelted off without another word. Pippin started after him, but was stopped by Frodo’s hand on his collar.

“Uncle Bilbo, why don’t we get on up to the kitchen?” asked Frodo. “I don’t think Sam is looking too well.”

“Here, Sam, put your hand up in the air. Frodo, my lad, help Sam up to the hole. Come Pippin, let’s you and I go make some tea and start some second breakfast while we wait for the healer.”

“Come, Sam, lean on me,” said Frodo, supporting the Gamgee lad around the shoulders.

Tears sprang to Sam’s eyes. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Frodo, to be putting everyone out like this.”

“That’s enough of that kind of talk, Sam. You are not putting anyone out. Now save your breath and let’s get up there.” Frodo looked at the handkerchief with alarm. Although Merry had tied it well, it was almost completely red, and blood had begun to drip from beneath it.

When they got to the kitchen, Sam dropped into the chair Pippin pulled out for him; his knees had just given way, and he felt dizzy. Bilbo poured a cup of fruit juice, and held it up to Sam’s mouth. “Here, lad, sip on this.”

The kitchen door banged open, and Merry came in breathlessly. “Mistress Salvia-- is right-- behind me.” He bent over and tried to catch his breath. Still puffing, he continued. “She--said--keep it elevated.”

Bilbo nodded. He was already doing that, making Sam hold the arm up over his head.

Sam finished sipping the juice, and Pippin, eyes wide, brought the pitcher over and carefully poured some more. He had nearly finished the second cup when the healer appeared in the doorway.

The Gaffer came back up to the front garden, calling Sam, and surprised at getting no answer. He went around to the hedge, where Sam had been working, and he spied the bloody knife.

Picking it up, his weatherbeaten face went grey. Taking a deep breath, he made his way up to Bag End. He’d find out what had happened to his son.

He came to the kitchen door just as Mistress Salvia was putting in the last of the stitches. Sam was clutching both Frodo’s hands with his good one, so hard that Frodo’s fingers were turning blue. Merry stood behind Sam, his hands on his shoulders. Bilbo was seated at the table across from them, a pale and wide-eyed Pippin in his lap. Pippin was biting his lip, and tears were running down his face. He winced every time the needle went in and out.

Bilbo glanced up at the Gaffer. “Good day, Master Hamfast. It seems young Sam had a bit of a mishap.”

Sam opened his eyes at the sound of his father’s voice. “I’m sorry, Dad,” he whispered.

Mistress Salvia finished off her work, and looked up at the Gaffer. “The cut was a deep one. I needed to put in twelve stitches. He is not going to be able to work for a couple of weeks. And he lost a lot of blood. He needs to rest the rest of this day and tomorrow, and drink lots of liquids. I recommend a rich beef broth, as well.”

Bilbo put Pippin down. “Pippin, be a good lad, and bring me my purse. It’s on the dresser in my room.”

“No, Hamfast, you will not gainsay me on this. Sam was working for me when he was hurt. That makes it *my* responsibility to pay the healer, as you very well know.”

The Gaffer drew in his breath, and then let it out. He’d been known to argue with his master, but not in front of others.

At Bilbo’s insistence, Sam was tucked up on the settee in the front room for the rest of the day, with Pippin and Merry dancing attendance on him, bringing him tea and juice and broth, as the healer had said.

And Frodo sat in the armchair across from him, and read to him out of one of Bilbo’s books of Elven tales.

Sam felt too tired and drained to be embarrassed at the attention, and occasionally drifted off to sleep.

It was teatime when the Gaffer came in to take him home. It had been many a year since he had carried his lad, and he was too big for it now, so he was going to use the handcart to take him down to Bagshot Row.

Hamfast took the knife, now cleansed of all the blood, and held it out to Sam. “I trust you learnt a lesson.”

“Aye. That’s good then. I’ll not say no more on it. Let’s get you home.”

Legolas came around the mallorn to the edge of the stream, where Pippin sat with his legs drawn up, arms around them. The young hobbit had his head on his knees and a wistful, faraway look in his green eyes. He sighed.

“Not really.” He was quiet for a second, and Legolas waited. He had come to learn the difference between Pippin’s usual cheerful prattle, and these thoughtful moods. When the little one had something to say of import, he tended to gather his thoughts slowly and carefully.

The sounds of Elven harps and flutes floated down from the trees; there was always music in Lórien, if not singing, then instruments. The Elf nodded. “Yes, it is nice. So what troubles you?”

“You see, singing’s all very well. But I miss *playing* music. I had to come away without any instrument, and I couldn’t very well carry any of them on this journey anyway.”

Legolas raised a brow. “Ah,” he said. It did not surprise him to learn that the young Took played musical instruments. He had noticed what a lovely light voice the lad had, and how he quickly picked up any tune and words--even words he did not understand. Pippin could already sing a number of songs in Sindarin, without a clue as to what they meant. It was the sound of them he loved. “What instruments do you play?”

“Well, my favorite is the fiddle. Aunt Esme--Merry’s mother--taught me that. And my Auntie Peridot taught me the lap harp. And Cousin Ferdinand taught me the Tookland pipes--what Big Folk call ‘bagpipes’.”

He politely refrained from describing his relationships to Peridot and Ferdinand. He and Merry had discovered that for some unaccountable reason Big Folk were not interested in family trees.

Legolas drew his own knees up, and mirrored Pippin’s pose. He glanced at the stream flowing by. “Pippin, could you bring me about a dozen of those reeds?”

Pippin looked at him, surprised by the change in subject. Then he shrugged, thinking it was some strange Elvish whim; he tended to forget Legolas was not a hobbit. Still, it was good to have something to do, for whatever reason. He jumped up, and waded into the edge of the stream, and soon brought back an assortment of reeds, and handed them to Legolas, curiosity burning in his green eyes.

Legolas reached into the pouch at his side, and drew out a small knife and a spare bowstring. “In Lasgalen we have an instrument we call laergalena*; I believe that you may be familiar with it by another name.”

He began to cut the reeds into various lengths, carving out holes, and binding them with the bowstring.

Pippin’s face lit up. “Oh, we call those shepherd’s pipes at home!” he exclaimed. “Can you teach me to play them?”

In a very short time, Legolas had fashioned two of the instruments, one for himself, and a smaller one that would fit Pippin’s hands.

Legolas blew into his, and ran down the scale of mellow notes, and Pippin followed his example. The hobbit was a quick study, and soon was accompanying the Elf with a simple melody. They began to play together, fair head and chestnut bent over the instruments, as the sweet music poured forth.

Neither of them took any notice of the audience that had gathered at their backs.

*Thanks to “Karri” at the Stories of Arda yahoogroup, for the nice Sindarin word meaning “song reeds”.

AUTHOR: Dreamflower
RATING: G
CATEGORY: Canon/ General
SUMMARY: Pippin copes with that night at the Prancing Pony… (written for hobbit_ficathon on LJ, challenge to write a fic set at an inn)
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Phrases in italics are from FotR, Chapter XI, "A Knife in the Dark".
DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

In the large man-sized bed, Sam was snoring softly. Pippin could see faintly in the darkness Strider, as he sat by the window, lit only by the ember glow of his pipe and moonlight. Frodo sat across from him, in earnest conversation. Pippin could not hear what they said, but Strider’s tone sounded grim, and Frodo’s expression looked anxious.

Pressed against his back, he felt Merry’s presence. But it wasn’t very comforting tonight. He could feel the tension in Merry’s back against his, and he could tell by his breathing that his cousin was still awake. Shifting carefully, so as not to waken Sam, he turned over.

Pippin lay his arm across Merry. He could feel him trembling. What could have done this to his fearless, confident older cousin? He shuddered a bit, and tried to get to sleep. He finally fell into a restless doze, filled with troubled dreams.

He woke once, not long after, to a startled movement, and realized that Frodo had come to bed at some time, and now was awake. But he made no sign, and Frodo soon settled back down on his other side. It was bad enough to realize that Merry was frightened, but to see Frodo shaken as well sent his heart to his toes.

The hobbits woke to the sound of a crowing cock, and Strider had drawn the curtains and pushed back the shutters with a clang. The first grey light of day was in the room, and a cold air was coming through the open window.

Pippin found himself unaccountably quiet as Strider led them to the rooms that would have been theirs. He had a dozen questions, but for once in his life, he was afraid to ask them. The sight of the room, and the destruction wreaked there shocked them all. If they had stayed in those rooms…

Strider was talking to Butterbur, who was just as shocked as the hobbits. The innkeeper could not stop wringing his hands, and making exclamations of horror.

Then came the news that their ponies had all been stolen. Pippin listened in dismay to Strider telling them what they would now need to carry.

Pippin noticed Merry studying him out of the corner of his eye. He knew that just as Sam would try to carry a lot of Frodo’s load, Merry would try to do the same for him. Well, he was *not* going to be any more of a burden to his cousins than he already had. When neither Frodo nor Merry spoke up, he said with a sinking heart, “As much as we must.” He hoped that would show Merry he was prepared to shoulder his share of the burdens. He noted with satisfaction the look of surprise and approval on his cousin’s face.

At least the delay meant they could have a proper breakfast, instead of “a drink and a bite standing,” as Strider had put it.

The four hobbits sat down to a table, and old Mr. Butterbur bustled about, serving them up a lavish breakfast. He seemed to feel keenly that they had been nearly assaulted while under his roof. He set before them eggs, bacon, sausages, new made bread, cheese, jam, fruit and tea. Strider took only a bit of bread and put some sausage and cheese between it, and went off to see to things. Frodo and Sam made rather hurried meals, as well, and went to see what assistance they could be to the Ranger, as he tried to find them a pack pony.

The two younger hobbits sat at the table, filling up the corners for a good long while. But Pippin noticed that Merry looked tired, and that in spite of his earlier protestations, was not eating nearly as much as was normal for him. He had taken seconds, but not thirds, and mostly now was playing with his food rather than eating it.

Merry gave him a sardonic look. “Aside from nearly being murdered in our beds, having my ponies stolen, and having to go off into the Wild with a stranger because Gandalf is nowhere to be found?”

Merry sighed and slumped. “I’m blessed if I can really tell you, Pip. Last night was one of the strangest and most uncomfortable feelings I’ve ever had. I thought I was drowning, and that nothing would ever be happy again…but there was no real reason for it. It’s just that I still feel unsettled by it, as though I had just woken from a horrid nightmare, in which all was dark and despair was something you could touch.” He sat up, determination in his face. “But we’ve no time for such nonsense now, we’ve got to buck up and do right by Frodo.”

Pippin reached across the table and patted his hand. “At least we’re all together. As long as that is so, nothing can really be that bad.”

“Thanks, Pip.” He picked up his cup and downed the last of his tea. “Shall we go see if we can help Frodo and Strider?”

It was very nearly three hours later before they finally took their leave of The Prancing Pony.

Pippin turned and looked back at the inn. Someday he’d like to come back there, when everything was all right again. It seemed a shame they could not have enjoyed their stay.

With a shrug, he settled his pack on his shoulders. They had a long day’s trudge ahead of them.

Written for Marigold's Challenge #11, for stories about holidays or celebrations.

“What’s wrong with the hobbits, Aragorn?” asked Gimli quietly. They were five days out from Rivendell, and the first few nights of walking had been accompanied by non-stop hobbit prattle, especially the two younger ones. But tonight they had all four been mostly silent, and had clung together more than usual.

The Wizard glanced at the four hobbits, huddled together glumly. They were taking a short rest before moving on. “Tomorrow is the first day of Yule.” He saw that they did not understand. “According to the Shire calendar, the last day of the old year, and the first day of the new, are called Yule. It is a major holiday for hobbits, and involves gifts, feasting, story-telling and family. Obviously, they have realized what they are missing.”

“Poor lads!” said Gimli. All of them were so young, except the Ringbearer, and none of them ever out of their homeland before. Nothing like missing a major occasion to bring on homesickness.

Aragorn glanced at Gandalf, and then went over to speak quietly to Legolas and Boromir.

The hobbits were weary and footsore as dawn began to break over the chill bleak landscape. Legolas had scouted ahead, and found a little out of the way spot, nestled between two hills. There was a copse of scrubby trees to one side, and a great rock formation to the other.

Gandalf looked at the site with approval. “I think we may be able to have a fire and a hot meal this evening.” This at least drew the hobbits’ attention, if it did not seem to cheer them much.

Sam was laying out the bedrolls, close together, as they had been sleeping for warmth and comfort since leaving the Shire. Packs were slung down, and Sam and Pippin were getting ready to lay down, when they realized Frodo and Merry seemed to be waiting for something.

Frodo blushed, and reached into his inside jacket pocket, and pulled out a small bag. “When I realized that we’d be on the tramp today, I got these from one of the Elves in the Rivendell kitchen.” He poured out into his hand some boiled sweets, each wrapped in a twist of paper. There were nine of them, and he handed one out to each member of the Company. “I know it’s not much, but it’s something. Happy Yuletide.” He attempted to sound cheerful with the traditional greeting, but it sounded more than a bit forced.

“Thank you, Frodo,” said Gandalf gravely, as he popped the treat into his mouth. Everyone else followed suit, except for Sam who said he would save his for later, and Pippin, who just stared at his.

Merry reached into his pack. “I have to confess these are not from me. I don’t even know what they are. Bilbo gave them to me just before we left, with instructions to pass them out today.” He opened the package, and startled a laugh out of both Frodo and Gandalf when it revealed a stack of pristine white handkerchiefs, nine of them. He passed them out carefully.

“This was very thoughtful of Bilbo,” said Aragorn, a bit bemused, as he stowed his in his pouch.

“It certainly was,” said Gimli. “I will have to thank him when we return.”

Merry placed Pippin’s in his hand as he did not make a move to take it. The tweenager looked at it, and burst into tears.

Merry moved to hug him, and Frodo used his new handkerchief to wipe the lad’s tears. But Sam just stared at his toes, looking every bit as miserable as Pippin, though there were no tears.

The rest of the Fellowship looked on, a bit uncomfortable, and then moved on about the business of settling in for a day’s rest, leaving the hobbits to comfort their own. The four finally arranged themselves for rest, but Pippin cried himself to sleep.

They awakened in the twilight to a delicious smell. For once, someone had started the cooking without waiting for Sam.

“Legolas brought down a pair of fine, fat pheasants,” said Aragorn, turning the birds on the stick that was serving as a spit. “Come sit over here, my friends.” He gestured to one of the larger rocks, which had been decorated with a few holly branches.

“Master Sam, I am afraid I have been into your stores. I got a few potatoes for the roasting,” said Gimli.

“Where is Boromir?” asked Merry, looking about. Then he spotted him near the edge of the light, on watch. He turned briefly and smiled, then returned his gaze outward.

“Boromir contributed this,” said Aragorn, holding up a flask. “I think we will water down these spirits, but I do believe the occasion calls for a toast or two.”

Pippin gave a little bounce where he sat, and Frodo gave a smile that was genuinely cheerful. The food was soon served out, and for a time concentration was on the meal.

When they had finished eating, Merry moved as if to prepare for the night’s travel.

Gandalf put a hand out. “There’s no rush, Meriadoc. I do believe we have time for a pipe and a tale before we move on.” He lit his own pipe, and blew the shape of a butterfly, followed by a series of rainbow colored rings.

“Did I ever tell you about the time Bilbo danced on the table at the Prancing Pony?”

He woke, and glancing out the window, realized it was the wee hours of the morning, and here he lay, with an armful of lovely hobbit lass, finally his. The distant sounds of revel floated back to him.

He leaned on one arm to study her face, with the other hand gently brushing a curl from the corner of her mouth. With a smile he placed a kiss as soft as a whisper there.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This story was inspired by the music “Circle of Joy” by Lisa Lynne on The Celtic Circle 1 CD. The music just seems so very hobbity to me.

DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

The birthday feast was ended, and it was time for music and dancing. This party was not anything as elaborate as Bilbo’s famous Last Party; for his fortieth birthday, Frodo had invited a number of his closest kin and friends, not more than a score of people altogether.

Esmeralda sat on the edge of the bandstand and took out her fiddle. It was such a beautiful instrument--it had, in fact, been her gift from Bilbo on that last birthday--and she never tired of looking at it. She began to tune it, and felt, rather than saw, Pippin sit down next to her, with his own fiddle, which he also companionably began to tune. Soon they were joined by his sister Pimpernel with her tambour, and Folco Boffin with his flute. Not a large band, nor a professional one, but perfectly adequate for this small gathering. Once the instruments were tuned, they discussed the order of the songs, and got ready to play.

They started with the Tangle Dance; no need to announce it, once the strains of the music began, all the guests, young and old hurried to join in. Frodo led the dance himself, weaving in and out under the arms of the dancers until they were all hopelessly entangled, and as the last notes played they broke apart, breathless with laughter.

Most of the older hobbits retreated to the sidelines. Esmeralda shook her head at the sight of her husband Saradoc and her brother Paladin, going right back to their interrupted conversation--probably politics or business, or both. They couldn’t get away from it even at a party.

She brought her attention back to her fellow musicians, and the group of younger hobbits who had remained in front of them. There were enough there to make up a set of four couples: Frodo, and his cousin, Pearl, Merry with Pearl’s sister Pervinca, Fatty Bolger and his sister Estella, and Samwise Gamgee and his younger sister Marigold. The young Gamgees had seemed a bit ill at ease at first, at being included as guests, but they had relaxed a bit as the evening wore on. Esmeralda thought perhaps it had helped that the weather was fine enough to hold the party outdoors, where the two felt more at home.

They did “Candles”, which was rather a lovely dance done by two sets of two couples, and “Took’s Procession”, which was done all in a line, and “Exchanges”, which was a lot of fun. Esmeralda noticed Pippin’s longing expression. He liked to dance just as well as he liked to play, but he couldn’t do both.

They finally came to the one Esmeralda loved the most. The sprightly notes of “Circle of Joy” came forth, and the couples moved in time to the music, dancing to the side, and then moving in to the center, and back out again, then the lasses weaved in and out between the lads, and all turned around, and the lads did the same. The movements were repeated, and Esmeralda lost herself in the music.

Finally they came to the last notes, and the music ended. The musicians came down from the stand, and became once more simply guests.

Frodo came over to Esmeralda, and gave her a brief embrace. “Thank you for leading our music tonight, Aunt Esme.”

She looked into his sparkling joyful blue eyes. “I was glad to do it, Frodo, my lad. You know how I love to show off my fiddle playing! And how seldom I have a chance to do so.”

He gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Well, thank you just the same. It was perfectly lovely.”

Esmeralda grinned at him. It was so good to see him happy. She had feared that after Bilbo left, he would no longer be content in the Shire, but now she thought, he has found his place, and she was glad.

For Pipwise Brandygin (who wanted Merry and Pippin observed by one of the Big Folk):

Aragorn leaned against the stubby tree, and cast his eye on the company. Gimli had watch. Sam was busy with the cookfire, preparing some little treat for “afters” as the hobbits called it. It was amazing what that hobbit could do with a little dried fruit. Frodo was sitting next to Gandalf in earnest quiet conversation as they ate, and Boromir had just begun to eat the bowl of stew that Pippin had taken him.

He glanced down. “Thank you, Merry,” he said, as the hobbit handed him a bowl of stew rather fuller than he would have taken himself.

“You’re welcome, Strider.” He gave the Ranger a wink and said “It’s really good--not too much coney in it, but there’s lots of mushrooms! Sam‘s outdone himself!” He trotted back over to the stewpot to get his own bowl full. Across the campsite, Aragorn saw Pippin handing Legolas a similarly full bowl. The youngest hobbit already had his own serving in his other hand, and he watched as Legolas scooted over to make room for Pippin on the rock where he was sitting. Pippin made some remark and broke out into giggles, and Legolas responded with a smile.

Merry had a brief word with Sam, before taking his own bowl over to the rock, and Aragorn grinned as he watched him crowd up to Legolas’s other side.

It had been interesting to watch how the hobbits had responded to the circumstances of their journey. Only a few days out of Rivendell, and already he could see a pattern. Frodo, from both age and education, was able to deal with the bigger folk on their own terms. He took his role as Ringbearer seriously, and though he deferred to Gandalf’s and Aragorn‘s decisions, he always insisted on knowing the whys and wherefores. Sam had simply extended his role as Frodo’s servant to include not only his master’s kin, but also the rest of the company. From the first there was no question as to who would do the camp cooking.

Merry and Pippin had surprised him. He had not much chance to get to know them well on the trek from Bree to Rivendell. It had been too urgent and desperate a trip for such reflection, especially after Weathertop, though he had been relieved to find that the two younger hobbits were a good deal tougher than he had at first supposed.

But on this trip, which was a bit slower and more planned, they were showing some surprising strengths.

They were tireless foragers; the end of march seldom found them without something to contribute to the Company’s meals--nuts, mushrooms, edible roots, late fruits or berries, which never seemed to slow the walking down, as they would dart off after some choice find and back. Squirrels and rabbits had also been brought down by well-thrown stones, and contributed to the pot.

And they had quickly taken on their own tasks at the camp, seemingly without any need to be told, of finding firewood and water for Sam, and they had also taken on the task of serving the others.

Merry had been the first to notice that the servings that the Big Folk took for themselves was, in his words “inadequate”. Sam had fretted that they did not like his cooking. So now Merry and Pippin took it on themselves to see that everyone got what *they* thought of as a “proper” meal.

But the most interesting thing was in how the two young hobbits dealt with being among all these different races.

He could not imagine anyone else being brash enough to have wedged themselves in on either side of Thranduil’s son, disregarding his Elvishness altogether. And though Legolas was light-hearted enough, still Aragorn could never have pictured him allowing anyone to sit so closely and like it. But hobbits took it for granted that friends and relations wanted to be close, and it seemed that though Legolas had been a bit startled the first time it happened, he now took it for granted as well.

They treated Gandalf, whom they had known all their lives, with a combination of affection and cheekiness that took no account of his power or wisdom or mysterious origins. He was treated like nothing so much as a gruff, yet indulgent grandfather--and that was just how he behaved towards them.

Boromir, who had begun to teach them swordplay while still in Rivendell, they treated like a beloved big brother, and the lessons ended as often as not in a bit of horseplay. Aragorn, who knew that the Gondorian did, in fact, have a younger brother whom he missed, thought that this must help ease the soldier’s homesickness.

Gimli, who was nearest their size, often found one or both of them walking with him, sometimes bumping against him or elbowing him in a playful fashion. Merry would sometimes bait Pippin by telling Gimli scurrilous stories that he would deem Pippin too young to hear. They seemed to embarrass the Dwarf as well as amuse him.

As for himself, they sometimes would walk with him, forcing him to measure his tread to their slower pace, and Pippin would chatter on, telling interminable stories that would frequently be interrupted by Merry with genealogical information--as though there was no doubt he would be fascinated to know exactly to what degree someone named Fatty Bolger was related to each of the three cousins.

After the third day out, he had complimented them on their helpfulness, and Pippin had carelessly said, “Oh, that’s what family’s for; we love you, after all.” And Merry had nodded absently, as though such were taken for granted.

He had shaken his head at this artless answer, and realized that the affection went both ways. He had pondered on it since, and he finally realized how the two had dealt with being among all these strangers.

But he hoped he did not grow fur on his feet. Arwen might take exception to that.

“Pip? Where’re Frodo and Sam this morning?” Merry was yawning and still pulling his clothing together as he entered the kitchen of the guesthouse, where Pippin was eating bread and jam, and drinking tea.

“Well, hullo, slug-a-bed. Just in time for second breakfast, you are. The King sent for Frodo this morning, and Sam went along, of course. Gandalf never came home last night, and Legolas was out to greet the Sun when she rose, like always. As far as I know, Gimli’s still snoring away.”

Merry pursed his lips. “And you are entirely too bright and chipper for someone who’s never been to bed at all. What time did they send you down from the Tower?”

“At sunrise when my duty was up. I had first breakfast with my messmates of the Third Company, and then came back here. I’m not sleepy at all, really.”

Merry looked dubious at this. Pippin was on his fourth night of what they called the “third watch”--from the middle of the night until morning, and he had not been going to sleep when he got off duty. The only sleep he’d had was a brief nap between late supper and rising to go to the Tower each night, not more than three or four hours at the most.

“Come on, sit down and have some breakfast now,” Pippin continued. “You’re off duty today, I take it.”

A few days earlier, Éomer and Éowyn had departed for Edoras to make preparations for Théoden’s funeral. Pippin had been horribly afraid they would order Merry to go along, but he had held his tongue, knowing that if they did, it would be hard enough for his cousin without him adding his whining into it. But nothing had been said, and finally Merry had screwed up his courage to ask. The young king of Rohan had smiled and shaken his head. “My friend Holdwine, I would not be so churlish as to take you away so soon from your kindred. Stay you here, with a few others of my éored and help keep watch over my uncle until we return for him.” So now, every third day from dawn to dusk, Merry kept watch over Théoden’s bier as it lay in state.

Merry had just taken a large bite. He rolled his eyes and pointed to his mouth, as he chewed and swallowed. He took a sip of tea before replying. “I take it you are not going to be sensible and go to bed?”

“Well, then, why don’t we take a picnic up in the gardens at the Houses of Healing. We can have elevenses and maybe even luncheon there, and then we’ll see if we can’t find Legolas and Gimli and maybe go see what they are doing in the lower circles.”

Pippin went to change out of his livery, while Merry packed up a large basket with bread, cheese, fruit, some boiled eggs, some hard sausage and a bottle of wine. They went out into the sunshine of an early summer morning, and made the leisurely trek to the grounds of the Houses of Healing.

There was a spot there in the gardens that the hobbits had found made for lovely picnicking. A stone wall broke the wind that was a constant so high up, and all along it small fruit trees had been planted and trained to grow flat against the wall. There were beds of sweet smelling herbs scattered about, and low growing thyme made for a fragrant ground cover.

Merry and Pippin found a spot beneath a blooming pear tree, and sat with their backs against the sun-warmed stone of the wall as they dug into their provisions. Finally, sated, they put the remnants of their meal into the basket, and Pippin leaned companionably into his cousin’s side, as they watched the clouds.

“It was the first year your parents allowed you to come visit at Bag End while I was there in the spring--” Merry lightly spun the tale of how he and Frodo had been at their wit’s end to keep him amused, until Frodo came up with the idea of a kite. As he neared the story’s finish, his voice trailed off and he looked to see Pippin gently snoring against him. Carefully he placed his arm around Pippin’s shoulders, and leaned back against the wall. He could use a bit of a doze himself, he thought.

Frodo and Sam exchanged a look and a smile as they glanced up at Aragorn. They had been talking with the King and Faramir when the messenger had apologetically interrupted. Now they stood there amid a small crowd which had gathered at a respectful distance, apparently with nothing better to do than to stare at two sleeping pheriannath.

“Pippin’s had the night watch this week,” said Frodo, “and Merry’s not slept well since Éomer and Éowyn left.”

Sam shook his head. All this fuss over two sleeping hobbits. “Their bellies’ll wake them up soon enough, Strider.”

Frodo smiled. “Actually, it does look like a nice spot for a nap.” He glanced significantly at the crowd, “though I don’t think I would care for the audience.” He started down towards his sleeping cousins, followed by Sam, certain that Aragorn would take the hint.

The King watched the other two hobbits sit down next to the sleepers, and turned to disperse the watchers. He turned to the healer and said “If they haven’t wakened by sunset, send young Bergil down to rouse them. In the meantime, leave them in peace.”

He turned to give them one last fond glance, before heading back to the Citadel.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This takes place only a few months before Gandalf and the Dwarves show up at Bag End. (Written for a hobbit_ficathon challenge on LJ)

DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

I am wondering if I can prevail upon you to give me a bit of assistance in the matter of one of my cousins. I know that you have often heard me speak fondly of my cousin Drogo. He is a very thoughtful and intelligent young hobbit and was one of the first of my cousins to come to me for tutoring. He was a bright student and his cheerful and jovial personality soon endeared him to me. We have remained close over the years, in spite of the eighteen year difference in our ages.

You may know that his mother was a Bolger, Ruby, a first cousin once removed of old Gundabold Bolger who was wed to Salvia Brandybuck. Sadly, she passed on last year of a wasting illness, and her husband, my cousin Fosco, has been in a decline ever since. He has no longer the heart to pay much mind to his family. They are still young, the youngest has five years yet to his majority, and Drogo himself only came of age right after Yule. They still need the guidance of someone older, but their father is still lost in his grief.

The problem that Drogo is having is that a lass by the name of Lobelia Bracegirdle has set her cap for him. You know how the Bracegirdles are--they are single-minded when it comes to something they think should be theirs. She has taken to pursuing poor Drogo wherever he goes.

On at least two occasions she has actually barged in on family gatherings, to which, being not even a connection, she was not invited. The lass wields rudeness like a weapon, and I think that in an argument with a dragon she might well come off the better.

Poor Drogo has got to the point where he has been afraid to stick his nose out of his own smial. I invited him to stay with me here at Bag End for a few days, but Hobbiton is a small place, and the Bracegirdle minx soon had word of him, and has come barging up to my door, if you please, with every expectation of welcome.

To complicate matters even further, one of my other cousins, a rather loathsome fellow by the name of Sackville-Baggins ( and that connection should certainly tell you enough about him! ) has an interest of his own in Miss Lobelia. She is comely enough, in spite of a voice that could peel paint, so I suppose it is understandable. And he has had the nerve to threaten poor Drogo for “coming between them”.

Alas, an old bachelor like myself is simply not equipped to deal with all these youthful antics. I find myself hoping, Aunt Mirabella, that you could kindly do me the favor of inviting Drogo to come visit at Brandy Hall. I am quite sure that Buckland will be far enough away to discourage the Bracegirdle lass, and perhaps once he is out of her sight, she can once again take notice of Otho’s attempts to pay court. I think the two of them are admirably suited to one another. Please consider it.

In other news, I have just had the front door to Bag End painted an attractive green, and I am hiring on a new gardener, very well recommended, one Master Holman Greenhand; he comes with a sturdy young apprentice, Hamfast Gamgee, and I am well-pleased with his services.

Do answer me soon whether or no you can accommodate young Drogo, for if not, I fear I shall have to appeal to our Tookish connections, and Tookland is not nearly so far away from Miss Lobelia as Buckland.

Please give my best to Gorbadoc and your lovely children. It has only just occurred to me that your youngest, Miss Primula, is now a tweenager. How time does fly!

They had walked for several hours into the dark which was Moria, before Gandalf allowed them a brief stop for rest.

The four hobbits had collapsed, exhausted, backs against a wall, leaning into one another for warmth and comfort, and soon were fast asleep. They slept hard, not moving or shifting except for the occasional jerks and twitches of Pippin’s feet.

Gandalf watched them, and murmured finally to Aragorn “I suppose we should let them have their sleep out. We shall move the more quickly for it afterward, if they are not so weary.”

Aragorn nodded, relieved that the Wizard had come to that conclusion on his own. He had been prepared to argue on the hobbits’ behalf. So Legolas watched and the rest of the Company disposed themselves to rest as well as they could.

Some five hours had passed when the hobbits began to stir. Merry and Sam woke at almost the same moment; they were on the outside of the group, and exchanged a glance. Frodo still slept, leaning against Sam who did not move, lest he wake his master. Merry shifted Pippin slightly, so that the youngest hobbit leaned more towards Frodo, and got stiffly to his feet.

Aragorn, Legolas and Boromir were looking to their weapons; Gimli was going through one of the packs, retrieving the little bundles of dried sweetened grain, mixed with nuts and dried fruit, that usually served for a breakfast when the Company had made a cold camp. He handed four of them to Merry, who sighed. The hobbits had at first thought this mixture a treat, but as a meal it left something to be desired, especially with nothing to wash it down with but water.

Pippin had begun to wake, blinking owlishly, yet, like Sam, he stayed tucked against his older cousin’s side, shifting slightly to get even closer.

Gandalf studied the peaceful face of the sleeping Ringbearer. He looked calmer and more rested than the Wizard had seen him since his wounding on Weathertop. Regretfully, he leaned forward with the intention of gently waking Frodo, and found himself looking into the stony glares of three pairs of hobbit eyes.

Merry shook his head. “Please let him sleep, Gandalf. He needs the rest more than any of us.”

Gandalf sighed, but before he could bring himself to argue, Frodo said clearly “Well, good-bye, then,” and opened his eyes.

He blinked a couple of times, put his hand to his shirt where hung the Ring, and sighed.
“That was the strangest dream I have ever had! It seemed so very real!”

Gandalf looked interested. He knew that Frodo, had, on more that one occasion, dreamed true. “Well, then Frodo, you must tell us about it as we walk, if you can remember it.”

Everyone now was afoot, and ready to go on, munching on their dry breakfast as they went. As Gandalf had requested, Frodo began to tell his dream.
_____________________________________________________

The first thing I was aware of was that I did not have the Ring. This should have upset me, but instead all I felt was a profound sense of relief. Then I realized I was treading water. I looked up, and saw a circle of daylight above me, and I knew that I had somehow fallen into a well. I felt no fear, however, for in some way I knew that help was coming soon.

I heard the sharp barking of a dog, and then two worried faces looked down upon me. It was two Big Folk, whom I had never before seen. A man and a woman.

The man said “We’ll have you out of there soon, son.” And he lowered a rope, which I tied about my waist, and he began to haul me out. He drew me dripping from the water and gave me a fierce embrace, and then handed me to the woman, who held me as though I were a small child. She began saying, “There now, son, you just relax, and we’ll have you home in no time.”

I began to realize that these people had somehow taken me for their child. I tried to protest, but the woman just shushed me. There was a dog with them, a beautiful creature with a long silky coat, a narrow pointed face, and intelligent eyes. Apparently she had led the people to me.

They took me to a house. It did not look like any house of men such as I saw in Bree, yet it seemed homely and familiar all the same.
When we entered, the woman said, “I am going to draw your bath, now. You go get ready.”

I just stood there for a moment, wondering where I was to get ready and how. The woman gave an exasperated sigh, and said “Go on, now Timmy!”

I looked at the dog, and she looked back at me, just as if she were saying “I know perfectly well you are not their Timmy, but just go along with it for now.”

She led me to a small room, and there was a child‘s dressing gown laid out on the bed which fit me just fine.

I undressed and put it on, and went to take a bath. Afterwards I was treated to a fine meal during which conversation made little sense to me. I discovered that the dog‘s name was Lassie, and that we lived on a farm. The father‘s name was Paul, and the mother was named Ruth.

It seemed that I spent several days there with them. Any attempt on my part to explain that I was a hobbit and not their little son gained me only pats on the head and praise for my vivid imagination, so eventually I gave it up. The dog was a wonderful companion, and I found I had no fear of her at all. She seemed to be the only one who knew I was not this “Timmy“.

It was so nice and restful, Gandalf, to just play at being a child again, with no Ring and no responsibilities. I was quite enjoying myself, and only sometimes did I wonder about the Quest.

Then one afternoon I was walking in the woods with Lassie, and she began to bark, and to lead me on. She took me back to the well where I had first found myself, and I hear a young voice calling “Lassie! Lassie!”

She put her front paws up on the rim of the well, and gave a few sharp barks, and then ran off.

I looked down, and there, where I had been once before, was a young boy. I don‘t know much about the ages of Man children, but if he had been a hobbit lad, he would have been about twelve or thirteen.

I nodded. I could hear the voices of Ruth and Paul hurrying in our direction. So I told him “Good-bye” and I was suddenly awake.

It was such a real dream. It seemed like I really had spent the better part of a week in another place.
____________________________________________________

Frodo stopped speaking for a moment, and then the other hobbits began to ask him questions, and they dropped back a bit.

Gandalf smiled, and shook his head. “I do not suppose that this one *meant* anything. I think that it was a grace of the Valar, to allow Frodo to spend some time unburdened in another time and place. He was made a part of a loving family for a while, acting as a child, as though he could retrieve a little bit of what he lost when his parents drowned.”

“Because that would have been too painful when he had to leave them. He might not have wished to return to us.”

They turned to look back where the Ringbearer walked with his friends, and noted the happiness and animation in his face, that had not been there for a while, and were grateful.

“What I can’t imagine, Frodo,” Merry teased, “was that you of all people had a *dog*!”

Frodo smiled. “She was more than just a dog. She was my Lassie for a little while.”

Author's note: This was written for the fic_inspiration community on LJ, the challenge, to write a fic based on an assigned chapter title.

The King of Rohan turned from contemplating the city below his window. “I miss the green plains of the Riddermark,” he sighed. “Yes, my lord Steward. My sister tells me that you are the reason she did not obey my summons to come to me at Cormallen.”

DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

Whistling merrily, Pippin backed in through the kitchen door of Crickhollow, both hands being occupied by a rather large basket. He turned and gave the door a shove with his rump, and then went to the table to put his burden down.

Still whistling, he went to the pump at the sink and washed his hands before filling the kettle for some tea. He took out the bread to cut a sandwich; he’d eat his elevenses as he worked on cooking luncheon. For today at lunchtime, Merry and Estella would be returning from the Hall with little Wyn.

It had been a bit lonesome for the last month. Cousin Dody and Mistress Thorn had insisted that Estella finish her confinement at Brandy Hall. So Merry had gone with her to stay in his parents’ apartment until after the baby was born. They had been there for two months, but Pippin had spent the first month making visits to the Great Smials, Bag End and Budgeford, before coming back. He wanted to be nearby for that last month, lest the babe come early.

So he had been living alone in the little house, which had seemed very strange. In some ways, it had been a bit fun doing whatever he wished whenever he wished, without having anyone there to worry about inconveniencing, but mostly it was boring and lonely. He had taken the largest part of his meals at the Hall, and spent a good deal of time there. He had also gone into Newbury to the inn several times. Not for the first time he marveled at how Bilbo and Frodo had lived alone for so many years. It would have driven him insane, he thought. But maybe it had been because of the Ring. He’d often wondered about that.

But now his cousins were coming home, and with the little one. And he was going to have a lovely surprise for their luncheon.

When he’d been at Bag End this last time, he’d prevailed on Sam to give him a few lessons on pastry. He was a pretty fair baker--he and Merry often made scones, bread, cakes, and biscuits both savory and sweet. They had a mess to clean up afterwards, as they usually ended up in a flour fight. But neither of them had ever had much success with a nice flaky pie crust. Sam, on the other hand, had a wonderfully light hand with pastry, and his pies were always lovely. After a few lessons, they had both baked apple pies and presented them to Rose to see if she could tell which was Sam’s. Sam was insufferably pleased with his skill as a teacher when she proclaimed them both to be perfectly lovely, and couldn’t judge between them.

He alternated working on the pastry with sips of tea and bites of cucumber sandwich. Taking out a deep dish, he lined it with half the pastry, and then set it aside with the remainder, covered with a damp tea towel lest it dry out while he made the filling.

He turned to the basket, and took out the beautiful mushrooms he’d gathered that morning in a nearby copse, as well as a number he had purchased from their neighbor, Mr. Boffin. He chuckled. It was a shame there was no time for a raid across the River at Farmer Maggot’s. Mushrooms purloined from the Marish--those mushrooms always tasted better for some reason. But no, it was not lack of time. He was all grown up now, and so was Merry, and those days were behind them.

He put the skillet on the stove to heat, as he cleaned and chopped the mushrooms and a bit of onion. Then he tossed in a knob of butter; as soon as it melted, he put in the mushrooms and onion and began to stir them about. As they began to give up their juices, he moved the skillet to the back of the stove and went to slice the lovely cheese he had found at the Farmer’s Market in Bucklebury the day before.

It was going to seem odd to have a baby in the house, though he was looking forward to having her about to play with. He missed his nieces and nephews.

Merry had been certain that the child would be a lad. They had planned to name him Peridoc, which had chuffed Pippin no end, but there had been all kinds of fuss over a girl’s name. Merry had wanted to name her Éowyn, after his shield-sister in Rohan, but his Brandybuck relations had all hit the ceiling at this notion. Brandybuck girls *always* had flower names--*always*! Surprisingly, even Merry’s mum, his Aunt Esme, had been on the side of a flower name.

But his Merry was nothing if not clever. “Very well,” he had said, “if she cannot be named after my sister in Rohan, then she shall be named Simbelmynë after a flower that grows there.” From this he would not be moved, in spite of complaints that no one would be able to pronounce such a name. “Then I suppose,” he had said, “we will have to call her Éowyn for short.” So in the records of Brandy Hall, she was listed as Simbelmynë Brandybuck, everyone called her Éowyn the first day, and before the second day was out, it had been shortened to Wyn. Pippin would be willing to bet that by the time of her third birthday no one would even remember her official name unless they looked in the book.

Pippin began to assemble the pie, alternating the mushroom filling with the cheese, occasionally popping a bit of cheese into his own mouth. He rolled out the remaining pastry and covered the top, cutting little slits in it, before setting it in the oven. While it baked, he would make up a salad of greens from the little garden in the back, and he would pick some strawberries for dessert. He had put a bit of clotted cream in the larder to go with them.

He had just removed the pie from the oven when he heard the sound of the pony-trap, and he went to greet them.

“Hullo, Pip!” said Merry. He put a finger on Pippin’s nose and it came away floury. “Been baking?”

“That sounds lovely, Pippin,” said Estella, as she handed Wyn to Merry. “We missed elevenses getting ready to leave.”

Merry handed his daughter to his cousin, so that he could help his wife down. Pippin took the little one expertly, looking at her perfect little face with adoration. Babies were lovely. He sighed; over two more years before he and Diamond could wed and start a family. Though he was now of age, she still was not, and she had to finish her apprenticeship, as well.

He looked at his cousins fondly. “I’m glad you’re home, now. It’s been dreadfully dull around here.”

Estella laughed. “I don’t think it will be a bit dull now, with a baby about. We shall all probably *long* for a bit of dullness in a few days. Now, how about that lunch?”

An hour later, Estella nursed her daughter as they still sat at the table. There was not a crumb of food left to be seen.

“I think,” said Merry, “that if you are going to feed us like this every time we go away for a bit, then we shall have to go away more often!”

Pippin gave a shudder. “Heavens, no! It’s far too quiet around here when you are gone. I should never get any rest.”

Merry gave his younger cousin a squeeze on the arm. “We’re glad we’re home, too, Pip.”

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a skillet sauté the mushrooms and onion until soft; season to taste. Line a deep dish with the bottom crust; then arrange about half the cheese in the crust. Then put in half the mushroom mixture. Repeat with another layer of cheese and mushroom mixture.

Bake for 45 to 50 minutes, or until golden brown. Let stand for about 5 to 10 minutes before cutting. Serve hot.

*Not having a Sam to give me pastry lessons, I usually content myself with a refrigerated pre-made crust, although I sometimes make a pie-crust made with oil instead of shortening.

**I usually use either provolone or Swiss, sometimes both. You can save yourself the slicing if you get it at the deli.

I’m sorry that I got in trouble and couldn’t come with you on your walking trip. I hope you have fun anyway.

Mother told me I will wear out my sigher. I don’t think that’s possible, do you? Father has set me some lessons.

I certainly didn’t mean to get into any more trouble than I am already, and I really didn’t mean to make Pimmie and Vinca so mad at me. But it was funny to see them jump when the crickets came out of the sugar bowl.

Well, Father let me back out of my room. I played my fiddle for the family last night after tea, and Auntie Peridot asked if I want to learn the lap harp. So now I’m learning a new instrument.

You said in your letter that you were going to go through the Woody End. I wish I could get away to see you for a bit, but I guess that wouldn’t be such a good idea.

Auntie has taught me several new songs. I can play “Nob o’ the Lea” and “ Tookland Jig” and “Upon the Hearth” one tune of it, anyway. She won’t teach me “Ho, Ho, Ho, to the Bottle I Go”, as she said that kind of thing got me in enough trouble. I don’t see what that has to do with it, it’s just a jolly tune, and I don’t have to sing the words. Oh, well.

Well, I have been practicing both my instruments rather a lot. There’s nothing else to do this summer, since I can’t see you.

Mother says even though I play very well, she could use a break, and told me to take my practicing outside.

That’s just fine with me. It’s a lot more pleasant in the garden than it is in my room.

You said in your letter you are going back to Bag End now. Please tell Sam hello from me. Merry, are you going to stay there until The Birthday? I will be over my punishment by then.

Yesterday I listened to Cousin Ferdinand play the Tookland pipes. Now that looks like an interesting insturment to learn.

Frodo, don’t be too mad at Merry for that trick he played on you. I’m sure the molasses will come out of your shirt, and it’s not like you don’t have plenty of shirts anyway. I wish I’d seen your face though.

Anyway, Cousin Ferdinand said he will teach me the pipes. He’s given me a chanter to practice on. I have to admit it doesn’t sound very pleasant yet, but I’m just starting. There was no call for Vinca to say I was torturing the cats. But Father says I have to practice outside from now on.

I am getting very good on my chanter. Cousin Ferdinand has me playing tunes on it. I can play “Down the Green Hills” and the tune to the Tangle Dance, and a few others. He says that if I keep it up, in a few days he will let me play on a “goose” which is rather in between the pipes and the chanter.

Merry do you have any idea about you know what? Write to me without showing Frodo. (Sorry, Frodo.)

Don’t show this one to Frodo. Do you know what he’s got me for his birthday? Don’t tell me you haven’t snooped. I know you have.

And don’t tell Frodo, but I am learning a special song to play for him at his party.

Don’t be upset that I wrote just to Merry. I love you, too. But I had to tell him something.

Cousin Ferdinand talked to Father about how good I am getting with the pipes. He made Father come out and listen, and Father agreed, so I am to get my very own set!

I am really excited about it. Just think, if I had not got in trouble, I never would have learned to play the lap harp or the pipes! So I suppose it has turned out well after all, though I still am sorry for what I did.

It’s only a week now until The Birthday, and Father has said I have finished my punishment. He is taking me into Tuckborough himself tomorrow, and he is treating me to a half at The Bouncing Bunny!

And then we will be coming to Bag End in just a few days! I hope you have a really big cake, Frodo! And Merry, don’t you say I should only get one piece. I will NOT be bouncing off the walls!

Pippin stood proudly with his Tookland pipes beneath the Party Tree, the lantern light glinting off his chestnut curls, as he lifted them to begin to play.

Frodo, Merry and the rest of the family and guests stood watching and listening. Merry was a bit anxious, for he’d not yet heard Pippin play the pipes, and hoped that it would all go well.

Soon, the notes of a familiar song began to waft out from the Hill, to be heard far and wide, old Bilbo’s favorite walking song, “The Road Goes Ever On”.

Frodo’s blue eyes glinted with pride and tears, as he listened to his young cousin’s tribute.

SUMMARY: In which Sam finds himself in a predicament, Pippin sneezes, and Strider learns the usefulness of gardeners…(written for LJ hobbit_ficathon)

Sam leaned miserably against the tree and sighed. How had he got so turned around?

After a miserable day sludging through the marshes pursued by midges and the incessant sounds of the Neekerbreekers, they had finally stopped. Strider had led them to a small hollow to camp. It was a damp, cold place, and he had only grudgingly consented to their request for a fire. It had only been poor Mr. Pippin’s sneezes and runny nose that had finally made him agree, as of course it would slow them even more if he got really sick.

The Man had stalked off, saying he was going to find some herbs that would help, and had instructed them to set up the camp and not to stray.

Sam decided to go himself for the firewood; Mr. Pippin was too tired to move, and Mr. Merry and Mr. Frodo weren’t about to leave the lad’s side with him feeling poorly.

Sam at first had stayed nearby, but there wasn’t much in the way of dry firewood, and he found himself going further than he meant.

It wasn’t until he had an armload, that he realized the very thing that made the hollow safe for a campsite and a fire was the fact that it was rather hidden from view. He couldn’t see it.

There was no help from the sky. The night was damp and foggy. Looking at the trees around him, he realized he’d no idea in which direction to go.

And of course he couldn’t call out, not with the chances that there might still be Black Riders out there somewhere. He could well be just a few feet from the others--or not--and he’d never know.

With a sigh, he sank down against the tree, realizing that any attempt to find his way back could just as well take him in the wrong direction. Mr. Strider was going to be mightily put out with him.

Tucked between his two older cousins, Pippin was shivering and sniffling. He gave another sneeze. “I’m sorry.” He swiped the back of his hand across his nose. He hadn’t any dry handkerchiefs left.

“It’s all right, Pip,” said Merry. “Sam will be here soon with some firewood, and we’ll get warm then.” Merry looked across Pippin to Frodo’s worried gaze.

He could tell that Frodo was thinking the same thing he was. Sam had been gone rather a long time to get firewood. What if something had happened to him? And how soon would Strider be back?

Aragorn made his way through the brush cautiously, keeping an eye out for any of the plants he knew would be useful in clearing up the youngest hobbit’s congestion. He had already found rosehips, and some wild garlic, but he hoped to come across a few things more useful. No sign of athelas of course, this was not near enough to any of the old settlements of the Northerners to have any growing nearby.

He found himself feeling a bit impatient. These small people were trying hard, but it was obvious they had no idea of what it meant to tramp the wilderness while trying to avoid pursuit, and they clearly were used to more frequent meals. And the youngest one did not seem to have the sturdy constitution of the three older ones. His healer’s eye indicated that the lad probably had weak lungs, and was prone to falling ill easily. He was surprised that his solicitous older cousins had even allowed him to come on this journey.

His mind kept wandering to Gandalf, and to the trouble caused by the delay in Frodo’s receiving the wizard’s letter. He hoped that when Gandalf did come through Bree that he put a good scare into old Butterbur. Ahh…there was some wild thyme, it would be useful, though not as useful as some others he could name. Still, it was going to have to do. He dared not wander any further from his charges. He would head back, and hope that a fire had been started. Some tea, and a bit of steam would help Pippin.

Sam sat there trying to see how many of the Gaffer’s names for himself he could come up with. He had started with “ninnyhammer” and “noodle”, and had proceeded through a goodly number of other less flattering terms, and was beginning to have to try and think up some of his own.

Mr. Gandalf had entrusted Mr. Frodo to him. He sure wasn’t doing much of a job of it right now. Or at all, come to that. The Elves had saved them from the Black Riders that first time; and then Farmer Maggot. And in the Old Forest it was Tom Bombadil who had saved them all from the angry trees and the Barrow-wights. And then they got to Bree and had to rely on Strider. Even in spite of the wizard’s letter and Mr. Frodo’s assurances, Sam was still none too sure of Mr. Strider. But at no time had *Sam* been of any use at all so far.

“Samwise Gamgee, you might just as well’ve stayed put in Bagshot Row for all the good you’ve done your master.”

He was beginning to feel chilled and stiff. Although he knew he needed to stay put if he were not to get lost any more than he already was, he stood up to stretch and move about a little, in order to warm up. He stacked the wood next to the tree, and then took notice of what kind of tree it was. Why, it’s a wild cherry tree, he thought. The bark would do Mr. Pippin good, if he remembered aright. He took out a small knife and carefully began to take some of the bark.

Merry and Frodo had begun to exchange very anxious glances. Sam should have been back long ago. Merry could tell that Frodo wanted badly to go look for his friend, but they both knew it would not be wise to leave the area. It would be no help if the searcher also got lost.

Pippin sneezed again, then began to cough. “Frodo, shouldn’t Sam be back by now?” he whispered hoarsely.

Frodo’s arm tightened around Pippin’s shoulders. “Don’t worry about Sam,” he said unconvincingly. “I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

Aragorn stiffened at the sound of something moving. If it were an animal, maybe some small game, it would be worth the time to replenish their food supply. He glanced carefully in the direction from which the slight noise had come, and sighed.

Sam jumped as though stung. “Mr. Strider, sir! I’m that glad to see you! I got turned around finding the firewood, see, and--”

“It’s all right Samwise. I see that you have found the wood. But what were you doing just now?”

“Well, sir, seeing as how you were hoping to find things to dose poor Mr. Pippin, and seeing as how this is a wild cherry tree--”

“Very good, Sam. Wild cherry bark will be very helpful. I had hoped to find some horehound or some mallow, but had no luck.”

“I saw some mallow, Mr. Strider, just before we came to the campsite, but I don’t know where--”

“I’ll lead you to the spot where we approached the hollow, Sam, if you are sure.”

Just when Merry had reached the point where he thought he would have to get up and do something, anything, they heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

“Strider! And Sam!” Merry was more relieved than he could say to see them both.

“Sam!” said Frodo, “you were gone so long I thought you might have been lost!”

Strider smiled. “I ran across Sam in his search for firewood, and asked him to lend his gardener’s eye to me. He helped me to find several plants that I believe will help young Master Pippin to feel much better.”

Sam met the Man’s eyes gratefully. Maybe he was a pretty good sort after all; at least now Mr. Merry and Mr. Frodo wouldn’t know he’d been such a ninnyhammer as to get lost.

Aragorn smiled at him in return. These hobbits might prove themselves more able than he had first thought.

AUTHOR’S NOTES: Frodo is 24, Sam is almost 11, Merry has just turned 9 and Marigold is 8. ( 15, 7, 6 and 5 in Man years.)

DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

“Merry, why don’t you go outside and see if you can find Sam? I really do need to finish up this bit of copying for Uncle Bilbo. And it’s a lovely spring morning--I’ll be out myself as soon as I’m done, I promise.”

Merry sighed. He knew it was a lovely spring day. The breeze was billowing the curtains slightly, and the sky was ever so blue. He could hear the birds singing and smell the freshness of the clipped grass and the flowers beneath the window. He wanted his Frodo to come out with him, now. He set his determined little chin, and got ready to wheedle, but Frodo just looked at him reproachfully with those blue eyes. He sighed again, and deflated. Maybe he could find Sam. His little shoulders slumped and he headed out of the smial.

Frodo watched him go regretfully. He hated to disappoint his Merry like that. But Bilbo needed this text copied. Gandalf would be leaving soon and would have to return the original to Lord Elrond in Rivendell. And Frodo was a much neater and faster copyist than Bilbo.

Merry stood on the steps for a moment, trying to think where to look. He knew the Gaffer was somewhere about, and Sam ought to be with him. He listened carefully, and then heard the Gaffer’s rather tuneless whistling, coming from the south side of the smial. He trotted in that direction.

The Gaffer was mulching a bed of bulbs that had begun to send their leaves shooting up. Soon daffodils and narcissus would be showing their blooms. He felt the little hobbit staring at him, and turned.

“I’m fine, Gaffer. Where’s Sam?” For usually Sam was right by his father’s side, helping.

“Sam’s about someplace. He’s to keep an eye on Marigold today; his ma’s had to go over to help her sister-in-law with the new babe.”

“That’s a nice name,” said Merry politely, losing interest. It would have been different if it had been a lad. Lasses were nice, but lad cousins were better. He thought about his baby cousin Pippin, and wished he were not so far off in Tookland. It would be a few weeks yet before his parents picked him up and took him to Whitwell to visit with Uncle Paladin and Aunt Tina and Pippin.

Merry left the Gaffer, and tried to think of where to look for Sam. After a few moments, he went to the south side of the smial, near the kitchen windows. There were two lilac bushes growing there, just far enough away to leave an interesting little gap behind them. It made a nice shady spot to hide away from grown-ups, and he and Sam often made use of it.

Sure enough, Sam was there, and so was Marigold. Merry could hear her voice. “No, Sammy. Those are plates! And these are teacups! Now, be nice.”

Sam sighed, not noticing when Merry peeked around the edge of one of the bushes, which is where they would crawl through.

Merry giggled at the sight. Marigold had laid out several large leaves, and was making her older brother play tea-party. At the sound of his laugh, Sam looked up and blushed. “Hullo, Merry.”

Marigold looked at him, brown eyes flashing. “Merry, if you come in my house, you have to have tea, too!”

Merry bit his lip and looked at Sam. Marigold was just as bossy as his cousin Pervinca. Sam shrugged and shook his head, as if to say, “she’s just a lass, what can I do?” and Merry returned the shrug. He crawled through to the little open area, and sat up next to Sam, folding his legs tailor fashion.

“So, Mari, this is your house, now, is it?” he asked. Sam elbowed him slightly. But Merry wasn’t making fun. He quite liked Marigold, and thought she was a funny little lass. And it was not like anyone else knew he was playing tea-party with a lass, besides Sam.

“Yes, it is,” she said firmly. She picked up one of the larger leaves, and handed it to him. “Would you care for some biscuits and tea cakes?”

Frodo put down the quill, and gave a sigh, leaning back and stretching his arms above his head, flapping his hands. Copying was very absorbing work, and took a lot of concentration, but he was finished now. He capped the ink, and gave one more look over the page. Then he got up to go let Bilbo know he had completed the work.

He found both Bilbo and Gandalf in the kitchen. But they were not talking, they were standing very still near the window and listening.

Gandalf looked in his direction, and putting a finger to his lips, gestured for Frodo to come near.

“--and these are sugar biscuits, and this is honeycakes. And this one is some cucumber sandwiches, and some egg sandwiches--” came a high pitched young voice.

“Sam--” this was a whisper, clearly Merry’s. “--I’m starting to get hungry for real--”

“I know,” came another whisper, a slightly desperate note in it, “me, too.”

“And here,” came the first voice, “let me pour you some tea. Would you care for some honey in your tea, Merry?”

Bilbo put a hand to his mouth to stifle a snigger. Gandalf grinned, and gesturing to Frodo to hand him the plate of sandwiches Bilbo had prepared for elevenses, he reached out the window with his long arm and handed it down.

In their little cubbyhole, the three startled children looked up to see the plate coming down, loaded with lovely sandwiches. Sam automatically reached up to take it, eyes wide. Merry did the same for the small tray with a pitcher and cups that followed. They gazed at one another in stunned silence for a moment, Marigold’s little mouth forming a perfect “o”.

And in the kitchen, Frodo, Bilbo and Gandalf were turning several interesting shades of red, as they stifled their laughter.

As I watch the waters recede, I think of the things I have learned over the years, that have stood me in good stead now that I am Master of Buckland.

From my father, I learned the value of being prepared, thinking ahead, making plans, devising ways to carry out those plans.

And on the Quest, I learned that plans go awry: that hope may suffice when plans do not, determination may suffice when hope is gone, and success may come when least expected.

But today I learned this: I may Master Buckland, but I will never master the Brandywine.

Galadriel took the small box from her chest. It had been very nearly an age since a small brooch, a gift of her daughter, had resided in that box.

She carried it from her chamber, and went from the high flet, down, down, to the glade where the fountain played, where her Mirror was. The Sun had barely made her way over the horizon, and the morning was fair, as were all the mornings in the Golden Wood.

Last night, she had filled a crystal with the water of her fountain and the Light of Eärendil. This morning, in the glow of Anor’s dawn, she bent, and heedless of her white hands, she swept up the rich and fragrant loam, filling the small box. She stood, and brushed her hands off, and then held out her hand. Speaking softly in Quenyan, she placed her other hand on the trunk of the stately mallorn.

Her hand stung, as the small nut fell the great distance from branch to the palm of her hand. Smiling, she placed it in the box with the soil, and closed the lid. On silent feet she walked toward the glade where the members of the Fellowship were making ready to leave Lothlórien. She stopped where she would not be seen, and watched, and listened.

Frodo and Sam stood a little apart. Sam’s head was bent, his face sad. Frodo had laid a comforting arm on his friend’s shoulder. “I know that I’m meant to go on with you, Mr. Frodo, and I’d not do aught else, now I’m thinking clear in the light of day. But if the Lady’s Mirror *did* tell true, we’ll not know the Shire when we get home…”

“Oh, Sam,” said Frodo sorrowfully. “I don’t know what to tell you. She said that some things we saw might never come to pass; we will just have to trust that this was one of those things.”

Sam nodded sturdily. “You’re right Mr. Frodo. And it‘s not like we won‘t be doing more good for the Shire by going on…”

Galadriel smiled, though there were tears standing in her eyes. She ran her hand over the box, and traced the letter graven on its lid. “G,” she murmured, “for Galadriel, for Gamgee, for gardener, for gift, for grace, for good, for green, and for growing…”

And though the Three might fail, and Lothlórien fade, yet still all would not be gone nor the Golden Wood forgotten, when a lone mallorn made its home in the blessed Shire.

I decided to summarize selected chapters of the Fellowship of the Ring in the style of one of my favorite poets, Ogden Nash, of "Shake, shake, shake the bottle, None'll come and then a lot'll" fame, his wonderful tribute to ketchup. Done for the hobbit_ficathon challenge to depict an incident from the books in the style of another writer.

If you want folks to think you’re stable,
Do not dance upon the table.
And if you would avoid a frown,
Don’t vanish when you hit the ground.

Some folks think this chapter’s boring,
Because there is no fighting or magic or sex ( of which there is none to be spoken of anywhere else in the book, either, so that’s beside the point) and so it leaves them snoring.
But when you consider that it covers four thousand eight hundred and fifty nine and three quarters years of history,
That it’s not even more boring is a mystery.

Journeys can be very uncomfortable and depressing when having to walk the whole way there, and one thing can be told:
Climbing mountains is cold.
And gets one no closer to the destination;
Why bother? There’s no explanation.

Perch with Elves among the trees,
Feeling every wayward breeze.
Take your time, no need to run.
Time flies when you’re having fun.

Carrying around a Ring of power can be very depressing,
Especially when with your friend’s mind it is messing.
Go on the lam.
But don’t forget Sam.

Faramir opened the curtain, peered within, where the hobbits lay: Frodo exhausted, shadows like bruises on his pale face; Sam, even in sleep a worried furrow on his brow, an arm flung across his master.

He felt a stir of protectiveness and love. So small, so determined, so valiant. Their mission was hopeless…would he not be doing them a favor to hinder it?

“ ‘Not if I found it on the highway would I take it…’ Well that I gave oath before I knew whereof I spoke.” He laughed ruefully.

Frodo looked out the window of the room he was using at the Cotton’s farm. A small smile touched his solemn features, as he watched the two figures, limned in moonlight beneath the stars, their silhouettes black against the deep indigo night. They drew apart, still holding hands, then their heads came together briefly. Turning, the two figures merged into one shadow as they gazed upward, arms about one another. Drawing apart again, they moved to return to the house, resolving as they drew nearer to the light into the features of Sam and Rosie.

AUTHOR’S NOTES: In this story, Frodo is 30, Sam, Fatty, Folco and Tom are all about 18, Merry and Jolly are 16, Nick is 14, Nibs is 9, and Pippin is almost 8 ( Or 19, 12, 10, 8 and a half, 6, and 5 in Man years.)

MARIGOLD’S STARTER: At least some of it must take place in a waggon or coach between Buckland and Tookland.

On the lawn in front of Bag End, four young hobbits were arrayed. Folco Boffin was, as usual, playing on his wooden flute; his friend Fatty Bolger was happy to simply sprawl on the grass and digest his luncheon. Merry Brandybuck and Samwise Gamgee sat nearby, playing at Stones.

Fatty’s father, Odovocar, had come to see Bilbo on business, and as he was using the coach and knew that Merry was there for his annual spring visit, he had brought the two lads along. It was a Highday afternoon, an afternoon of rest for working hobbits, so Sam was free of toil. But Bilbo had asked Frodo, who was very nearly of age--he’d be thirty-one on his next birthday--to sit in on the business discussions.

And Pippin was down for a nap. Merry had been more pleased than he could say that his beloved younger cousin had finally been allowed to make a visit on his own to Bag End while he was there. True, they were only allowing Pippin to stay three weeks instead of the month and half to two months that Merry usually stayed. And Aunt Tina had been very emphatic about some things: “Be very careful about how many sweets you allow him to have if you hope for the visit to end with your hole still standing. Don’t let him stay up too late. Don’t let him get chilled. Make sure he takes his tonic every day. And he should also take a nap every day after luncheon.” There had been a good many more instructions, all repeated several times for emphasis, before Paladin was able to get her in the pony-trap for their return to Whitwell.

Sam was showing Merry how to catch five stones on the back of the hand, when the children’s attention was caught by the rumble of a waggon approaching and stopping before the gate. The lads jumped up and ran down the path to the road. A sturdy, weatherbeaten hobbit with a jolly face was driving the rig, and in the back of the waggon were four hobbit lads.

“ ‘Afternoon, Sammy, Master Merry,” he replied, looking curiously at Fatty and Folco.

Merry did the honors. “Mr. Cotton, this is Fredegar Bolger; he is my third cousin on our mothers’ sides, and he is Frodo’s second cousin once removed. And this is Folco Boffin. He is Frodo’s first cousin once removed on the Baggins side.”

Fatty made a polite bow. “At your service, Mr. Cotton.” He glanced at Folco who was staring at the lads, and poked him with an elbow.

The farmer suppressed a smile. “At yours and your families’, young sirs. These are my sons, Tom, Jolly, Nick and Nibs.” The young hobbits in the back gave brief, somewhat abashed, nods.

“Sam,” said the farmer, “I come up to bring some tools to the blacksmith to be fixed. I left Rosie off at your hole to play with Marigold, and spoke to your Gaffer. I thought mayhap you lads might like to come along for a visit with mine. I’m picking Rosie up, and the tools, after teatime, and can bring you back then. Your friends are welcome to come along too.”

Sam’s face lit up, but he looked at Merry. He’d not go off and leave him. Merry shot a glance at Fatty and Folco. Fatty smiled and nodded; Folco just shrugged.

Merry grinned. “That sounds splendid, Mr. Cotton. But I will have to ask permission of my Cousin Bilbo, first.”

Merry dashed up the path to Bag End. Entering the smial, he turned and stood in the doorway to the front room. Bilbo and Odovocar were talking. Frodo was sitting there with a very wide awake Pippin on his knee. The young Took was fidgeting and playing with Frodo’s buttons. Merry was not at all surprised to see his cousin awake, but was mildly astonished that he was not tearing around the hole wreaking havoc.

For although Bilbo had been fairly firm in the matter of bedtimes and tonics, all Pippin had to do in the matter of sweets was to widen the big green eyes and tremble the lower lip, and the elderly Baggins relented almost immediately. There had, so far that day, been extra honey on the griddlecakes at first breakfast, extra jam on the scones at second breakfast, gingersnaps and a cup of warm milk with honey at elevenses, and strawberry tarts at luncheon. He watched Pippin squirm a bit, and Frodo pulled the lad closer, hoping to calm him with cuddles. But Merry knew that even Frodo’s legendary calming influence over their little cousin would not be enough after that many sweets. He cleared his throat to get their attention.

Merry noticed that Pippin had increased his wriggling in Frodo’s grasp. He braced himself.

“No, sir. But Farmer Cotton has invited us all to go to his home and play with his lads this afternoon--” He gave an “oof!” as Pippin, finally slipping out of Frodo’s arms, plowed into him, hugging him as if he had not seen him for days, instead of only since luncheon.

“Well, I think that sounds like a wonderful plan, don’t you, Odovocar?” said Bilbo.

Odovocar pursed his lips. No doubt his wife ,Rosamunda, would not be happy at the thought of their Fredegar spending time with a farmer’s children, but he could not see the harm in it. He nodded.

Pippin was vibrating like a fiddle string, and only Merry’s firm hand on his shoulder kept him from hopping up and down.

Bilbo looked at them with a twinkle. “I do not believe that young Peregrin is at all sleepy this afternoon. Why don’t you take him along as well?”

Merry looked at the relief in Frodo’s blue eyes and grinned. With a whole farm to run about on, Pippin could easily get rid of some of his excess energy. “Certainly, Cousin Bilbo!”

Now Pippin *did* start bouncing up and down. “Oh glory! Merry are they nice lads? How many are there? Can--”

Merry quieted him by the simple expedient of a gentle hand over his mouth. “Go and get your jacket and your scarf, Pip.” Pippin shot away at once.

In only a few moments, Merry came down the path, Pippin’s hand in his, as he skipped next to Merry. Merry looked up at the farmer. “This is my little cousin, Peregrin Took. Everybody calls him Pippin.”

Normally Pippin had enough manners to acknowledge an introduction properly, but he was far too excited now. “Hullo. My father is a farmer too!”

Old Tom Cotton suppressed a laugh. He knew of Pippin’s father. Paladin Took might be a farmer strictly speaking, but he had a mort of other folk to do most of the work. And everybody knew he was in line to be Thain, unless by some miracle old Ferumbras should wed and have children. No one really looked to that happening now. “Well, now, lad, isn’t that interesting? Hop in now, and make the acquaintance of my sons.”

Soon Sam, Merry, Pippin, Fatty and Folco had all clambered into the back. It had become a bit crowded, so Merry took Pippin on his lap.

Sam and Tom were soon chattering away. Tom was Sam’s closest friend of his own age. Nibs was looking curiously at Pippin.

“He’s just a faunt, ain’t he?” His brother Nick kicked him in the shins.

Pippin looked highly indignant. “I am not! I’m eight!” Merry squeezed him. “Well, I’ll be eight on my birthday next month.”

“Oh,” said Nibs, rubbing his leg, “that’s all right, then.” But he looked at Pippin in surprise. Nibs was only a year older, but he was a good head and half taller, and he outweighed the Took lad by a good deal as well.

Pretty soon Pippin began to sing. That was, after all what he did when he rode in the waggon with his own family.

“Robbity, robbity robin
Goes bobbity, bobbity bobbin’
He’s hoppity, hoppity hoppin’
Along, along, along!”

“A hobbity, hobbity hobbit
Hears robbity, robbity robin
Throbbity, throbbity throbbin’
A song, a song, a song!”

Old Tom smiled to hear it. His smile faded, though when the song ended, and the next one began.

“One hundred apple pies, cooling on the sill,
Snatch one down
To eat our fill.
Pass it around,
No need to fight--
Everybody has a bite!”

The farmer winced. He was glad the ride to the farm would be a short one. This was the song most dreaded by every Shire parent on a journey with children.

“Ninety-nine apple pies, cooling on the sill
Snatch one down
To eat our fill.
Pass it around,
No need to fight--
Everybody has a bite!
Ninety-eight apple pies…”

He was beginning to feel a bit desperate as they pulled into the lane leading down to the farmhouse.

“Oh, we’re home!” shouted Jolly, breaking off the song. The lads began to chatter, as Tom and Jolly thought of things they could do with their afternoon of freedom and unaccustomed playmates.

Lily Cotton left off hanging the wash on the line and went over to greet her family, and be introduced to the young guests.

Tom went into the house, and fetched a ball. Lily gestured to Jolly and Nick to come in for a moment as well, and sent them back out with two good sized jugs of cold fruit tea.

Jolly spoke up. “Ma said that it ‘d be a good idea to go to the north pasture to play. We can put the jugs in the brook to keep cool.”

This was considered a good idea, and the lads headed in that direction, sometimes walking, sometimes running, sometimes balancing on the fence rail, and sometimes stopping to look at an interesting bug or rock. Pippin kept racing ahead and then running back. Tom watched in fascination. “Doesn’t he ever get tired?”

The next time Pippin did that, Sam swept him up as he ran back, and plunked him down atop his own sturdy shoulders. “You just ride up there for a while now, Master Pippin.” Pippin squealed in delight.

Merry sighed. Although he still forgot sometimes, Sam’s Gaffer had told him that this year he had to start saying “Mr. Merry” and “Master Pippin”; that he was too old to be calling the gentry by their first names only anymore. It made Merry feel sad, but he did not want Sam to get in trouble with his father, so he put up with it. But when Sam did forget, Merry was glad. He wished Sam’s father was not so proper all the time. He was afraid it was going to make Sam all proper and boring. He was afraid maybe they wouldn’t be able to be friends much longer.

He forgot his gloomy thoughts though, when Jolly Cotton tagged him from the back and kept running, yelling “Race you!” Merry took off, and soon caught up, and then passed him, as they approached the north pasture.

It was covered in clover and wildflowers, and there was a small brook running through one corner. A wooded copse stood to the east, just beyond the fence; to the south was a field of potatoes, and the lane ran alongside the fence on the west. The north edge of the pasture was bounded by a long, thick bramble hedge.

“What’s on the other side of the hedge?” Merry asked Tom, as Sam put Pippin down and all the younger lads ran in the direction of the stream to put the jugs in to keep cool.

Sam and Tom exchanged a glance, and Tom replied “That’s old Farmer Harfoot’s place. You want to stay away from there.”

“No, but he chased Jolly with a rake one time, and he wasn’t even on his property. All he was doing was picking blackberries on the fence-line by the lane!”

“Well,” said Fatty, “it looks like you’ve plenty of blackberries on this side of the hedge.” He looked hopeful. He really liked blackberries.

Sam shook his head. “Not this time of year, Mr. Freddy. They’ll not be ripe for some weeks yet. See how many blossoms are still there? It’ll be nigh onto summer before they really start to ripen.” Fatty’s face fell.

The lads were soon sprawled in the soft clover, chatting of different things and getting to know one another. Except for Pippin, who had used Merry’s stomach to bounce on, until Merry finally rolled him off. “Enough, Pip, or I’ll tickle.” This threat sent the youngest in Sam’s direction.

“Don’t even think about it, Master Pippin,” Sam said firmly. Pippin’s eyes widened, and he looked a bit taken aback at this. Then Pippin eyed Fatty’s ample middle. In self-defense, Fatty rolled over without saying a word. Folco sat up, also putting his stomach off limits.

Merry cast an eye in Pippin’s direction. Pippin was showing off for the new lads, he thought. Well, let him have something to show.

Pippin’s face lit up. “All right!” He plopped himself down on the ground, and folding his legs up tailor-fashion, he put his face in his lap between his knees, and wrapped his arms around them so that he was all tucked up in a ball like a hedgehog. Then he rocked back and forth a few times, until he began to move. He rolled about like a ball.

The Cotton lads watched him with amazement. “Ooh!” exclaimed Nibs. “I want to try that!” He sat down and tried to tuck himself up the same way, but did not have much success.

Pippin uncurled himself and went over to watch critically. “Here, put your face down a little more. And move your hands closer together. Put your fingers together.”

Pretty soon Nibs and Nick as well were also rolling about. Pippin had gone on to demonstrate handsprings and cartwheels as well.

“He’s got three big sisters. They taught him how to do those tricks. It keeps him busy. Otherwise he’d wear them out watching him.” answered Merry. “He has a lot of energy.”

“Aye,” said Tom. “I can see that.” He rolled over and looked at Sam. “I brought the ball. Why don’t we play kick-the-ball?”

This idea met with general approval, except for Fatty, who merely looked resigned. He was not especially good at playing ball.

Tom sent Nibs down to fetch one of the jugs of tea, and they passed it around while sorting out the teams. Sam was captain of one and Tom of the other. It was decided that the easiest thing would be for Sam and his friends to be one team, and the Cottons would be the other.

Folco eyed Pippin askance. “I don’t know, Sam. Isn’t he too little to play?”

Pippin’s face flamed with hurt and anger. “I’m *not* too little! I’m *not*!”

Merry was torn. On the one hand it, Folco was right--Pippin could get hurt. On the other hand, his feelings were already hurt, and it wouldn’t do to have him feeling left out. Merry could see the green eyes filling with tears already. Trust Folco to point out the obvious in the least tactful way possible. He gave a look to Sam, wondering what to say, when Fatty spoke up.

“Come on, Pippin, let’s you and I be the bounders! I can’t run nearly as fast as you! And I‘m taller. Between the two of us we should do fine!”

Merry and Sam grinned at each other. Good old Fatty! It was like him to come up with the perfect solution after Folco had put his furry foot in his mouth again. Fatty and Pippin would be on the very edge of play, watching for the ball to go out of bounds and return it to play if it did, but as that almost never happened, it was the ideal position for one who was not good at games. Merry gave his Bolger cousin a grateful smile. Fatty just chuckled. He always volunteered to play bounder when he couldn’t get out of playing altogether, and Pippin was too young to realize it was not an important position.

The game was tied. Over by the hedge, Pippin, who at first had watched eagerly for the ball to come his way, was now pre-occupied picking wildflowers. Fatty, who welcomed the boredom, was thinking about the story Bilbo had told them at luncheon, under his father’s disapproving eye, about the Elves, and how some of them had travelled over the Sea, while others had lingered behind. He wondered why so many had decided to stay then, but it seemed now were eager to leave. He heard a shout, and glanced up at the game. Merry had rolled, and Jolly had kicked--hard.

The ball sailed higher and higher. Fatty and Pippin both realized it was coming in their direction and ran together, but they hadn’t a hope of catching it. It kept going, up, up and over the hedge. There was a tall oak tree on the other side, and the ball neatly wedged in its branches, perfectly visible, and completely out of reach.

The lads from both teams all ran together, and then craned their necks to look up at the ball.

“You know,” said Folco thoughtfully “I guess that’s the reason the ball is supposed to stay on the ground.” This matter of fact observation earned him a glare from all the Cotton lads, and an elbow in the ribs from Fatty, who was all too used to Folco’s unfortunate habit of blurting out the first thing that came into his head.

Sam shook his head. “I don’t suppose there is any way we could throw something up there and dislodge it?”

“I don’t think that would work, Sam,” said Merry. “We might be able to dislodge it, but if we did, it would just fall down on that side of the hedge.” Merry was mindful of what Tom had said about Farmer Harfoot.

Tom sighed. “I suppose there’s nothing for it but to tell our dad. Maybe he can talk to Farmer Harfoot.” But he sounded doubtful. What a shame it was, too. That ball had been a gift from his Uncle Wil, on Wil’s last birthday.

Merry glanced down at his side, suddenly alarmed that he felt no presence there.

Pippin had watched the ball land in the tree. Well, he was a bounder; it was his job to get it. He glanced at the hedge. There were several spots he could have crawled through, but for all the briars. While the older lads discussed the problem in the middle of the field, he trotted along, parallel to the hedge towards the lane. He crawled under the lowest fence rail, where the hedge met the fence as it ran along the lane, and crept to the other side.

Eb Harfoot sat on a bench in front of the small cottage that served him instead of a smial, sharpening a hoe. All afternoon, he’d listened to those confounded Cotton children and their friends racketing around in the field. Why their father didn’t have them busy working was beyond him. Just because it was Highday didn’t mean there weren’t chores as needed doing. He had heard the thump, and looked up to see the ball in the tree. Good, he thought. They’ve lost their ball. Maybe they will leave and take all their noise with them.

He looked up with a start to see a very small hobbit standing on the bottom rail of the fence. He’d never seen this one before. He scowled. This one was awful young; looked like the bigger ones had sent a baby to do their dirty work.

Oh listen to him, thought the farmer. Butter wouldn’t melt in his little mouth. He looked at the ball, a good fifteen feet above the ground, and then gave a sarcastic smirk. “Help yourself.” He knew that was impossible. Next thing, the lad would be crying.

The others had begun to call out as well. Merry looked once more at the ball in the tree, and suddenly he realized where Pippin had gone. He raced towards the lane. Sam was right on his heels, and the other lads were following close behind.

Merry’s thoughts were grim. That farmer had better *not* be chasing his Pippin with a rake--

Eight hobbit lads skidded to a stop in the lane in front of the cottage. They could see the old farmer, hands on hips, staring up the tree with an unreadable expression.

Pippin was ten feet up and still climbing. “Pippin!” Merry yelled, feeling panicked.

“Oh, hullo, Merry! I’ll have the ball back in just a minute!” his little cousin yelled back.

Merry was white as he glared at the farmer. “My cousin had better not hurt himself!”

Eb Harfoot looked over at the new arrivals. There were several lads there besides the Cottons’ sons. The only one he recognized was Ham Gamgee’s lad. He spat, and looked at Merry’s angry and frightened face. “Your cousin, eh? And who might you be?”

But Merry’s attention was once more on Pippin; as many times as he had seen his little cousin climb trees, it still made his heart pound. Usually Pippin did not go so high up without Frodo.

Sam looked at the farmer. “That there is Mr. Merry Brandybuck--he’s the grandson of the Master of Buckland. And that little lad you’ve let climb up there--that’s Master Peregrin Took, the son of Mr. Paladin Took.” Sam knew exactly how to deliver those names to make the greatest impact.

“I hope he doesn’t fall and break something,” said Folco cheerfully. “It’s an awful long way up there. I wonder how he does that?”

Now it was the old hobbit’s turn to go pale. He had thought it funny when the child had started up the tree like a squirrel, and then he figured the lad would get up there and need to be fetched down with a ladder. It would have been a chance to march all the children back to the Cottons’ and deliver a lecture on how they should keep a better eye on their young ones, and how children should be seen and not heard. But if that little one was a Took--his thoughts suddenly became rather profane as he realized the trouble he’d be in should the child get hurt on his property.

“I’ve got it!” crowed Pippin. “But I can’t climb down carrying it. Somebody needs to catch it. Merry?”

Merry’s voice caught in his throat. He could not move. Sam looked at him with concern, forgetting the honorific in his worry, he touched his friend’s arm. “Merry, are you all right?” Merry just nodded. He could no more take his eyes off Pippin than he could fly.

Fatty walked over a few steps to the gate and then went to the foot of the tree. “Here, Pippin. I should catch it, as I was bounder, too.”

“Good,” said Pippin, and dropping the ball down to Fatty’s waiting arms, he then made his descent, as nimble as always. He dropped the last few feet to the ground, and walked over to the stunned farmer.

“Thank you very much,” he said, giving him a hug around the legs, and looking up at him with a wide grin.

The farmer looked down into the guileless green eyes and the shining face, and his own dour face cracked into an unaccustomed smile. He ruffled the mop of chestnut curls, and said, “I’m sure you’re welcome, little Master.”

Then Pippin raced to the lane, and ducking under the fence once more, was gathered into Merry’s trembling arms. Fatty, carrying the ball, made his more sedate way to the gate, also taking a moment to murmur his thanks to the surprised Farmer Harfoot.

Merry’s planned reproaches died on his lips as Pippin laughed. “I was a good bounder, wasn’t I? I got the ball back!”

The Cotton lads all had rather astounded expressions on their faces. “Did you see that? He smiled!” said Tom. “I’ve *never* seen old Farmer Harfoot smile!”

Jolly looked at Pippin. “How did you do that? How did you make him let you get the ball?”

“I think,” said Sam, “that we had better head back to your place, Tom. It’ll be nigh on to teatime when we get there anyway.”

Merry was trying to carry Pippin, but Pippin squirmed. He was having none of that, so Merry put him down reluctantly. Pippin darted away, and began chatting to Nibs. Sam walked up behind him. “He’s just fine, Mr. Merry. You can stop worrying now.”

Merry sighed. The color had begun to come back to his face. “I can’t help it, Sam. He does something like that, and I can just *see* him falling and getting badly hurt.”

“But he didn’t. And look, Mr. Merry! He’s so proud of himself for getting the ball back!”

Mrs. Cotton gave the lads bread and butter sandwiches and cold boiled eggs and their choice of tea or cold buttermilk, and they all had a lovely tea in the big kitchen. The benches were crowded, and Nibs and Pippin sat on the table. If Pippin was disappointed that there was no jam or honey, he was too polite to say so.

Afterward, Mr. Cotton hitched up the waggon again, and all the lads piled into the back, and Mrs. Cotton came along for the ride as well, seated next to her husband.

But for once, Pippin was not singing. Tucked drowsily up in Merry’s lap, he had soon fallen fast asleep.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Tanto and Largo Hornblower belong the great Lulleny, who used them in her story “The Prodigal Took”, and has kindly allowed me the use of them.

DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

“Ow!” Paladin Took put down his fork, and put his hand to his jaw. Several pairs of eyes looked up the breakfast table at him.

Eglantine narrowed her eyes. “Paladin! When are you going to have that tooth seen to?” she asked sharply.

His oldest daughter Pearl shook her head. “Father, your jaw is quite swollen, you know, and you do not look at all well.”

An angry glint came into his eyes, and his younger daughter Pervinca averted her face. His son-in-law Tanto wisely said nothing, though the irritated Took thought he saw a humorous flash in the brown eyes before the lad coughed and turned his attention to little Largo in his high chair. At least his middle daughter, Pimpernel and her husband were not there to pester him. Pimmie was nearing the end of her third confinement, and their little family was breakfasting in their own apartment.

Eglantine glared at him. “Certainly you are,” she replied sarcastically. “You always stay awake all night moaning and clutching your jaw.”

She looked at him with an expression he had not seen on her face since Pippin was a small lad trying to explain to her why it had been necessary to eat an entire jar of cherry preserves.

Paladin threw down his napkin, rose suddenly, and stormed out of the family’s private dining room.

Behind him, he heard a long-suffering sigh. He stomped down to his study. Maybe he could get a bit of work done, and people would leave him alone for a while about this blasted tooth.

Behind his desk a short while later, he lay his head on his arms. He really did not feel so well. He was sweating, but he shivered. He was a bit light-headed, but he was sure that was because he had missed his breakfasts. First breakfast had ended when he stomped off, and he had never even rung for his second breakfast, usually eaten there at his desk, for the pain in his jaw made it impossible to think of eating.

There was a tap on the door, and he sat up abruptly, picking up some papers he had been vainly trying to concentrate on. “Come in” he snarled crossly.

His cousin Reginard, who served as his main assistant, came in. “I have the harvest reports from Tookbank, Paladin. Good heavens! You look terrible!”

“Thank you very much!” Paladin snapped. He held out his hands for the report. Reggie handed it to him reluctantly.

“I. Am. Just. Fine!” He gritted his teeth, and a wave of pain shot through him. He ignored it.

Reggie pursed his lips, and gave him a skeptical look. “Very well. I will check later and see if you need anything.”

“Do that!” Paladin snapped, wanting him to go away and leave him to his misery. Everybody after him about that tooth. If he had wanted anyone to be messing about with his teeth he would have taken himself to the barber in Tuckborough and had it seen to days ago. The very idea of someone pulling his tooth made him shudder in horror, in spite of the pain.

Reggie backed out carefully and shut the door. He hated to do this, but he was going to have to go over the Thain’s head. He headed for the small sitting room that Eglantine used as an office. She was there, answering correspondence with the help of her eldest daughter Pearl.

“Paladin really looks awful. He seems to be in a good deal of pain, and even though I couldn’t touch him to be sure, I think that he has a fever.”

She snorted in exasperation. “I have had enough of this. Pearl, if you would, send for Mistress Lavender.”

A few moments later, Eglantine, accompanied by the Took’s resident healer, Mistress Lavender Bunce and her apprentice Diamond North-Took, as well as Reggie and Pearl, marched to the Thain’s study. She’d had enough of her husband’s recalcitrance on this matter. Reggie knocked, but there was no reply.

Eglantine threw open the door and strode in, and then stopped with a gasp. Paladin’s jaw was even more swollen than it had been that morning at breakfast, and his face was flushed, his eyes glassy.

Lavender hurried over to the desk, and place her hand on his brow. “He is burning up and delirious.” She gently touched the swollen jaw, and he flinched, tears coming to his eyes. “Hurts,” he said sadly, like a small child.

The healer looked decisively at his wife. “That tooth *has* to come out. It is spreading infection through his whole system. You need to send to Tuckborough at once, for Master Mungo Boffin, the barber. Tell him I said it was an emergency, that we need a tooth extracted, and to make all haste. Mistress Took, we must get him into bed, and see if we can get his fever down before the barber gets here.”

Pearl fetched a couple of servants to help, and they managed to get the Thain to his feet, as they half-carried him to his sleeping chamber. Between them his wife, daughter and healer managed to get him into his nightshirt and tucked into the bed, meanwhile at her mistress’ directions, young Diamond had mixed up some willow-bark tea, and then cooled it down to lukewarm. Eglantine and Pearl, also at Lavender’s orders, began the process of cooling his fevered brow with wet cloths.

Paladin grasped Egalantine’s hand once, as she changed the cloth. He was still burning up. “Tina, tell them to put the roof back on. There is no room for rabbits that size in here,” he mumbled.

“Oh, Paladin,” she said softly, torn between tears and laughter, worry and amusement. “I’ll not let the giant rabbits in.”

Lavender wasted no time on niceties. “He’s got a bad tooth that has to come out now. As long as it is still spreading the poison through his body, we cannot get his fever down.”

Master Mungo nodded. “As weak as he is, he’ll not be able to put up much fight. But we need a sturdy hobbit to hold him down just in case.”

“Thank you,” said the healer. “Mistress Took, I think that everyone else needs to clear out of the room. Diamond and I will assist Master Mungo.”

Eglantine drew a deep breath and let it out. She was inclined to argue, but she knew she should not interfere with the healers at work. “Mistress Lavender,” she asked hesitantly, “should I send to Buckland for Pippin?”

The healer shook her head. “I do not think it is so grave as all that at the moment. Let us see how he fares once the tooth is out, shall we?” She sighed. “Poppy warned me about how stubborn the Thain is. He should have had this taken care of days ago.” Poppy Burrows had been the family healer for many years, but she had traveled out of the Shire to learn some new healing methods away south, and Lavender had been called upon to replace her during her absence.

Pervinca and Pimpernel and their husbands had joined Eglantine and Pearl in the family sitting room when Lavender opened the door and summoned Eglantine to enter the room.

Her husband seemed to be dozing lightly, and there was a sheen of sweat on his face, which was tied up with a length of white cloth. One side of his face still jutted out, no longer distended with swelling, but with the wadding that Master Mungo had packed in his mouth, to block the bleeding and hold in some of the herbs meant to draw out infection. A poultice was also against his face, held in place by the strip of cloth.

Mistress Lavender looked at her patient and then at his wife. “I dosed him rather heavily before the extraction was done. He should sleep for a good long while--six to eight hours at the least. When he wakens we can safely remove the wadding, and he may have nourishment--broths, teas and juices, at a lukewarm temperature: nothing hot or cold.”

“It seems to be abating. I am leaving a decoction which should help to draw off the rest of the infection. He should have a dose on waking, and again in twelve hours.” The healer glared at her patient. “You realize it should never have come to this. It would have been only a minor matter if that tooth had come out even a week ago.”

Eglantine chuckled ruefully. “He is nothing if not stubborn.” She pursed her lips, and considered her sleeping husband. “He is not going to be happy that we allowed him to be treated when he had no say on the matter.”

Lavender snorted, showing what she thought of that. “Call me again if he worsens, Mistress Took.”

It was his youngest daughter Pervinca who sat by his side when he awakened some seven hours later. He opened his eyes fuzzily, and stared until she came into focus.

He tried to say “Vinca?” but it came out rather muffled by the wadding, and the fact that his jaw was tied.

She smiled. “I almost forgot, Father, Mistress Lavender said we could dispense with all that when you finally awakened.” She reached over, and slipped the cloth away from his head, and he reached in to take the wadding out of his mouth. She gave a grimace of distaste at the piece of blood and saliva covered fiber, and held up the basin for him to drop it into.

He snorted. She recognized the signs of impending temper. “I’ll fetch Mother, shall I?” she said with a nervous laugh. She got up hastily and went to the door.

Eglantine was napping on the sitting room settee, but she wakened instantly to her daughter’s soft call and came into the room.

“Well, Paladin, you are looking a good deal better.” She turned to Pervinca. “Did he take his medicine yet?”

“I am not taking any foul healer’s brew of a medicine!” It was not a shout--Paladin was not up to shouting yet, but it was as close as he could come.

“No, I am not! And how dare anyone have my tooth yanked out without my permission!”

Eglantine finally emerged victorious. But her husband had given in with bad grace, and had looked completely betrayed and furious, when the medicine turned out to taste even worse than he had imagined.

He spent the day complaining and napping. He complained about having to stay in bed; he complained about having nothing but lukewarm liquids for meals; he complained loudly and constantly about his tooth having been pulled without his permission.

When he awakened from another nap, twelve hours later, the apprentice healer, Miss Diamond was there. She poured out a spoonful of the decoction for him to take. He clamped his lips.

He gave the spoon a swat that sent it flying, droplets of the medicine flying about the room.

Lavender stared him down, and he finally relented, sputtering and complaining the whole time about healers who tried to poison their patients. His tirade was interrupted by a stentorian female voice.

“Paladin Took!” It was his oldest sister, Primrose. “You are behaving like a spoiled little lad! Worse! Why even young Peregrin learned that he had to take his medicine--from the time he was twelve, he never put up a fuss or refused his medicine again, no matter how bad the taste! He knew it was necessary! You are supposed to be a grown hobbit, and you are supposed to set an example as Thain. Act your age!”

He flushed. “It tastes awful.” Then he winced. That sounded remarkably like whining.

“I am sure it does. Most medicine tastes awful. That is no excuse. Now, apologize!”

He glowered up at the healers. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. He didn’t sound sorry, but it satisfied his sister and the healers.

Lavender had removed her pendulum in the meantime, and was swinging it over his body. “Well, sir, it looks as if the infection has nearly burnt itself out. If you rest well tonight, by late tomorrow morning, you might be ready to get out of bed again.”

A few moments later Eglantine came in, and the healers and his sister left. She stood looking down at him with an unreadable expression. Then she sighed. “Oh, Paladin! What *am* I going to do with you? You scared us all to death! I do not believed I have *ever* seen you so ill before.” Tears sprang to her eyes.

He felt a shiver of guilt. Had he really been so very ill? It was clear that he had frightened his wife very badly. “I am sorry.” This time he sounded as though he meant it.

She sat down next to him on the bed, and they shared a brief embrace. “I do love you, you old fool of a Took,” she said.

He buried his face in her curls. “I know you do, my darling. I am so sorry to have frightened you so badly.” He squeezed her a bit harder, and then sat back and looked at her with a puzzled expression. “Tina? Why do I seem to remember giant pink rabbits?”

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This was written for a PippinHealer's Challenge to do a short fic in which the first letters of each paragraph would spell out the phrase "Happy New Year"

“When I have proof is soon enough. Things are dire enough without borrowing more trouble. In a way, I am glad they are not here right now--it could be dangerous for them with all the riff-raff in the Shire. I am sure Merry would not be able to curb his outrage at what they are doing.”

Rapping sounded urgently at the sitting room door. “Enter,” said the Mistress of Buckland. “Mistress--we just had word! The young master and his friends were seen at the Bridge!”

AUTHOR’S NOTES: Bilbo is 40, Drogo is 22 ( about 25 and a half and 14 in Man Years)

“Drogo?” There was a slightly sharp edge to the query that made Drogo realize his name had been called more than once.

“I’m sorry, Cousin Bilbo,” the tweenager replied. “I’m afraid I was not paying very close attention.” His gaze flicked once more to the sounds of laughter coming through Bilbo’s study window.

With a start the young hobbit came to himself, and after a brief struggle to get his mind on lessons once more, replied “That was the year that Bandobras Took, also known as ‘Bullroarer’ drove the goblins out of the Shire?” Normally he would have sounded a bit more confident of himself, but his inattention had shaken him. He was normally very good at lessons, and Cousin Bilbo had told him more than once that he was his brightest pupil. This was embarrassing.

A gentle breeze billowed the gauzy curtains, bringing with it the smells of flowers and grass clippings, and more sounds of laughter.

Both hobbits now looked out the window. On the field below Bag End could be seen the figures of several lads engaged in a rowdy game of “Breakthrough”. Two teams would form lines, holding hands firmly. One team would call on a member of the other team, who would then race forward, and try to break the hold between two team members. If he failed to break through, he remained on that team, however, if he did manage to do so, he returned to his own side, taking one of the losers with him. The game could get very fierce.

Drogo sighed. It was a Highday, and the working class lads all had the afternoon free. He was a gentlehobbit, however, and here he was, stuck doing lessons on a lovely spring afternoon.

Bilbo cast a sympathetic look at his young cousin. Drogo had missed a lesson earlier in the week, due to his grandmother’s birthday, and so it had needed to be made up. But it was hard on a young lad to be cooped up inside on such a lovely spring day.

Fosco and Ruby counted on him to be teaching his cousin; still, when the mind was elsewhere it was hard to learn anything. He turned and looked out the window at the lads at play, and an idea came to him.

“I think that I should like you to write an essay for me as homework, on the benefits of fresh air and exercise. Now, in order to do that, do you not think it necessary that you have a bit of experience of it?” His blue eyes twinkled, as he gestured out the window with his chin.

Drogo leaped up, and gave his older cousin a hug. “Cousin Bilbo! I think that a splendid idea! Thank you!”

“Well, then, be off with you, lad! It looks to me as though they are choosing up sides for another round!”

Bilbo watched his cousin race to the field and become just one more small figure in the game. This *was* far too nice a day to stay indoors. He might be too grown-up for the lads’ games, but it would be a lovely time for a short ramble.

“I hear Primula. O where could she be?” Mirabella dramatically placed her hand to her forehead. “O where could my little faunt be?”

Peels of laughter from under the tea-table. Mirabella grinned. “Whatever will I do without my little lass? I can’t find her *anywhere*! I suppose I shall have to go for my walk alone.” She stood directly in front of the tea-table.

She hugged her little one tightly, and then drew back to gaze on the sweet little face, with its huge blue eyes and dimpled cheeks, all topped with masses of raven-dark curls.

Merry woke up feeling stiff and disoriented. Someone, Pippin of course, had tucked him up with a coverlet and banked the fire, but why was he asleep on the settee instead of his own room?

The vain attempts to cheer themselves up a bit before arriving in Buckland and having to face curious kin. Breaking the news to his parents that *this* time, their Frodo was gone forever. Coming home at last to Crickhollow, cold, dark, and silent.

Pippin had been the strong one. Pippin had laid the fire, mulled some ale, toasted a bit of bread and cheese for their supper.

And when Merry had finally broken down and given in to the tears he had been holding at bay since they left the Grey Havens, he had wept in Pippin’s lap like a child, his younger cousin sitting quietly, fingering the curls on his brow, until he had finally fallen into deep sleep.

And apparently tucked him up comfortably and gone to his own bed, mournful and unsoothed himself.

He folded the coverlet and placed it on the back of the settee; as much as his own grief was still so close to the surface, it wasn’t right that he offer no comfort back. He padded down the hall to Pippin’s room, and started. The door was ajar. Pippin was not there. He could not tell if his cousin had slept at all.

The bed was unmade, but that signified nothing, for they had left all their chores and tasks undone, as they had rushed off at Gandalf’s hasty summons. Fearful, so fearful, that they would be too late for that last farewell--as they very nearly had been.

But where was Pippin? No sound of him anywhere in the little house, which echoed its emptiness strangely. A panic siezed Merry, a sudden irrational fear that his *other* cousin was somehow gone forever as well.

He flung open the front door--and he heard it: the keening, wailing unearthly beauty of grief. Pippin’s pipes.

Merry felt moisture on his face. Only the contrast between warm and cold told him which were his tears and which the cold damp of the morning mist. He followed the sound, which soared out over the dawning day: down the lane, across the road, toward the River.

It was a haunting tune that Merry had never heard before in his life, filled with the kind of sadness he had sometimes heard in Elven songs, but this was different, warm and earthy and he knew that it was Pippin’s own, that his cousin was creating this music out of his own--their own--shared pain.

He came upon him as he stood on the riverbank, casting the music over the Brandywine. Sending a farewell down the River to the Sundering Sea.

Merry was sure the whole Shire must hear this grief, and grieve as well, that the fairest and best of them all was gone.

He walked up, and placed his hand on Pippin’s shoulder. He knew that Pippin knew he was there, but there was no interruption of the lament. Pippin’s tears ran freely, and so did Merry’s own, and they stood and sent their grief together until the Sun had finally burnt the morning mist away.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Written for LJ community hobbit_ficathon. A first post-Quest meeting for one of the Travellers and a family member.

AUTHOR’S NOTES: In the family trees in Appendix C of The Lord of the Rings, we are shown that Paladin Took had three unnamed older sisters. In my Shire the sisters were Primrose, Peridot and Pearl. Pearl died young, Primrose never wed, and Peridot was the widow of another Took cousin. Primrose and Peridot live at the Great Smials, and are of great assistance to Eglantine.

DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

Pippin felt fortunate that no one was there in the family sitting room. He’d chosen his time well. Most of the family were in the main dining hall tonight, as it was Highday, and the Thain and his family had dined among the rest of the Tooks this evening. Pippin had excused himself, and though his father had not been entirely happy, they’d not pressed him to join them. He simply wasn’t up to all those eyes, all those cousins, and all that speculation.

He’d been back at the Great Smials for a couple of weeks now; he and his father had come to an understanding, and Paladin was no longer angry, though Pippin was not sure if things would ever be easy between them again. In a few weeks, after Yule, he’d be allowed to move to Crickhollow with Merry. In the meantime, the King’s Proclamation had been read, and soon the whole family would be heading, first to Hobbiton and then to Buckland, to read it again. His mother seemed to accept what she couldn’t understand, and his sisters were beginning to lose the awe they had shown when he returned so grown and grim. But he had not yet come to terms with everyone else in the Smials. The older cousins and relations seemed wary and suspicious, and the younger ones were curious to the point of rudeness. Reggie’s daughters had got wind of the gifts he’d brought his parents and sisters, and had done their best to corner him to find out if he’d made a fortune in foreign parts. Fortunately Pearl had routed them, to his everlasting gratitude.

He realized the room had grown darker. It was an inner room with no windows save a single skylight. He must have been sitting here in the dark for a while. He gave a start as the door opened.

“Auntie Peridot?” Pippin was surprised. He’d not seen either of his aunts save at tea or supper with the family since his return.

She turned and lit the lamp by the sitting room door. “Forever why are you sitting here in the dark, dear?”

“I don’t know. It seemed too much work to get up and light the lamps, I suppose,” he answered gloomily.

She clucked her tongue reprovingly, and moved into the room, lighting the other lamps. She looked at his lanky form sprawled on the settee, and shook her head. In spite of his size--which was taking some getting used to--he looked very young and lost at the moment.

She went over and sat next to him. He shifted to make room for her. He felt awkward. He used to be able to lean his head on her shoulder. Now he was too tall for that; the thought suddenly made unexpected tears spring to his eyes. He didn’t know why he was feeling so lonesome and low this evening. He was home, and they had put things to rights--well, mostly, anyway, and everyone he loved was safe. He’d no right to be feeling this way.

His aunt leaned into his side, and he put his arm around her. She felt so old and frail. He looked at the concern on her face.

“And who else, Peregrin? I have heard you mention some of your friends that you found while you were away.”

Suddenly he realized that was part of his problem tonight. He *was* missing them: dear Strider, Aragorn, his King and healer and friend; and Gandalf--he really missed the gruff voice, so at odds with the fond twinkle in the eyes, his wise and kindly counsel, the comforting smell of pipeweed and fireworks and wool; and Legolas, his Elf, who seemed to understand his need for music; and Gimli, dear Gimli who had saved his life; and Faramir, his Prince; and Beregond and Bergil.

And Boromir, whom he’d never see again. He blinked rapidly, to get rid of the tears that threatened.

“Tell me a bit about them, Pippin, dear. I’d like to hear of some of your friends.”

He looked at her, seeing only the gentle interest of someone who cared, not the greedy, avid curiosity that put his back up. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes for a moment, and then began to tell her of his friends.

He did not speak of the dark perils, or the grim fighting, but described each of them for her, sketching out their personalities with anecdotes both funny and touching. Occasionally some of the more difficult circumstances could not help but slip out, but his aunt carefully avoided gasping or exclaiming when they did. She soon felt she had come to know each of these strange beings who had become so important to her young nephew.

She was not surprised that their absence left a hole in his heart. Pippin was always one who gave his love freely and fiercely and fully, who liked people until they gave him a reason not to, and who inspired others to return his affection just as loyally.

“You know, Auntie Peridot, I learned a good many new songs while I was away. Legolas taught me a lot of them.”

He felt immensely cheered up from his talk with this aunt, who had taught him how to play the lap harp when he had been confined at home for punishment one summer.

She smiled. Their shared love of music was one reason she and Pippin were so close. “Perhaps you could teach me some of them?”

He nodded, and reached a long arm over to the side table where his aunt kept her lap harp, for she often played for the family in the evenings after supper.

“This is a melody Legolas taught me when we were in Lothlórien…” His fingers moved on the strings, and his aunt listened attentively to the beautiful and melancholy Elven tune.

They almost did not notice when the rest of the family began to drift in for the evening.

SUMMARY: In which Boromir finds himself in a predicament, and Pippin proves his usefulness…

AUTHOR’S NOTE: The title came from Marigold. ( This was written for Marigold's Challenge #15. )

DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

The Company was making its silent way through the chill air, walking along a pitched ridge, through the shadows and purple-grey darkness just before dawn. They would walk for perhaps another half an hour or so, before Gandalf would give the signal to halt, and they could begin their rest for the day.

Legolas was out of sight, gone ahead to scout a possible campsite for the day; Gandalf and Aragorn walked abreast at the lead. The four hobbits trudged silently side by side, quiet and exhausted. The earlier part of each night’s travel was usually filled with their quiet but persistent chatter, but as they neared the end of the evening’s march, they would begin to fall silent, saving their breath for the effort of putting one foot in front of the other. Gimli was leading Bill, and Boromir was bringing up the rear.

Suddenly, there was a thud, an “oof!” and the sounds of stones skittering and sliding. This was followed by another thud, and the sound of muttered imprecations. Everyone halted, and Aragorn walked back down the slope to the rear.

The mutter stopped for a moment, and then the Gondorian called back just as softly. “I am, for the most part, unhurt. But I am also entangled in a bramble bush.” There was a brief silence, and then the oaths began again. They were remarkably inventive.

“Boromir,” said Frodo primly, “do, please, watch your language.” Sam was blushing furiously, and Pippin was taking careful note.

Frodo turned to make a retort, but it was cut short by Aragorn, calling out again.

“I shall come and cut you free!” Aragorn drew out one of his knives and started to head down the ridge.

But Pippin was already moving down towards the trapped Boromir. “That’s not necessary, Strider. I’ll get him out.”

“Pippin!” Aragorn hissed, and started to go after the young hobbit, but Frodo stayed him with an outstretched hand.

“I hope so,” said Sam skeptically. He was not so familiar with Pippin’s abilities as were his cousins.

Aragorn looked at Gandalf, who nodded. “Let the lad have a chance. Go and intercept Legolas. He should be on his way back to us. We might as well stop here for the day as anywhere else.

“Hullo, Boromir. This one’s pretty prickly, isn’t it?” Pippin lay down on his back and gingerly scooted beneath the bush, carefully avoiding any entanglement of his own. “You will need to stay very still, so as to not get scratched up.” He reached nimble fingers up, and gingerly began to remove the thorny vines from Boromir’s arms. “We’ll get them off your arms and out of your hair first. Lucky you don’t have any on your face. It wouldn’t do to get your eyes scratched, would it? That could be really nasty, it could--” The whole time he spoke, clever fingers were gradually moving the brambles away.

“How’s it going?” This came from Merry, who now was squatting down next to the bush and watching his younger cousin work.

“It’s going to take a while, Merry. There’s a lot more of him than there is of us, if you know what I mean.”

“Pretty good, Mr. Pippin, if I might say so--” said Sam, adding his own observation. “That bush is pretty overgrown.”

Boromir, who had been watching his small rescuer with astonishment, said “Yes, I am not hurt at all, just caught. I do apologize, Frodo, for my outburst of language. I forget that I am not with soldiers.”

Frodo blushed. “No, I am sorry for saying anything, Boromir. I tend to forget that I am not in the Shire, and that some young people are not so young as they were.”

“Thank you for that observation, Frodo,” said Pippin, moving away a long section of vine. “I do think you could remember that more often. Merry, would you mind holding this bit out of the way? I am afraid that it will whip back if I let go. Mind the thorns.”

Boromir suddenly realized that his arms were free, and started to move them, but Pippin said curtly “Be still!” He had begun the more delicate and slightly painful work of removing the brambles from the trapped soldier’s hair.

Boromir subsided, and to distract himself, asked “Pippin, how did you acquire this skill of--of--” he stopped not certain exactly what to call it.

Pippin was concentrating on a particularly tricky bit near Boromir’s left ear, tongue between his teeth, and could not answer, so Merry said “Well, he’s had to get us untangled from briar patches often enough.”

Merry laughed. “Now Frodo, don’t be that way. Let’s see, there was the time we were running from the Boffin lads, after we had caught them napping under a tree and painted their faces--”

“And--” added Pippin “there were two times when we were trying to avoid Farmer Maggots’ dogs--”

“Only twice?” asked Frodo. “I’m sure you raided the Maggot farm more than twice! Even I did better than that!”

“No,” said Merry, “only twice that we had to use a bramble bush to get away from the dogs.”

“Well,” said Pippin, “--here, Sam, can you hold this bit? The worst time was not our fault at all, was it Merry?”

“No, indeed it wasn’t!” He looked at Frodo. “I think you can guess whose fault it was. We were trying to avoid--”

“Bless me, Mr. Merry! I think I’d’ve dove into a briar patch, too, to avoid them two! No offense, Mr. Frodo.”

Frodo chuckled. “None taken, Sam. You know what I think of that branch of the family.”

“And who--” asked Boromir, flinching a bit, as Pippin tried to disentangle a bit of the vine caught in the hair at the back of his head “--are Lobelia and Lotho?”

“Lobelia Sackville-Baggins and her deplorable son, Lotho,” said Merry. “Poor Bilbo and Frodo have been afflicted with them as relations. I am sure they have never done anything so ill as to have deserved Sackville-Bagginses in the family, but there you are. No accounting for blood.”

“Lobelia and her husband Otho” explained Frodo, “thought they would be Bilbo’s heirs; they tried to get Bag End when he had gone to deal with the dragon and the Dwarves, but he returned and foiled their plans. And they never forgave Bilbo for adopting me, or me for being his heir.”

“And--” said Pippin, as he managed to get the last of the briars from Boromir’s hair, and began to unwrap his torso, “Lobelia is fond of using her umbrella to thump young hobbits she thinks are being cheeky. She always thought Merry and I were being cheeky, even if we never opened our mouths.”

“And Lotho is a bully and a lout,” added Merry. “Frodo was even obliged to bloody his nose for him once!”

“I don’t know why not,” said Merry cheerfully. “It was one of my more delightful childhood memories. He looked so astonished. You really did a splendid job on him, and he quite deserved it.”

Boromir chuckled, fascinated with the conversation. “I can see why young hobbits might find a bramble bush more congenial company!”

“Absolutely right,” said Pippin. He pulled a particularly long bit of thorny branch away from Boromir’s chest, and handed it to Merry to hold back out of the way. “If you move slowly, Boromir, I should think you could sit up about now. I will try to begin on your legs and feet next.”

Boromir sat up rather carefully, and realized that the rest of the Fellowship had decided to also watch Pippin at work. His face flamed; this was really embarrassing. He glanced once more at the hobbits. They, at least, did not seem to feel this was altogether undignified.

Pippin scooted his way downwards, and started on the parts of the bush entangled around Boromir’s legs. There were only a couple of tricky parts.

“Your boots are hard and slick; the brambles have not stuck to them. I will hold these branches back, and I think that you could stand up now if you move slowly. Please try not to tread on me.”

The Man carefully followed Pippin’s directions, still torn between embarrassment and amusement. He stepped away from the bush, and gave it a rather baleful glare. Pippin slowly slid himself away from the brambles, and Frodo extended a hand to help him up. Then Merry and Sam let go of the branches they had been holding, which whipped right back into place. Boromir winced at the thought of how that would have felt, if he had yet been entangled there. He began to dust himself off, as Merry and Frodo extended that service to Pippin, swatting at the back of his jacket, and picking through his chestnut curls.

“Oi! Leave off! I can do it myself!” But they ignored him until they were satisfied with his appearance.

Boromir bent down to look Pippin in the face. “I thank you for getting me out of there, and with no more scratches than those I got getting in.”

“Oh, well,” said the tweenager lightly, “it’s about time I did something useful on this trip.” But his green eyes shone with pride at the praise.

Aragorn was shaking his head in amusement, as the beaming Took went to help with setting up camp for the day.

Gandalf gave a soft chuckle, his eyes twinkling. “As I have said before, hobbits are amazing creatures. And there is seemingly no end to their talents--especially if they are Tooks!”

The small figure slowly padded into the dim passage, and pushed open the door, which screeched mournfully. The moonlight from the room behind streamed into the windowless space, casting a shadowy silver glow over the bed, stripped bare, the furniture, empty, its inhabitant clearly gone for good.

Walking across the bare floor, putting his hand on the mattress with a sigh, he crawled to the middle of the bed, curled up, and gave way to tears.

Esmeralda found him there. “Merry? Come back to your bed. Frodo is at Bag End.”

It’s been more than good to see Frodo again, to see him happy as I’d never seen him--no, not even when he first come to Bag End just a young tween, for then he already had that sadness about him, from losing his folks so young. And I didn’t know how much I had missed old Gandalf till I seen him once more, by Frodo’s side. And it’s a wonder to see Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel again, who say they are my friends. Imagine, me, Sam Gamgee friends with the likes of them.

They look at me expectantly. Somehow, I am not sure how, I have become their leader, and they are sure I know what I am doing. They call me brave and fearless, who never saw me running, terrified from Crickhollow. They praise me for standing up to Lotho, when all I am seeking is revenge--revenge for my poor sweet Folco, who never really ever hurt anyone. They praise my clever plan as we ready ourselves to raid Lotho’s leaf shipment. We go over the details one last time.

Merry put his hand over the cup. The tankards Men used were far too large for their hands to hold easily, so the hobbits had taken to requesting teacups for their ale.

Faramir raised an eyebrow, and turned to pour more for Frodo and Sam from the pitcher the innkeeper had left at their table. Things were beginning to warm up for the evening, and the tavern had begun to fill.

Gimli looked at Merry, puzzled. “Master Meriadoc, you have been nursing that same cup all evening. I’ve never known you to be so abstemious.”

“Pippin’s--” Frodo stopped and put a hand to his mouth to stifle a small belch-- “Pip’s not here.”

“Mr. Pippin’s on duty,” Sam said helpfully. He’d had several cups already.

“I am afraid that doesn’t answer Gimli’s question, gentlemen,” replied the Steward. “I know that Pippin is on duty tonight, but I do not understand what difference that makes.”

“Not gentlemen,” mumbled Frodo. He had also had several cups. “Gentlehobbits!”

“I beg your pardon, Frodo. But I still do not understand what Pippin’s absence has to do with it.”

Merry, who had remained silent, watching Sam and Frodo becoming more mellow by the cup, finally spoke up. “Pip and I have a pact. We only get drunk together.”

“ ‘s right,” said Frodo. “Only together. Hadn’t you noticed?” His blue eyes were beginning to lose focus.

Faramir was also looking at him with interest. Frodo and Sam just grinned. They knew all about it.

“Well, it’s not a pretty story. Pip was a young tween when some daft idiots dared him to get drunk. He got so drunk it nearly killed him. We made a pact after that to only get drunk together, and never to get so drunk we would pass out. It seemed a good way to me to protect him.”*

“Meant you couldn’t get drunk by yourself either,” put in Frodo. He looked at the bottom of his cup which was empty, and held it out to Faramir, who obliged.

“It seemed worth it at the time,” said Merry. The truth was, at the time he had not really thought of the restrictions he’d placed upon himself. But he did not regret it, though it had meant numerous occasions when he had sat sober, watching other folks get tipsy around him. Like tonight. But he didn’t regret this either--it was good to see Frodo and Sam enjoying themselves for once. He had been pleased when Faramir had persuaded them to join him at the tavern.

Faramir’s own voice was getting a bit slow, but he was not really very intoxicated himself yet. “That was a noble thing to do, Merry. It sounds like the kind of daft thing Boromir would have done for me in such a situation.” Faramir tended to get sentimental when he was drinking.

“I do. It never came up, but if it had then it would have, if you know what I mean.” Faramir looked puzzled when he finished his sentence. Did that make sense?

Gimli was on his third full-sized ale, and was not even remotely flown yet. It took a lot of ale to affect a Dwarf. “It must have made some interesting difficulties.”

Frodo grinned sloppily. “Meant I always had *two* drunk cousins to deal with getting home.”

Sam looked over. “ ‘member that night at the Dragon, when Mr. Pippin turned twenty-five?”

Merry grinned. That was the first occasion when he and Pippin had ever set out to put *that* part of their pact in practice. He listened, as Frodo told Faramir and Gimli of that time, occasionally putting in a word or two himself.

Pippin had arrived at Bag End the day before his birthday in high spirits. He had persuaded his parents he did not want a party that year, but only wished to spend time at Bag End with Frodo and Merry. They had not only agreed, but had given him extra pocket money. Although they had refused to allow him to go alone, they did allow him to travel with Cousin Ferdinand, who had an errand to Bywater. He got on well with old Ferdinand, who had taught him to play the pipes.

Since it was the day before his birthday, Frodo and Merry gave him gifts: Frodo gave him a handsome pipe, and Merry a new leather pouch filled with Longbottom Leaf. Since his parents had only allowed him to smoke since Yule the gifts were much appreciated. In fact, he was so pleased he could scarcely be restrained from giving them their gifts right away.

“No!” said Frodo firmly. “You will wait until tomorrow, as is proper. We won’t take them if you do bring them out tonight.”

“Pippin, let’s have tea,” put in Merry, “and you can tell us what you want to do for your birthday tomorrow.”

The mention of tea warded off the tweenager’s sulks, as Merry thought it might, and the three cousins headed for the kitchen where Frodo had laid a rather lavish spread. The sight of food finished restoring Pippin’s good humor.

For a while they busied themselves with the meal, hobbit-fashion. (“Frodo! You made mushroom tarts for me?” “Pass the butter, please.” “I’d like another scone, thank you.” “How about some cheese?” “Oh, come on Frodo, let me put a bit more honey in my tea!”)

As they passed from tea straight into supper without pause, they finally slowed down to filling up the corners, and Frodo broached the subject of Pippin’s plans.

He popped the bit of cheese he had been playing with into his mouth, and then smiled widely. “I’ve saved my pocket money last month--” he sounded and looked quite proud, and Frodo and Merry exchanged surprised looks. Merry was impressed; it was very hard for Pippin to hold onto money, and his parents generally kept him short, for he would often spend all his money on sweets or other short-lived treats. “And Father gave me some extra to bring with me! I’d like--” he stopped, blushing beet red--”I want to take the two of you, and Sam if he will go, to the Dragon. *My* treat!” He rushed on as though he feared an argument. “I really, really, want to treat you!”

Merry looked at his younger cousin askance. He could tell Pip wasn’t quite finished yet.

“Now that I’m twenty-five, as long as I’m with you, I can have more than a half, you know.”

They both nodded. That was the rule at the Dragon. Tweenagers of twenty-five or older could drink as much as their accompanying adults allowed. Unaccompanied, they were still restricted to a half. Younger than twenty-five could not even get a half if they were alone.

“Merry, remember our promise? We’ll be together…” he trailed off, and blushed again.

Now Merry knew what he was trying to say. He rolled his eyes. He was not sure he was ready for that.

“You know about the pact Merry and I have--never to get drunk unless we are together.”

His older cousin nodded. That was a result of an unfortunate experience when Pippin was only twenty. “Are you saying you *want* to get drunk, Pip? I must say that is surprising, given what happened.”

“Only a little bit drunk. I mean, I don’t remember what happened too well, other than it was thoroughly unpleasant. But that’s why, you see. I’d like to have a nice time like other hobbits do, but not too much. I mean, Merry will be there. And so will you.” He widened the green eyes to their most appealing expression, biting his lower lip.

Merry smirked. He’d get his way. And it might be fun at that. He had not even been pleasantly drunk himself since they had made their pact, in spite of some teasing from his Buckland friends about his temperate ways when they went to the inns. It was about time.

Apparently Frodo agreed, for he nodded thoughtfully. “It might help to have a more pleasant experience to compare to, at that, dear.”

The next night the three cousins, accompanied by Sam, entered the Dragon. Pippin was fairly trembling with excitement.

Merry wore his gift, a silver fob that had once belonged to Grandfather Adalgrim. Because he had been saving his money, Pippin gave mathoms: the fob for Merry, an inkwell for Frodo and for Sam a small volume on figuring the phases of the moon for planting. They *were* mathoms, but they were carefully selected to please, and not simply any old thing to hand.

The four of them found a table to one side of the room by the wall. The Dragon was not very crowded; it was after all Sterday, and most hobbits would have been out the night before.

The innkeeper Toby Harfoot himself came over to their table, and looked expectantly at Frodo to take the order. The older hobbits all looked at Pippin, who blushed, and said “We’d like four tankards and a pitcher of beer, please.”

“Master Toby, my cousin is twenty-five today, and plans to treat us tonight.”

Now the old hobbit grinned and looked at Pippin once more. “Well, I must say ‘happy birthday’ then, Mr. Pippin. I’ll bring your order straight away!”

Pippin beamed. “Did you hear that? He said ‘Mr. Pippin’ not ‘Master Pippin’.”

“A sure sign of advancing years, I tell you,” laughed Merry, pleased to see Pippin made so happy.

Sam shook his head. “I don’t think we’ll see Mr. Pippin settling down anytime soon. He’s going to cut quite a figure amongst the lasses.”

Pippin laughed again and blushed once more. He was not going to mind their teasing at all tonight. It was all part of being the byrding, after all. It was only a couple of moments before Toby returned with a tray, four tankards, and a large pewter pitcher full to the brim with good brown beer, the foam dripping over the lip. He set them out upon the table with a flourish and took his leave.

Pippin’s eyes were bright. His cousins and Sam watched him expectantly, as he poured out for all of them. This was the first time he’d ever had more than a half, and he picked it up and sipped first. “Oh my!” he said, “this is very good beer!”

“The Dragon has the brownest beer in the Shire, so they say,” said Sam, as he took a hefty swig.

Frodo lifted his to the center of the table. “To our Pip!” he said, “Many happy returns of the day!”

At first, Pippin nursed his drink. He was used to making a half last all evening. But soon he began to get into the spirit of things, and he and Merry finished at nearly the same time. He poured them another.

Frodo and Sam, however were taking it slow. Frodo wanted to keep a more or less sober eye on his younger cousins, and Sam was usually a slow drinker anyway.

By the time they had filled their tankards the third time, Pippin was giggling at everything any of them said. Merry was telling a very long and involved joke, and Frodo suspected that he would forget the punch line if he ever got to it.

Frodo and Sam had their second, and Pippin poured out a fourth for Merry and himself, the pitcher ran out. Sam took it to the bar to be refilled, and Pippin began to sing. Even drunk there was nothing slurred or hesitant about his singing.

It was one of Bilbo’s favorites, and they all soon joined in, Sam as well, when he returned. This pitcher was not nearly so full. He winked at Frodo as he poured out.

They sang some more, “Nob O’ the Lea”, “Hey, Laddie, Laddie!” and “The Man in the Moon Came Down Too Soon”. Pippin’s toes were tapping and suddenly he stood up, wavering a bit, and climbed upon the table.

He started to dance rather unsteadily, his hairy toes barely missed making contact with Frodo’s nose. Merry laughed and clapped, but Frodo and Sam tugged at his pants leg.

He started jumping up and tried to twirl around. Unfortunately he missed his footing and came crashing down. The pitcher went flying, dumping its contents over the four of them, before it landed on the floor a few feet away. The few patrons there had been watching in amusement, and now they all applauded. Pippin sat there on the table looking rather surprised.

He turned and met Merry’s eyes, and both of them burst into peals of laughter. Shaking his head, Frodo helped Pippin off the table. “I think we have celebrated enough for tonight, Pip!”

He and Sam guided the two younger hobbits out of the Green Dragon and they staggered into the night. It was rather a slow walk back to Bag End. When they arrived Sam helped him to pour his cousins into bed.

“Well, Mr. Frodo, that was an interesting evening. You thank Mr. Pippin for inviting me. And I’ll just bring a bit of the Gaffer’s remedy up with me in the morning. I don’t much suppose they’ll see light of day before elevenses.”

Frodo grinned. “I suppose that you are right, Sam. And the Gaffer’s remedy will be very welcome.”

“And that,” said Frodo “was the first time they kept that part of their pact. It wasn’t the last.” He laughed again at the memory, as did Faramir and Gimli at the image it brought them.

Merry sipped at his drink again, and sighed. He did miss Pippin on nights like this. Suddenly a thought came to him that sent a shiver down his spine.

If he had lost Pip after the Last Battle, he would never have been able to get drunk again.

**Taken from The Fellowship of the Ring, Book 1, Chapter 4, “A Shortcut to Mushrooms”

(This was written for Rabidsamfan, who requested something set in Lothlorien. This is from Galadriel's POV.)

I am amazed by the little ones. They are not simple-minded, no, not even the little gardener who thinks of himself so; they are very intelligent. But it is not in their minds that I find their strength to resist temptation--but in their hearts. I probe for weakness, for the ambition or selfishness that will allow the Ring to take hold, and find only the strength of a love so natural and so strong that the Shadow will never overcome it, though it may destroy the body. These four are bound to one another, there will be no treachery there.

Bilbo looked out at the view before him; the air was so clear. He had not seen anything with such clarity ever before. The shores of Tol Eressea drew near, the mountain standing high above, and he could see the top, with no wreathing of cloud, though it reached higher than any mountain he ever had seen.

He looked at Frodo, the wind in his dark curls. There was a touch of sun on his pale cheeks, and a look of wonder in his blue eyes-- even here bluer than the sky-- as he grinned.

He felt peaceful, for once. The decision was made, the plans set in motion. In only a few days, it would be irrevocable. He stood on the Hill atop Bag End, wind ruffling his dark hair, moonlight and starlight casting blue shadows on his face, white as marble.

He overlooked the Shire, as far as he could see, taking the sight into himself, one last time. He thought of those he was leaving behind, the farewells he found too painful to make. They would be all right. They had to be. He had done it all for them, after all.

They walked down the lane to the little house shoulder to shoulder, each one feeling the trepidation of the other. Merry took out the key and unlocked the door. “We’re home, Pip. Our house.”

“He worked it out with your father. It’s not a problem.” Merry lifted the candle to look about. “We will have to refurnish. All of this goes back to Bag End when it’s restored. But Mum has said we may have the pick of the mathom rooms at the Hall. It’s hard to believe it’s been almost a year and a half since that last night we were here.” He fell silent, thinking of that last night of innocence.

Now Frodo had gifted this house to them; they could live here on their own, not worry about curious and concerned relations barging in to their rooms every time one of them had a nightmare.

He turned to look at his cousin, unusually quiet for him. Pippin stood with glistening eyes.

The grin grew even wider. “So I do. After three lasses, it’s very nice.” He gazed fondly at the tiny one in his arms.

“It’s a tradition, it seems. Father had been telling us all along it would be a lad, for that very reason.”

“That’s entirely up to Diamond. Not that I would ask her right now, you know.”

(Fell_beast2 wanted a talk between Pippin and Faramir before Faramir marries Goldilocks.)

One pair of Tookish green eyes looked into another. “Father, I want to do this, but I’m frightened. What if I’m no good at being a husband?”

Pippin smiled gently at his son, so like himself in many ways, looks especially, except for the dark curls that always reminded him of Frodo. “You will do fine, son. I think you’ve seen enough examples to know how a good marriage works.”

“You had better. You have not only her father and brothers to answer to if you don’t, but me as well,” his father grinned.

Frodo sat in the courtyard of the Citadel, looking at the White Tree in bloom. Somehow it eased his heart to see and smell the lovely tree, symbol of all that was now right in the world. He sighed. If only all were right within himself. He could never forgive himself that moment of weakness at the Fire--had it not been for that perhaps his own heart would not be torn with desire for the Thing that was destroyed.

“I just wanted to thank you, my friend. You have given me my heart’s desire.”

DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

There was a frightening whine and whistle to the wind, and the sun was hidden behind a roiling bank of black clouds. But this did nothing to drown out the snarling and barking of the dogs--three of them, uncommonly large and fierce--which surrounded the small patch of brambles. Two young hobbits huddled together there in fear, the scratches and entangling vines no more than an annoyance compared to the beasts they protected them from.The older one, sandy-haired and grey-eyed, drew the younger one closer against him.

There was a sudden loud crack of thunder; the younger one flinched and buried his tear-filled green eyes into his cousin’s side. As the rain suddenly began to pour down, the dogs turned tail and ran.

“It’s going to be all right, Faramir,” said the older one. “The dogs are gone now, we’ll be able to get out of this as soon as the rain lets up.”

In the Master’s study at Brandy Hall, the Master of Buckland glared at his daughter. The Thain of the Shire stood against the fireplace, looking both amused and exasperated.

Merry gave a snort of annoyance. “Simbelmynë Brandybuck! I know that you know where your brother and your cousin have gone. If you persist in saying nothing, you are going to find it a long time until breakfast.”

Wyn glared, though she cringed inwardly. He father only ever used her *real* name when he was absolutely furious. Out loud, she said “Well, fasting might do me good. I need to lose weight.” This of course, was absurd, but it was the first thing that popped into her head.

Wyn suddenly found her elbow gripped, hard, as her mother, who had been standing back in silence grabbed her, and propelled her to the study window. There was a frightening whine and whistle to the wind, and the sun was hidden behind a roiling bank of black clouds. She gave her daughter a shake. “Look! Look! Look at that, and tell me to my face that it is all right for your brother and little Faramir to be out in that kind of weather!”

As if to make Estella’s point for her, there was a crack of thunder, and the rain began to pour so hard that the view out the window was completely obscured.

Wyn’s eyes filled with tears. “They’ve gone across the River,” she whispered, “to Bamfurlong, to the Maggots. For mushrooms.”

Estella let go of her daughter. “Go and join your sister and cousins in the other room with Aunt Angelica. And think about those two, out there in that--consider the kind of trouble they are in, and think about whether it is more loyal to keep a secret, or to keep your brother out of danger!”

Merry looked at his cousin and they both flinched as they heard her unspoken words: This is all your fault.

“Perry, I don’t think it is going to let up anytime soon.” Faramir looked pitiful, his usual riot of dark curls plastered flat to his head, his Tookish green eyes wide. Perry couldn’t tell if he were crying; any tears would have been washed away by the rain.

Perry pulled his cousin closer. Earlier he had tried to put part of his jacket over the little one, but it was useless. “I’m sorry, Fam,” he said. “I didn’t mean to get you into this, sprout. I thought it would be fun.”

“ ‘s all right, Perry.” Fam sniffled, and then sneezed. “You didn’t know it would rain like this.”

Perry’s eyes were stinging, and he knew the wet on his face was not all rain. He remembered back to when he was a little lad of only six, waiting for his baby cousin to be born, and the way his da had talked to him of the responsibility of being a cousin.

“Cousin Frodo always took good care of me, Perry. He called me ‘sprout’ and he carried me, and watched over me until I was old enough to follow him around. And then he never picked on me, or teased me meanly, the way some big brothers and cousins do to the younger ones. That is not to say he never played jokes on me or got cross with me, but I always knew he loved me.”

Perry had looked up at his father. “And then you did the same thing for Uncle Pippin when he was born, didn’t you?”

His father had laughed. “Well, I tried to, anyway. Your Uncle Pip would be the one to tell you whether I succeeded in looking after him or not.”

And when Uncle Pippin had come out, and shown them the new little lad, he had gone first to Perry’s da, and the way his cousin looked at his father with all the pride and love shining in his face, and said “Meet Faramir Took,” Perry had known the answer without having to ask.

And he had been quite taken with the little Took baby, so bright-eyed and happy, just as another little Brandybuck had felt about another little Took long ago.

And now he had gone and taken his little cousin into real trouble. He listened miserably to another sneeze from the lad. The rain was *never* going to stop, and they would *never* get out of this briar patch.

Merry and Pippin led the ponies off the Ferry. They were two of Merry’s ponies from Rohan; Shirebred ponies would not have set foot on the Ferry in that sort of weather. Silently they mounted and headed towards the Marish.

The rain showed no signs of slackening, and as well as the Lórien cloaks did at keeping out the water, in this sort of hard blowing rain, even they were next to useless. They rode steadily, if impatiently. Both longed to gallop--their only sons were out there somewhere in trouble--but they knew that the footing would be too dangerous for that.

“We’ll start at Farmer Maggot’s. The old farmer had died a few years back, but his eldest son had stepped into his place so easily it was as though no change had occurred. His son now was known only as “Maggot”, and it was in a fair way to be forgotten that he had ever been called anything else.

“Good plan!” Pippin shouted. Being heard over the downpour was hard, and not conducive to conversation.

Wyn sat miserably in a chair in the corner. Her little sister Dilly and cousins Primmie, Pansy and Pet were playing with Uncle Freddy and Aunt Angelica’s little lads Folco and Filibert. They were laughing and acting as though nothing was wrong. Of course they really were too little to know better. But she could not even pretend to be cheerful.

She had known very well that she should have told on her brother and her cousin when they had decided to sneak off to the Marish on a mushroom raid. But no, she thought it had sounded like a good lark, and halfway hoped they might invite her to come along, as they sometimes did. However, they did not say anything, and she did not ask. The older Fam got, the less Perry included her in their fun. She supposed that was only to be expected. Most lads of a certain age did not like girls and at best tolerated them, while the lasses felt the same way about them. But Wyn did not feel that way. Lads had much more fun.

Still, she never *really* thought to her to tell on her brother and cousin; even when her parents had begun to get worried at their absence. She was no tattletale. For the first time, she realized that once in a while, tattling might be the better thing to do. Another peal of thunder just underscored her worry.

If anything bad happened to Perry and Fam because of her keeping quiet, she would never forgive herself.

Merry and Pippin splashed up the lane to the Maggot’s farmhouse. They dismounted and went to bang upon the door.

The door was opened by Maggot himself. “Master Brandybuck! Thain Peregrin! What are you doing out in weather like this? Come in, come in!”

“Maggot, I am sorry to intrude on you in this kind of weather,” said Merry, “but were you aware of anyone trespassing on your property earlier in the day?”

“Now as you mention it, the dogs was barking and a-chasing something right after lunch. I thought as it might’ve been rabbits getting into the lettuce.” He looked at the alarm on their serious faces. “What’s this then, sirs?”

“I am very much afraid that it was our sons. My daughter told me that they proposed to come on a mushroom raid on your farm today.”

Maggot’s brows raised. “They’re a bit on the young side for that, don’t you think?”

“Well,” said Pippin sheepishly, “a sight younger than we were when first we tried it. I am afraid it is our fault. Last night at supper the two of us got rather jolly remembering old times. I am very much afraid we made it sound like a very appealing lark.” The worried look returned. “This weather makes it much more serious than just a lark, I fear.”

Maggot’s brows drew down. Lads raiding the crops was a nuisance to be sure, but it weren’t often serious. They soon outgrew it, especially after one or two run-ins with his dogs. And they grew up. Master Brandybuck and the Thain had been regular rapscallions, but they was good friends and neighbors now. And they were right. This weather weren’t nothing for young lads to be out in.

“We really need to find them, Maggot,” said Merry worriedly. “Where did the dogs go?”

“They was a-chasing off across the lane through the fields to the west of here. Nowhere near any of my mushrooms, which is why I didn’t think of lads out a-raiding.”

Pippin shook his head. “They really are too young for this. They did not even bother to find out the lay of the land. Well, let us get back out there, Merry. We’ll not find them standing here.”

He called his two younger brothers, who still lived at home with him, and now the five hobbits fanned out across the field he had indicated.

Perry had begun to sniffle and sneeze himself. His head hurt horribly. He had finally drawn his little cousin into his lap, and was huddling over him, attempting to at least keep him warm. Though he heard the occasional sniffle, he thought maybe the lad had dozed off.

Perry Brandybuck, he thought, this has got to have been your worst idea ever. He stiffened. Had he heard something? It was very faint; maybe he was imagining it, but it sounded like his father calling.

Merry and Pippin had shouted themselves almost hoarse, when they heard a faint cry: “Da? Da? Is that you?”

The searchers converged on the large patch of brambles; they could barely make out the small figures huddled in the center there miserably.

Soon enough Faramir stumbled into Pippin’s arms, crying hysterically. Peridoc followed, leaning into his father’s embrace, still repeating his litany of apology. He was shivering hard, and sneezed several more times. Merry gathered him in tightly. “It’s all right, son. We will talk about this later. Let’s just get you somewhere warm and dry right now.”

By the time they had reached the farmhouse, the rain had ended. Soon enough, the lads were tucked up in a big bed, being spoon-fed warm milktoast by Maggot’s wife. The youngest Maggot brother headed for the Ferry and Brandy Hall to take the news that the lost had been found, and would return on the morrow.

Faramir ended up with a slight case of sniffles, which cleared up in just a day or two.

Perry, however, ended up very ill indeed. He had a fever so high it frightened Cousin Viola, the healer who had taken over at Brandy Hall after Cousin Dody had retired. He could not remember the journey home, and the intervening days were a jumble of misery and confusion, what he didn’t sleep through.

“But--” Diamond had not come with Pippin on this visit, as Pippin’s sister Pervinca was ending her fourth confinement, and wanted no one else to deliver the babe.

“It is all right, Perry. You have another little lass cousin. She came just before I got your uncle’s message.”

“Oh.” Tears sprang to his eyes. “It’s probably good it’s a lass. I’m not a very good cousin. I guess you probably are mad at me.”

She placed her hand on his brow and gently smoothed his sweaty curls. “Did you mean to put Fam in danger?”

“Well then, I don’t think you are a bad cousin. I think that you are young and used bad judgment. And you took as much care of him as you could while you waited for help.”

She nodded. “I think he’s going to be fine, Merry. Why don’t I go and speak to Estella; I know she’s still a bit worried and would like to see him.” The healer slipped from the room, giving Merry a pat on the shoulder as she left.

Merry came and sat down on the bed by his son, who looked at him with troubled eyes. “I am sorry, Perry,” he said.

“Yes. Your Uncle Pippin and I were having far too much fun telling stories of our younger days, and I am afraid that we did not think of how it would sound to you two lads. Both of us were a good few years older than you and Fam, and I am not boasting, but simply stating fact, that we had a much better idea of what we were doing. Scrumping and raiding are something hobbit lads do from time to time; it’s not really a good thing though, and as you found out, it can even be dangerous. We should have realized we were encouraging you.”

“You were not even supposed to be on the other side of the River, young hobbit, as you very well know. I am not going to give you a punishment; I think the natural consequences of what happened are punishment enough. I am just glad that those consequences were not worse.”

“That’s good then. That’s what scared me most--I was so awfully worried about Fam.”

Merry drew his son into his embrace, and thinking back, remembered all the things that had frightened him most during his lifetime: Black Riders, and Orcs, and facing the Witch-king. But nothing had scared him as much as his fear for Pippin, his best friend and cousin.

Whatever Perry and Fam had to face over the years as they grew up, Merry was glad to know they had found the same kind of friendship.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This story takes place in 1442. Merry’s children are: Simbelmynë , called Wyn, 19 (12 ½ in Man years), Peridoc, called Perry, 18 (12 in Man years) and Niphredil, called Dilly, 8 (5 in Man years). Pippin’s children are Primrose, called Primmie,14 ( 8 ½ in Man years) Pansy and Petunia, called Pet, twins, 13 (8 in Man years) and Faramir, called Fam, 11(7 in Man years).

AUTHOR'S NOTES:(1) This was written for hobbit_ficathon's "Moving Day" challenge in LiveJournal.

(2) In my version of the Shire, Ferumbras abdicates the Thainship to Paladin when Pippin is fifteen, due to poor health and the fact that a severe case of mumps a few years earlier had left him impotent. (“My health is not what it used to be” is a Tookish euphemism for that.)

(3) In this story Pearl is 30, Pimpernel is 26, Pervinca is 20, Merry is 23 and Pippin is 15 (Or 19, 16 and a half, 13, 14 and a half, and 9 in Man years)

Paladin looked about him. They were taking only their personal possessions; the tenants would keep the furniture, for the Great Smials were well furnished. Still, the farmhouse looked very bare without the pictures and cushions and clothing and other items. He sighed. He did *not* want to do this. He had thought he would have several more years of freedom, before the Thainship landed in his lap. He would miss Whitwell. After all, he had grown up here, and had raised his family here.

But when Ferumbras had come to him and told him “My health is not what it used to be, and I shall now never wed. I wish to give over the job to you now, so that I can have a little peace and quiet before I die.” Paladin’s heart had dropped to his toes. He had tried to argue, but it was in vain, and Ferumbras had grown suddenly hard. “You *will* do this, Paladin Took, or find yourself and your family homeless. This farm still belongs to the Took family, and not to you personally.”

Put that way, of course, there *was* no recourse. He had given in with as much grace as the circumstances would allow.

He turned to his wife, who was watching him worriedly. “Hullo, Tina. I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t hear you come in,” he said sadly.

She came over and put her arms about him, kissed him gently. They put their foreheads together briefly. “Are you going to say good-bye to the children?”

He could hear the peals of Pippin’s laughter as he stepped outside. Merry had apparently chased his younger cousin down, and was tickling him unmercifully. Paladin grinned at the sight. Pippin was so excited to be going to Buckland at this time of year that he had not stopped moving or talking since he found out. Merry was doing his best to wear out the younger child before they started. Pervinca was already in the coach with Esmeralda.

“Give your mother and I time to settle into the Great Smials. We will send for you as soon as everything has calmed down again.”

“I understand, Father,” she said. Her expression seemed to say that she did, but Paladin hoped that she truly did not. He was not going to have his children subjected to the scrutiny and gossip that would be part and parcel of his new position, until things had truly subsided and the novelty of having a new Thain had passed.

He turned and took a few steps, and grabbing his nephew by his braces, pulled him off his son with a grin. “Come now, you overbearing little Brandybuck. Give me a minute or two with my son.”

Merry gave him a little hug. “Of course, Uncle Paladin!” and the tweenager raced off to help his own father putting the last of the travelling cases onto the back of the coach.

Paladin knelt down, and brushed off the back of Pippin’s shirt. “Now, Peregrin, I know that you are excited to be going and staying in Buckland for a while. But I want you to mind your sister and your cousin as well as your Aunt Esme and Uncle Sara. And stay out of the back tunnels!”

“Father! I *always* mind Merry! Well, almost always --and that was *ages* ago, anyway! I was only eleven!”

“And now you are all of fifteen! I don’t doubt that you and Meriadoc will find a good deal of mischief--but try not to disgrace me, lad.” He smiled when he said it, but he meant it and Pippin could tell that he did.

Pippin gave his father a fierce hug, and looked up to see his mother. He let go of his father and barreled into her. “Mother!” he suddenly had tears in his eyes. Now it came to it, he was not so sure about this. He had made visits to Buckland and Bag End on his own since he was seven, but this visit was different. It wasn’t at his usual time of year, and it was indefinite. His parents had made it clear they did not know *how* soon they would send for him and Pervinca to come home.

Paladin walked over to the pony trap, where Pearl and Pimpernel sat with the Goodbodies--Longo and Dianthus and their son Milo. They were ready now to drive off, and only awaited the last farewells.

Pearl was very pale. Only she, of the children, had any understanding of how difficult this move was for her parents. “Father,” she whispered. She bent down for a last embrace, and her father’s kiss on her brow, and then Pimmie did the same.

“Behave yourselves, my lassies, and do not give Uncle Lon and Aunt Dee any trouble.”

Eglantine had come up, with Pippin still by her side. He looked up at his oldest sisters. “ ‘Bye, Pearl and Pimmie. I’ll miss you, even if you are bossy.”

His sisters giggled. “I know you will, Pip,” said Pimpernel. “We’ll miss you, too, although we won’t miss the frogs in our beds.”

Pearl looked at her mother. Tears stood in her eyes, as well as Eglantine’s.
“Oh, Mother!” she bit her lower lip, and blinked hard.

“Farewell!” said Longo, and he shook the reins, and the ponies stepped forth. Calls of “Good-bye!” and “Farewell!” and waves of the hands continued as the pony-trap moved down the lane.

Saradoc stood behind his brother-in-law. “Diccon tells me we are all set to go, now,” he said, gesturing to the driver, who was already seated and waiting.

Paladin picked Pippin up, although really, his son was far too old for that now. But he wanted one more excuse to hold his lad in his arms for a moment, and Pip made no protest, as he would have under other circumstances. He carried him over and deposited him in the coach, and Saradoc clambered in after. “If all goes well, brother, we will see you at your investiture next month.” But they would not be bringing the children.

Paladin nodded. He looked at his son and youngest daughter. “I will see the two of you at Bag End, for Cousin Bilbo’s and Cousin Frodo’s birthdays in a couple of months.”

They nodded somberly, both of them now fighting tears. Merry had a protective arm around Pippin’s shoulders. Saradoc signaled the driver, and the Brandybuck coach also moved down the lane.

Paladin felt his wife at his side, and placed his arm around her waist. He heaved a great sigh. “Well, my dear, it is our turn now.”

She nodded. She went over to the waggon, where young Clover and Tulip Tunelly waited. The lasses would be going along, and would join the staff at the Great Smials. “Is everything loaded?”

Paladin spoke to their cousin Sparrow, who would be driving. He would not remain in Tuckborough, but would return to Whitwell, and be one of the farmhands for the new tenant, one of Paladin’s cousins, Isemgrin Took.

Paladin handed the hobbit a small pouch. “You’ve been a faithful worker, Sparrow. This is just a token of our appreciation.”

Paladin shook his head. “Not quite yet, lad. I’ve a few more days until I take up that title.”

He turned and offered his arm to his wife, as though they were going in to dine, and led her to their own pony-trap. He helped her up, and then climbing up himself took up the reins, and shook them. The trap rolled out, followed by the well-laden waggon.

Paladin kept his eyes straight ahead. He refused to look back one last time at the farm.

This is a song, written by Merry and Pippin while they were in Minas Tirith after the end of the War, while they awaited their chance to go home. It appears in my WIP, "Chance Encounter" in my LiveJournal.

He sometimes wondered how it was that the hobbits were able to get whatever they wanted through force of personality alone.

He had noticed when he first began to notice hobbits, during the Long Winter, observing how deeply they cared for one another, how loving they were to their families. Those who encountered Big Folk soon had the help they needed, and also life-long friends and admirers. He knew that he counted himself one of the enspelled, and glad of it.

The six friends had made rather merry the night before, at The Green Dragon, but since Sam was a working hobbit, he had left the five cousins around midnight. They were all still drinking and singing, and he was sure that at the very least, Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin would have been dancing on the tables in a short while. Maybe Mr. Folco too.

They had not come home until nearly daylight, and Sam, who was already up and having first breakfast at Number Three, had heard them singing up the lane.

It was right after elevenses when Mr. Folco had come out, and sitting on the ground by the ash tree in the lower garden, had taken out his flute. Mr. Freddy had come out a short time later, and sat next to him, but only a few minutes later, Folco had put away the flute and they had fallen asleep on each other’s shoulders.

Sam was eating a meat pasty his sister had made for his luncheon when Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin had come out, obviously looking for the other two. The gardener had gestured in that direction, and the Took and Brandybuck cousins had gone over there.

Merry pursed his lips. “We could I suppose. Or we could steal their braces while they sleep.”

Pippin grinned, but said, “I don’t know, it seems like an awful lot of work. And they do look very comfortable.”

“They do, don’t they?” replied Merry. “It actually looks very comfortable indeed.” He sat down next to Freddy, and leaned into his side, patting the ground next to him.

Pippin plopped down, and put his head in Merry’s lap, and soon the both of them had been lulled into sleep by the sun and the sound of bees.

About an hour later, Mr. Frodo finally made an appearance. He was still a bit tousled looking, Sam thought, as well as looking puzzled.

“Sam!” he said, “have you seen my guests? They all seem to have vanished.”

“They’re over there, Mr. Frodo. I think they might’ve found the garden more comfortable than their beds, so to speak.”

Frodo looked over and laughed, and then walked down there. “Lads!” he said softly.

Merry stirred and opened one eye. “ ‘mere,” he murmured, holding up the arm that was unencumbered.

Frodo shook his head, but sat down. He lifted Pippin’s feet carefully and place them in his lap, and leaned into Merry’s embrace.

Sam finished up trimming the lilac bushes near the kitchen, and went to put the hedge trimmer away. It was getting on to teatime, and there they still slept. They was likely to get stiff necks sleeping with their heads all lolled on one another like that. Maybe he should wake them up.

Marigold went through the gate to Bag End, mightily annoyed. Sam was almost always home right after tea. Here it was coming up to suppertime. The Gaffer had sent her to check was he coming home.

Her knock at the door brought no answer, which was a puzzle, as she knew Mr. Frodo was there, and had a lot of company right now. She turned and went around to the side of the smial, and her eye was caught.

There was Sam, sitting with his back against Mr. Frodo’s side, and every last one of them snoring away.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story appeared as the sixth chapter in Lindelea's LJ story, "To Tell a Tale"; the idea being that Pippin was sick in Minas Tirith after the Quest, and various persons took turns telling him stories to keep him in bed. There have been several other fine writers who have contributed to the story.

Muffled Conversation
in which Frodo remembers what was lost, and cherishes what was saved

Pippin stirred drowsily, and opened his eyes. Frodo was sitting quietly next to him , with Pippin’s scarf in his hands, turning it over and over, and studying it.

Frodo looked at him fondly. “You took very good care of this scarf. I am surprised it survived all that it went through with you.”

Pippin blushed. “I told you I would treasure it forever. And when--when you left us at Amon Hen, well, it rather seemed to me that if I could keep it safe, it would feel as though I were keeping you safe as well. Silly, I suppose.”

“Not at all, Pippin,” Frodo replied huskily, and cleared his throat. He turned away, wiping at his face. "Got a little something in my eye..." he muttered.

“Orcs left it alone--they weren’t to despoil us. And when I came here to the White City, and I swore my service, they gave me livery. I had leave only to wear my Elven cloak with that. So I picked apart the hem, and tucked the scarf inside, and sewed it back up.”

“Very ingenious,” Frodo smiled. No wonder it had stayed safe. Even the Lórien cloaks he and Sam had worn to the Black Land, had, after a good cleaning, looked like new. Those cloaks were seemingly impervious. “I remember when my mother made this for Bilbo. Would you like to hear about it?”

Pippin was surprised. Frodo almost never talked about his parents. “I would very much like that, cousin, if you would not mind it.” He turned on his side and tucked his hands beneath his cheeks, making him look very young.

Frodo reached over and tugged the coverlet up over Pippin's shoulder, as he had done countless times before. “I was ten years old. I had always watched my mother doing needlework. To me it was just something mothers did. She had always used a drop spindle for her spinning. But that year---”

“Oh, Bilbo! It’s wonderful!” Primula’s face shone as she ran her hands over the beautiful golden wood of the spinning wheel. Drogo looked up from his new chess set, and watched her, grinning. And Frodo even lost his attention for his beautiful new story-book. For Bilbo’s eighty-eighth birthday, he had come to Buckland to spend a quiet day with his favorite cousin and his family.

Ten-year-old Frodo had given his gifts first: a pretty blue hair ribbon for his mother, a pen wiper for Bilbo, and a small bag of his father's favorite sweets for Drogo.

Then Bilbo had presented his gifts. Drogo and Frodo had been pleased enough with theirs, but Primula had been thrilled with hers. She threw her arms around Bilbo, and bussed him soundly upon the cheek.

A couple of weeks later, Frodo watched, fascinated, while his mother spun: grey yarn from grey wool which had come from grey sheep in the North Farthing. Primula let Frodo help her wind it into hanks. It was very soft.

The grey yarn was soon finished and put aside. Primula then began to spin some ordinary white wool. She spun a good deal of that, for much of it she would dye. Then she put the spinning aside for a while to work on Yule gifts.

“What are you doing now, Mama?” asked Frodo, one cold day in Afteryule. He had seen her dye yarn before, but never like this. Instead of a big batch of one color, with a deal of yarn in one large vat, there were four small bowls of different colors. She had several hanks of the white yarn she had spun before Yule.

“The Widow Goodbody told me how to make something she called ’variegated’ yarn. I shall dye different sections of each yarn hank in different colors: wine, russet, golden orange and deep green.” Frodo’s eyes grew wide as she removed one finished hank.

“Yes,” she smiled, “for Uncle Bilbo’s birthday is in the autumn. But I shall give it to him in the spring, for my birthday.”

Frodo watched his mother, rocking in her chair, her knitting needles clicking, the length of knitting growing below. “Will it be finished in time, Mama?”

“Yes, dear. It is nearly three more weeks to my birthday. I’ve plenty of time for this and other gifts.”

“Is it finished, Mama?” Frodo ran his hands across the softness of it. The checks of variegated yarn against the soft grey looked like autumn leaves against a grey fall sky.

Frodo did so, and his mother turned his palm sideways, spreading out his small fingers. Then she used them to wrap lengths of the yarn around and around, and then snipping them off. When she had enough, Frodo watched as she used a small hook to draw them through the ends of the scarf and tie them on.

Primula’s birthday party was held at Brandy Hall. Her parents and her husband had gone all out for it, and it was the first major social event of the spring.

Primula had been very busy. Bilbo’s gift was not the only one of her own creation.

She passed out the packages to her guests, her blue eyes sparkling with pride at their praise for her handiwork. She handed Bilbo his package.

“I hope, Cousin Bilbo, you will see to what good use I put my own gift from you!” she laughed.

Frodo watched curiously as the old hobbit unwrapped the package, as eager as any young lad. “Oh, my dear! It is lovely!” he exclaimed. His eyes shone as he drew it forth and felt its softness. In spite of the warm spring night, he threw it about his neck.

Frodo pulled his pipe from his pocket, gave it a rub with his pocket-handkerchief, and looked off into the distance, as if he were seeing something far away and long ago.

“I remember she made Grandfather Gorbadoc and Papa beautifully embroidered waistcoats. And she had stitched a family tree in wool on linen for Grandmother.”

“I remember that.” Pippin murmured. “It hangs in the dining room at Brandy Hall. I didn’t know your mother made it, though.”

Frodo nodded. “But my own gift from her was also a scarf, of that same lovely soft grey, with stripes in it of shades of blue. I had never seen her working on it at all. I lost it the following winter.” Frodo tamped pipe-weed into his pipe and stuck the stem in his mouth, though he didn't light the pipe, merely sucked thoughtfully on the stem, his look faraway.

“None of us knew that those would be our last birthday gifts from her. She and Papa were gone before her next birthday. Bilbo loved that scarf, and wore it for years, before giving it to me about a year before he left. But I put it away. I could not bear to wear it.”

Pippin caught Frodo’s hand with both his own. “And then you gave it to me because you thought you were leaving me behind and would never see me anymore.” His green eyes filled with tears. “Frodo, perhaps--”

Frodo smiled gently, and put the scarf in Pippin’s hand. “So am I, dear cousin. So am I."

"This week's challenge is to incorporate these three elements -- a block of wood, a fishing pole, and a cat -- into a story, pre, during or post-quest. Have fun!"

Merimac glanced up as he heard the patter of feet coming out onto the dock of the Ferry. Ah, just young Merry and Pippin, equipped with their fishing poles. His eyes turned back to the block of wood he was whittling.

“Merry, I don’t see why we can’t go out in one of the boats to fish!” exclaimed Pippin.

“Because my mother does not think you are old enough to be out on the water without an adult, or at least a tween, along.”

“Not alone, she wouldn’t. Come on, now, Pip, we can have a good time fishing from the dock!”

“It’s not the same,” he muttered, determined to hold on to his grievance. “I wish *Frodo* were here! She’d let us go then!”

“I’m sure she would, Pip, but Frodo’s *not* here. Besides, if you’ll recall, he’s not so terribly fond of boats as all that. Makes him gloomy.” Actually “gloomy” was a mild word for the look of sad desperation Merry had seen on Frodo’s face the few times he’d been coaxed into boating. He sighed. Even after nearly ten years, he still missed having Frodo living at the Hall.

“Oh! Merry! I’m sorry! I forgot!” Pip dropped his pole and gave Merry a fierce hug.

Merry tousled the chestnut curls. “No harm, Pip, he’s not here anyway. Now pick up your pole, and let’s see if we can’t catch a few fish.”

Merimac watched out of the corner of his eye as the two lads settled down at the other end of the dock. Merry very patiently baited Pippin’s hook, as the younger lad was afraid of hurting the worm. Once he had Pippin’s line safely in the water, he took up his own hook, baited it, and cast it out into the River. Merry was quite a good young angler.

But Mac did not expect the serene and peaceful picture of two little lads fishing to last very long. In only a few minutes, Pippin’s feet began to swing back and forth, and he began to twitch. “Merry! The fish aren’t biting!”

Merry sighed. “You have to give them some time, Pip. They probably have not noticed yet.”

“Well, I think the fish are very slow if they can’t see such a big worm as that hanging in the water.” His feet now started to jig up and down.

Pippin’s face brightened up immediately. “Oh! All right!” He closed his eyes for a moment, and then in his clear childish voice began to sing a familiar nursery song:

“All along the backwater,
Through the rushes tall,
Ducks are a-dabbling,
Up tails all!
Ducks' tails, drakes' tails,
Yellow feet a-quiver,
Yellow bills all out of sight
Busy in the river!
Slushy green undergrowth
Where the roach swim--
Here we keep our larder,
Cool and full and dim.
Everyone for what he likes!
WE like to be
Heads down, tails up,
Dabbling free!
High in the blue above
Swifts whirl and call--
WE are down a-dabbling
Up tails all!”*

Merry was listening with a contented smile. A singing Pippin was not a fidgety Pippin. Merimac grinned and enjoyed the sound of his little cousin’s singing as well. The friendship between the two was amazing to casual observers, who could not understand how Merry could be so fond of the company of a little lad so much younger, not to mention of such a trying temperament. But Mac remembered well how it was with Merry, and the older cousin who had so much patience with *him*.

As Pippin finished his song, Merry suddenly gave a jerk of his line. He had a bite.

“Oh! Merry! You’ve got one!” Pippin jumped up, dropping his own pole in his excitement.

Merry had set the hook, and now carefully began drawing in his line. There was quite a tussle on the other end, and he soon drew forth a lovely fish from the water. He had barely landed it and had no time yet to put it in his little creel, when Pippin’s neglected pole began to move.

Merry rushed over to help Pippin land his catch, but the little one had been too eager, and the bait was gone as well as the fish.

For one of the Hall cats had crept onto the dock, and started to make off with Merry’s fish.

Of course the cat paid no attention, but started to run. Little Pippin however, was a bit too quick for him. He gave a flying leap and grabbed the cat by the tail. With a yowl, it dropped the fish, and Merry snatched it up. Pippin let go, and the offended cat took off like a stone from a sling, hissing and yowling its indignation.

Merry looked at his fish. It seemed to be undamaged, so he stowed it in his creel with a sigh. Fishing with Pippin was not a quiet or relaxing past time. As Pippin wandered over to Merimac, he began to pepper him with questions. “Did you see that, Cousin Mac! I saved Merry’s fish! What are you making? Oh, is it a boat? What are you going to do with it?”

Merry grinned. Apparently whittling on the dock was not going to be very relaxing either. He baited his hook and cast his line, while chuckling at his uncle’s discomfiture.

___________________________________________
* From The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame, with apologies to Rattie.

He has been observing them. I have watched his confusion and bemusement begin to give way to helpless affection. They intrigue him, they tug at his heartstrings.

He is beginning to understand their indomitable spirits, which are fueled by the fierce love they have for one another. He is amused by and admiring of, their good humor in the face of troubles that easily fell beings twice their size. I can see his fascination for them transforming itself into love, and I hope, beyond all hope, that it will be enough to drown out the insidious whispers of the Ring.

Nibs sighed as he went into the stable with the broken hoe. There’d be another one here, somewhere. He really needed to get one and get back to his father and brother in the field. Now that Jolly was gone South, and Nick was working at The Green Dragon, his father and Tom needed him more than ever. But somehow he didn’t *feel* needed. Sure, and they needed his hands and his strong back, but they just didn’t need *him*. That was a daft thing to think, truly it was, he knew his family loved him, that wasn’t what bothered him.

Tom and Jolly--they’d been old enough to do their part during the Troubles, being part of Captain Freddy’s band of Rebels, though luckily they’d been spared capture with the rest--having come home with foodstuffs they had taken back from the Ruffians, and bringing it to their father to see that those as needed it got some. Even Nick had been of some use then, being lookout for their father, and taking messages from time to time.

And Sam--Rosie’s Sam, he’d gone off with Mr. Frodo, and come back a shining hero, him and Captain Merry and Captain Pippin just slinging them Ruffians out of the Shire, and then he’d gone about with his magic box of Elven dust, and made the Shire bloom once more.

But what had Nibs ever done, he wondered? Too young by half, his father had said, and his mother wouldn’t let him have no part in the dangerous doings.

He quickly located the new hoe, and then thought to go into the farmhouse. The morning was right warm, and he could get a jug of cider to take back to the fields with him to share with his father and Tom.

He went out, and saw Captain Pippin there, standing by the door as though he’d been knocking. The Took was all got up in his shiny armor and his Outlandish uniform, as he still travelled about in, and he had a rather bulky cloth bag dangling from his hand. Nibs noticed his beautiful black pony standing near the farmyard gate. Looking at him, so tall and proud and fierce looking, it was hard for Nibs to remember that he was a whole year older than the Captain.

“Ma’s over to Tom and Mari’s cottage, helping out with putting up some pickles.”

“As I was passing in this direction, your sister asked me to return your mother’s cake pans.” He held out the bag he was carrying.

Nibs rolled his eyes. Just like Rosie to get one of the gentry to do her errands for her. He was glad his Ma *wasn’t* here to take them. She’d be right upset at that. He took the bag.

In spite of the need to get back to the fields, he knew that hospitality was more important. His parents would both tear a strip off him if they thought he had not even *offered* refreshment. “Would you care to come in from the heat, Captain Pippin, and take some cold cider?”

Pippin grinned, and his whole face lit up. “I would indeed. May I bring Sable up to water him, and tether him in the shade of your yardtree?”

A few moments later in the Cotton’s spacious kitchen the two young hobbits sat at the large oak table with mugs of cold cider. “I thank you very much, Nibs. I’ve water in my waterskin, but in this heat, it’s neither cold nor refreshing. How have you been? I’ve not seen you since Frodo conducted Tom’s and Mari’s wedding?”

Captain Pippin cocked his head, and those green eyes of his seemed to look right through Nibs. Nibs was reminded of the way his cousin Mr. Frodo could do the same thing sometimes with those blue eyes of his. But Mr. Frodo’s eyes always seemed to look sad behind it all, and Mr. Pippin’s was just a look of curious concern.

The Cotton lad sighed. “I don’t really guess there is, Captain Pippin. It’s just things is kind of different around here now. I’m the only one to home now, and it sort of chafes.”

“Well, I know that Tom moved into his own cottage after the wedding, and Jolly’s gone off with the embassy to Gondor, but where’s Nick?”

“Oh, he’s been stepping out with Master Toby’s daughter Clover, and so now he’s working at The Green Dragon. If they wed, the inn’ll someday come to Clover, so Nick needs to learn the workings of it.”

“Ah.” Pippin took another sip of the cider, and looked at Nibs with interest. “It’s hard not to be of age yet, isn’t it?”

Nibs started, and then swallowed. How could he be thinking of complaining. If it was hard on him, just think how it must chafe Captain Pippin, who’d already seen and done so much more than many a hobbit of thrice his years. “It’s the way things are,” he said.

“It’s just--I don’t see where I’m to fit in, you see. The farm’ll come to Tom one day. And Jolly’ll come back next year, and--and he’ll be all changed, like--” He stopped and blushed, realizing what he’d almost said.

“Like Sam, and Merry, and Frodo, and me? I hope not, Nibs. This trip should not be so dire or dangerous, and there is no War. The Evil in the East has been destroyed.”

For an instant Nibs thought he saw the glint of tears in Captain Pippin’s eyes, but he blinked, and there was no more sign of them. He remembered when Mr. Frodo was staying at the farm, his awful nightmares sometimes waking the household. He shuddered. He certainly hoped Jolly would not see nothing that would do that to him.

“Yes, he will.” Pippin smiled. “He will meet the King, you know. He‘s a wonderful person.” Pippin leaned forward. “I won’t say that you will ever get the chance to do or see the things that Jolly will, but you are just as important to your family and friends, you know. And who knows what someday might bring? I am quite sure that you will find a way to fit in, and find your place in the world.” He nodded confidently. “Well, I am afraid I need to get on my way. I’m heading home for a couple of weeks--I’ve a new little neice and nephew to spoil.”

Nibs nodded. He had heard that Captain Pippin’s sister had given birth to twins. He stood up and walked out with his guest. He watched him trot off down the lane, and then retrieved the hoe and the jug of cider.

Whatever his place came to be someday, right now his Dad and his brother needed his strong arms and back.

What kind of music was that, coming from his father’s study? He had heard his father playing his fiddle before, and the little lap harp and the shepherd’s pipes Uncle Legolas had made. And it most certainly was not the big sound the Tookland pipes made. This was a tinkly sound, like that of tiny bells…

Pippin looked up with a smile as his little son entered. “Good morning, Faramir.”

Faramir walked over and gave his father a little kiss on the cheek. Pippin pushed back a bit from his desk and took his little son into his lap. Fam looked with fascination at the contraption on his father’s desk. “What is that?” he asked, green eyes wide.

Pippin lifted the glass lid, and showed Faramir the inside clockwork, and lifted out one of the brass disks pierced with many holes. “This my lad, is a very special music box. Each disk plays a different tune. It’s of Dwarven make, all the way from the Lonely Mountain.”

“Yes, this was the gift Cousin Bilbo gave me at his famous last Birthday Party! Do you know, I knew already many of the gifts that the old hobbit was giving away, but I never guessed mine…”

“Well, one spring day, about a year and a half before, Uncle Merry and I were visiting Bag End. Uncle Merry and Cousin Frodo had gone to town on some errands, and Cousin Bilbo was teaching me how to make honeycakes for tea, when who should come knocking at the door-- *

*A reference to "Ho,Ho, My Lads", co-written with Marigold, and archived here on Stories of Arda.

AUTHOR’S NOTES: This story takes place when Frodo is 20, and Merry is 6 going on 7 ( 13 and 4 going on 4 ½ in Man years.)

The first three riddles are from Mother Goose, and the last of course is from The Hobbit

Merry rolled over; the sheets were cold. Where was Frodo? There were no windows in Frodo’s room, but Merry’s tummy told him that it was time for first breakfast. The little hobbit slid from his cousin’s bed, the floor cold to his feet, and padded to the door.

As he came out of the room, shivering a little, he could hear his mother’s and Frodo’s cheerful voices, and the clink of silverware, and he could smell sausages and eggs and fresh bread. He trotted into the family’s private dining room, where Esmeralda and Frodo were already eating.

Merry went over to Frodo with a reproachful look. “I was *cold* Fro. You got up and left me!”

Esmeralda tutted at him. “Now, Merry, you should have risen when Frodo did. I know he tried to wake you.”

Merry’s attention was on Frodo’s plate. Frodo handed him one of his sausages.

“Frodo!” said Esmeralda. “He needs to sit down and have his own plate. You are spoiling him. Merry, go put on your dressing gown, while I fix your plate.”

“Yes, Mummy,” he said, pouting just a little, because he knew that would make Frodo feel sorry for him. He headed for his own room to find his dressing gown. It would be a lot easier if his da would just let him sleep with Frodo in the first place; then his dressing gown would be in Frodo’s room. But now that he was almost seven, his da had made a rule that he had to go to bed in his own room, even if he got up later to go to Frodo.

He hung his head and dragged his feet a bit, and sure enough, when he turned to look, Frodo was watching and looking sorry. That would teach him to go off and leave Merry in a cold room alone.

He returned his usual cheerful self, and gave Frodo a hug, before getting in his own chair. His mum placed his very own blue plate, with the running ponies painted around the rim, in front of him, loaded up with scrambled eggs and sausages and toast with lots of butter and brambleberry jam. And she gave him his very own special mug, of thick glass with two handles shaped like fish, full of cold milk. He looked at Frodo’s cup of hot tea with envy, but he knew that with his mum watching he could not coax Frodo into sharing it with him. His mum thought he was still too young for tea.

“Why did you get up so early, Frodo?” Merry asked as he finished his milk, and the last crumbs of his third piece of toast and jam.

Frodo grinned at him. “Did you forget, sprout? Uncle Bilbo is coming today!”

“Oh!” Merry was none too sure about this. Old Cousin Bilbo was all right; he told very good stories. But whenever he came to visit, Frodo did not have as much time for Merry. He would always go about with Cousin Bilbo, and they would look at boring books in the library, and talk about *lessons* like they were fun. But Cousin Bilbo always came to Brandy Hall for Yule, and it would be Yule in just a week.

Frodo looked at Esmeralda. “Aunt Esme, I thought that I would go down to the end of the lane and wait for Uncle Bilbo?”

She shook her head doubtfully. “It’s very cold Frodo, and we don’t know just exactly when he will be here.” He stared at her pleadingly, his blue eyes wide. “Very well, but you must bundle up warmly.”

She sighed. Merry turned his grey eyes on Frodo. He didn’t want to miss a chance to be with him now, before Cousin Bilbo got here.

“Aunt Esme, you know I’ll watch out for him, and not let him get too cold.”

“On one condition. If Bilbo has not arrived by elevenses, you are both to come back inside, do you hear me?”

The two lads hopped out of their chairs to give her hugs, and Merry planted a kiss on her cheek.

“Thank you, Aunt Esme,” said Frodo, before he hurried to help Merry get dressed.

Frodo helped him into his little shirt and breeches, his weskit and jacket, and then he pulled on the knitted legwarmers, that would cover his legs from ankles to knees. Next came a scarf, a thick coat with a hood, and mittens. Frodo fastened the little strings of the mittens to a button on each sleeve of the coat. But he told Merry he could wait to put them on until they got outside. When he was finished, all that could be seen of Merry were his bright grey eyes, the tip of his nose, and his furry feet. The rest of him was a round little bundle of clothes, and Frodo chuckled at the droll sight he made. Then he dashed into his own room to collect his own outerwear, including the lovely green cloak Uncle Bilbo had given him on their Birthday.

When they got ready to leave, Esme gave Frodo a covered metal pail with some food and drink for their second breakfast, and the two lads made their way out of the Hall.

When they finally got outside, Frodo headed towards the lane, but as they passed one of the outdoor privies, Merry tugged on his sleeve.

“Oh, Merry! Why didn’t you use the water closet while we were still inside?” he sighed.

So Frodo took him in and divested him of most of the clothes. It was so cold that Merry made it quick, and Frodo bundled him up again. It was at times like this that Frodo missed Merry’s nursemaid, Dahlia. But it was his own fault. When she had gone to be wed last summer, Frodo had persuaded Uncle Sara and Aunt Esme that they didn’t need another nursemaid, that he was old enough to help take care of Merry himself. And indeed, even when Dahlia had still been there, Frodo had taken on a good deal of Merry’s care. And mostly he didn’t mind at all. His little cousin was his delight and his comfort.

Frodo had the metal pail in his left hand, and Merry’s little mittened hand in his right. Frodo walked and Merry skipped, as they made their way to the fence that ran alongside the lane. Their noses and cheeks were red as berries, and their breath came out in white wisps. Merry turned around once, and giggled. “Look, Frodo!” Frodo turned and smiled at the sight of their footprints in the frost. There had been no snow yet this year, and the gaffers all said there wasn’t likely to be any before mid-Afteryule, but Frodo and Merry still hoped that they might have a white Yule. A white Yule was good luck for the coming year, it was said.

When they got to the lane, they perched on the top of the fence, and Frodo looked in the pail. There were some hot sweet rolls, all covered up with a clean towel to keep them warm, and a jar of warm milk, sweetened with honey and cinnamon.

After they had devoured their second breakfast, Frodo put the pail on the ground, and hopped off the fence. He wanted to show Merry something.

“Watch this, Merry!” He pulled off his gloves and knelt in the verge where the frost was still thick. He made a fist, and put the side of his hand on the ground, where it left a little imprint. Then he took his forefinger and made five little fingerprints along its top edge. When he finished it looked for all the world like a tiny footprint. He took the other hand and did the same. Merry laughed delightedly. “Oh,” he crowed. “It looks like a tiny person was there!” Frodo made a few more, so that it looked as though someone had walked there.

“Frodo! I want to try!” Merry slid off the fence, and would have fallen if Frodo had not quickly caught him.

Frodo laughed. “You can try just a few, but then you must put your mittens right back on. I won’t have you freezing your fingers off. Aunt Esme would freeze me if you did.”

Merry giggled, and tugged off the mittens. “This is just splendid, Frodo! You are so clever!”

But the Sun soon had her way with the frost, and the “footprints” faded away. Merry began to get bored.

“I don’t know, Merry, but it’s not time for elevenses yet. Are you too cold?” he asked anxiously.

Merry looked up, and he knew that Frodo would go in early if he said he was, but that he would be very disappointed. And truly, he *wasn’t* too cold. He looked down at his toes, and felt bad that he almost fibbed, just because he was tired of waiting. So he shook his head. “Uh-uh. I’m not too cold.”

Frodo laughed. Merry was going through a stage where he loved to “guess” riddles. Of course they were all ones he had heard before and already knew the answers to. He got upset if he heard a new one and couldn’t guess it. He started off with his little cousin’s favorite:

“Little Nanny Etticoat
In a white petticoat,
And a red nose;
The longer she stands
The shorter she grows.”

“A candle!” Merry shouted as triumphantly as though he had never heard it before.

Frodo shook his head solemnly. “You guessed it. I suppose I will have to find a harder one.” He pretended to think, and then declaimed

“As round as an apple, as deep as a cup,
And all the Thain’s ponies can't fill it up.”

His older cousin suppressed a chuckle, and pretended to sigh. “Hmmm, let’s see--I know!

Merry hung his arms around the bottom fence rail and leaned back, grinning up at Frodo. “That’s easy! A chimney! And” he gave Frodo a sly look “you got stuck in one once.”

“You little rascal! Don’t remind me! And you were too young to remember that anyway.”

Merry giggled. “But I heard Mummy and Da laughing about it with Cousin Seredic one day!”

Frodo shook his head. He’d never live that down, he supposed, though it wasn’t as bad as getting caught raiding Farmer Maggot’s mushrooms last year. “Well, let’s see

“Alive without breath
As cold as death;
Never thirsty, ever drinking,
All in mail, never clinking.”

“Oooh! That’s one of the Gollum ones! It’s a fish! And Cousin Bilbo almost didn’t guess it! Do you think that the Gollum would have eaten him up if he didn’t?” Merry asked with the ghoulish delight of young lads everywhere.

“We’ll never know, will we?” said Frodo, not quite so thrilled with the story. He was old enough to realize that his cousin’s tales were mostly true, and that if Bilbo had not escaped from his perils, Frodo might never have known him. The thought made him shudder.

For they could hear the clop of pony’s hooves, and sure enough, here came a pony-trap, and Bilbo at the reins. The old hobbit pulled up in front of them.

“Well, bless me! What have we here? Can it be my favorite cousins here to greet me?”

Bilbo laughed. “It’s good to see you, too, lad! And this sturdy lad surely can’t be Meriadoc! Why he’s so big!”

Merry puffed up with pride. It *was* good to see Cousin Bilbo, really it was. “Hullo, Cousin Bilbo!” he said politely.

“Well, come up here and ride with me on to the Hall, lads, and tell me everything that’s happened.”

Frodo lifted Merry up, and then clambered up after him. Merry crawled into Bilbo’s lap, and they trotted on to the Hall. This was going to be a great Yule!

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is Chapter 10 of Lindelea's group story "To Tell a Tale", which can be found on her Live Journal. Several good authors have contributed to the story:

After the Coronation of the King, Pippin, having neglected a cold, falls seriously ill. Elessar, acting in his capacity as healer, decrees that the young hobbit must stay in bed. Of course the young and restless hobbit is chafing to get up just as soon as he's feeling a little better... How to keep him resting quietly? A fine problem for the newly-crowned King to tackle!

The Knight Has Been Unruly
in which Gandalf is not so close as he used to be

Pippin was absolutely awash. He could hear his belly sloshing. Still, it had worked--he had finished his pitcher of water, and now Sam, who was watching him this morning, had gone to fetch more. Pippin had been pretty sure that it would work out that way, as Sam hated to ask servants to do anything. If he hurried, he could make good his escape before Sam returned. The gardener was not nearly so wise to his tricks as were his cousins.

The first order of business, though, was rather urgent. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and stood up. He found himself just a little dizzy, but it soon passed, and then he drew out the chamber pot. It took him rather longer than he expected, but then that had been a lot of water.

He grabbed his breeches from where they hung, neatly folded at the foot of the bed, and tucking his nightshirt into them, made his way to the door. He opened it.

“No,” said Pippin dejectedly. He turned and walked back to the bed, shedding his trousers as he walked; and tossing them back to the foot of the bed, he clambered back in and plumped himself down with a sigh.

Gandalf chuckled silently. Secretly he was pleased to see that nothing more than a boring convalescence had at least temporarily banished the sober and responsible Knight of Gondor, and brought a return of the irrepressible tween. It was good to know that Pippin’s youth had not been entirely lost to the experiences of the Quest. Out loud he said “Sam saw me in the corridor, and asked me to look in while he fetched more water.”

“Oh.” Sam must know him better than he thought. Or Frodo and Merry had warned him. Pippin heaved a mighty sigh. “It’s so boring in bed, Gandalf!”

Gandalf came in and sat in the chair by the bed. “Perhaps a tale would help the time pass more quickly. What would you like to hear?”

Pippin brightened immediately. Stories from Gandalf were not offered often. “The evening before we reached Minas Tirith, when the long march from Cormallen was nearly done, after we'd eaten you were telling us about knowing Bilbo when he was young. I’d love to hear more about that.”

Just then the door opened and Sam came in, bearing a pitcher and three cups. “Mr. Pippin, since you was so good about drinking all your water, I thought mayhap a bit of fruit juice would be good for a change. It’s that orange kind they have down here.”

Pippin blushed. Sam was so kind; he shouldn’t have tried to trick him. “Thank you, Sam. Gandalf’s going to tell us a story about Cousin Bilbo!”

“Really?” Sam grinned, and after setting the tray down and pouring each of them a cup, he climbed up to sit on the bed next to Pippin, just as eager for the story as the young knight.

Gandalf started to take out his pipe and then refrained. Pippin was not to smoke or be smoked around until Aragorn pronounced him well.

“In the days of my friend Gerontius, the Old Took, I was a frequent visitor to the Shire. I always made it a point to be at the Great Smials for the Lithedays, when I would bring fireworks. On the particular occasion I am thinking of, Bilbo was a few years younger than you, Peregrin--perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three…

Bilbo was excited, as he always was, to go and visit his Took relations. There were almost no lads of his own age in Hobbiton, and he still thought lasses rather silly. But in Tookland, there was his cousin Siggy, who was exactly one month older than he, and his very dearest friend. And then there was his older cousin Adelgrim, who in spite of having recently come of age was as full of mischief and ideas as any tween. And yesterday Bilbo’s mother Belladonna had received a note from Aunt Mirabella Brandybuck that she would be there with his Brandybuck cousins. They were all very young, but her oldest, Rory, who was twelve, adored Bilbo, and tagged everywhere after him when they were together. Perhaps if Bilbo had younger brothers, he would have found it annoying, but as it was, he was quite flattered by little Rory’s attentions.

And to top it all off, there would be fireworks and a wizard! A lad couldn’t ask for a better holiday!

When Bilbo, Belladonna and Bungo Baggins all arrived at the Great Smials, they noticed a good deal of commotion going on in the south garden.

“For goodness’ sake, Bella, what are your relations up to now?” Bungo pretended exasperation, but he was quite fond of his wife’s relatives, though he did not even pretend to understand them.

She gave him a dimpled grin and tossed her chestnut curls. “I’d have no clue, save that my sister Mira seems to be in the thick of it. And is that little Rory? All dripping wet?” The Baggins family pulled up the pony-trap and clambered out, as a stable hobbit came to take charge. Bella walked up to her brother, Hildibrand, who was father to Bilbo’s cousin Siggy. “What’s going on, Hildi?” she asked.

“Oh, the younger lads were playing at ball, and little Mondo Bracegirdle got peeved that his team was losing and kicked the ball right out into the middle of the pond. Our intrepid Brandybuck nephew Rory just dove right in, to the horror of everyone, and swam out after it! Now everyone’s in an uproar--many of those watching were sure he would drown, and some of them seem offended that he didn’t.”

“Oh goodness gracious!” exclaimed Bella. “Everyone knows Brandybucks are half fish. What’s Mira up to?” For she could see her younger sister taking her temper out on someone.

Bilbo had spotted little Rory, being held closely to his mother’s side. He was wriggling and trying to get away; since she was busy with her tirade and had baby Asphodel in the other arm, he finally managed it. He was dripping wet and grinning. He looked over and saw Bilbo, and took off.

Bilbo had just enough time to brace himself before the wet youngster slammed into him. “It’s good to see you Bilbo! Did you see what I did?” he asked proudly.

Bilbo felt consternation at suddenly having his clothing all wet, but he politely ignored the indignity. “No, Rory, I did not. But I heard about it. You were very brave. I should not have dared to do such a thing.”

There was no use arguing with such perfect logic, and Bilbo was not even inclined to try. He returned the child’s hug, and then suddenly felt a slap on his back.

“Siggy!” Bilbo’s happiness was nearly complete. “Where’s Chop?” This was Adalgrim’s nickname. As a small lad, his mother had foolishly insisted on calling him her little “Lambchop”. When he grew older, he would only answer to “Chop”.

“Oh, he’s busy with some boring grown-up stuff. He’ll slip away from it soon, if he can.”

Just then another Took cousin came by. Siggy reached out and snagged him. “Flambard, have you seen Chop?”

“He’s with Grandfather, greeting the wizard,” said Flambard, and shrugged off. He was not in Bilbo’s little circle of friends. His mother was a Sackville and he took after her side of the family.

But all three of the cousins looked at one another in glee. “Gandalf’s here!” they exclaimed.

Just then Mirabella, finished with her lecture to the Bracegirdle lad’s mother, came by to get Rory. “Come along, Rorimac. We need to get you into some dry clothes. You can find Bilbo and Siggy again later.”

Bungo looked over at his son. “I think you need to go change as well, son.”

Bilbo looked down at his breeches. They were all wet round the knees, and soiled with mud and pond weed. “Yes, Papa,” he said. He went to get his case from the trap, and Siggy came along with him.

Later that evening in the main dining hall, Bilbo sat with Siggy, and with Rory and little Faro Boffin, who was Rory’s age, and was the son of his Aunt Donnamira, at the children’s and tween’s table. They were eating with a good deal of concentration and very little talk, for even with young hobbits, food is a serious business.

“I wish I had more of those lovely roasted potatoes,” said Rory longingly, casting an envious look at Bilbo’s plate, for Bilbo had not finished his yet.

“I am fond of you, Rory, but not that fond,” said Bilbo, stabbing one of the little potatoes and conveying it to his mouth.

Just then Bilbo felt a slap on his back. He turned and grinned. “Chop! It’s good to see you!”

“Hullo, lads,” said Adalgrim with a wide and mischievous grin. “I’ve found better provender than this, to be had with little enough effort. Come along! You, too, Rory and Faro. Your small size will come in handy--”

A short time later, they found themselves ensconced in an out-of-the way cellar, the possessors of several pies and pastries of both the sweet and savory variety, not to mention a jug of ale, and another of sweet cider.

“Chop,” said Bilbo admiringly, “how did you know that it would be so easy to raid the larder when the kitchen is so busy?”

“Easy enough, lad; when the kitchen staff are so occupied with serving the meal, they’ve no time to keep watch. Also, who would imagine anyone making a raid while supper is being served?”

“I know,” was the smug reply. “I’ve another idea as well. You know that tomorrow night are the fireworks?”

“Oh yes!” said Bilbo enthusiastically. Gandalf’s fireworks were something he looked forward to immensely.

“Well, why should the Wizard be the only one to have the fun of setting them off?”

The younger lads all gaped at Chop, in stunned admiration. Was there no one so daring as he? Bilbo hoped he might someday be like Chop, and not ever get all boring, the way most hobbits did when they came of age.

The fireworks were bursting overhead in showers of brilliant color. As Gandalf returned to his cart, he fetched several out, and then went back to where he was setting them off. As the Wizard darted off chuckling, Chop hissed “Now!”

Chop kept watch. They boosted Rory and Faro into the cart, and the lads emerged with a number of smaller fireworks. Then Bilbo and Siggy clambered up.

They scuttled into the tent. Chop kept look out the door. Rory and Faro were gloating over their small haul.

Siggy grabbed it. “Let’s light it now!” he giggled, and without further ado, pulled out his striker.

Bilbo had turned to say something to Chop, but at the hiss of the fuse, he turned back, horrified. “You’re supposed to stick it in the ground!” he exclaimed.

“Outside!” cried Chop. He rushed over, but it was too late--the rocket rose up with a whoosh! taking the tent with it, and shooting into the air, where it exploded into a brilliant shower of color, forming a huge tree that seemed to cover the whole sky, in a burst of loud explosions.

The young hobbits stared, transfixed, for just a moment. They had done that!

“Let’s get another,” said Chop, when suddenly they were cut off by a booming voice.

Gandalf loomed over them, a squirming Rory and Faro in either huge hand. Their Grandfather Gerontius stood behind him, his eyebrows drawn alarmingly together, and a scowl to end all scowls on his face.

“Gerontius was only too pleased to allow me to set the older lads a punishment. Little Faro and Rorimac were turned over to their mothers. I set the other three to washing dishes--of which, by the way, there were hundreds. The three of them were covered in soot and smoke, and were a sight to behold, I tell you.”

Sam’s eyes were wide, as he imagined Bilbo a mischievous tween. If anyone but Gandalf had told the story, he would never have believed it. But he could easily imagine that it was something that Mr. Pippin’s and Mr. Merry’s grandfathers would have done--in fact, he could just as easily imagine Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin doing such a thing themselves. It was a good thing they were still too young for such mischief when Bilbo went away.

Pippin was grinning. “I never heard such a story about Grandfather Adalgrim before! He died before I ever was born.”

“Well, Gerontius was not very amused at the idea that a hobbit who had come of age was still behaving like a silly tween, and moreover, leading other younger hobbits into mischief as well. That is why he sent him to Whitwell and settled him on the farm there, to get his influence away from the other young hobbits. As for Bilbo, Bungo was none too pleased with him, either, and it was a good long time before he saw any of his Took relations again.”

“Well, the farming life rather settled your grandfather down, as did marriage and five children. He became rather more respectable after that.”

“Of course I am. I’m a Took! And wait till Merry hears what his grandfather got up to…”

Bilbo opened his eyes and stretched lazily. Did he want to get up now, or did he want to snuggle deeper into his lovely feather bed, and sleep another hour or so? The rumbling of his stomach decided him--it was definitely time for a bit of first breakfast.

How lovely it was to be finally home, and to have his things about him once more! It had taken him nearly three weeks to round up all those possessions of his that had somehow gone into other hands while he was gone. The unpleasantness he had suffered because of his Uncle Longo and his cousin Otho still left a foul taste in his mouth. He had been scandalized to discover that his cousin had married the deplorable Lobelia Bracegirdle while he was gone, in spite of the fact that they were not quite yet of age. He thought that far more outrageous and distasteful than his having gone off on a bit of Adventure.

And the nerve of his uncle, who--probably at the instigation of his Sackville wife Camellia--had rushed to declare him dead, in the hopes of settling young Otho and his bride at Bag End. Well, he had shown them! He was home now, and well settled in. It was time he got his life back to normal.

He put on his dressing gown with satisfaction, and padded off to the kitchen, where he filled the teakettle. Then he cut some bread for toast, and looked out a jar of marmalade, and put a couple of eggs on to boil. One thing that his journeying had taught him was a greater appreciation of all the lovely things he had taken for granted before he left, such as pocket handkerchiefs, dressing gowns, feather beds and tea.

After enjoying a light first breakfast of toast, eggs, bacon, and tea, he went to dress. It was very nice to put on his green and yellow weskit with all its brass buttons intact, even though it was a bit large for him at the moment. But he had no doubt that now he was home and getting his regular six meals a day, that he would soon fill it out properly again.

He slipped into his jacket, and looked in the mirror. He was glad to be once again looking like a proper hobbit. Today he would call on Cousin Fosco, and find out when young Dudo would be resuming his studies. It would be good to see Drogo again as well, although the lad had come of age just before Bilbo left, and was no longer his student. And he wondered if Dora had found a beau yet, and if she were planning to wed soon. After luncheon, he would call on one of his other cousins, Tollo Goodbody, to see when young Taro and Togo would be returning to him. Now that he had some experience of the Outside, he would have so much more that he could be teaching. He thought with glee of the books given him by Lord Elrond before he had left Rivendell on the return journey--soon he would be able to read, write and even converse in Sindarin. But he did not think any of his students would be interested in that. Drogo, now Drogo might have been. But he was no longer a student in any case.

By the time he dressed and then spent some time tidying up his hole, doing a bit of dusting and such, it was time for second breakfast. He had saved a lovely bit of pastry the night before to have for his second breakfast, along with some cheese and fruit. Then he cleaned up the kitchen, wiped down the table, and cheerily went out his door, turning as he did so to give a fond polish to his brass doorknob.

Old Holman Greenhand and his apprentice Hamfast Gamgee were busy in the front garden doing a bit of weeding, and Bilbo stopped for a few moments to discuss the state of the delphiniums, before going down the walk and out the gate in the direction of Hobbiton. This was the first time since his return to call upon any of his relations, and he was quite looking forward to a good hobbity chin-wag, and to catching up on all that had gone on in his absence.

He walked along the roadway jauntily, offering a wave and a greeting to the hobbits he saw in passing. Many of them affected not to see him, but he took no note of it, being in far too good a mood to notice.

He soon found himself at the home of his cousin Fosco. Fosco had a lovely dwelling, not so luxurious as Bag End, of course, part smial, part house, so well designed that one could scarcely tell where the house ended and the smial began. The door was painted a cheerful red, and instead of a knocker, there was a bell-pull to one side. Bilbo rang, and waited patiently.

The door was opened by his cousin Dora, the eldest of Fosco’s three children, and the hostess of his home, as Fosco’s wife Ruby had died a few years ago.

“Cousin Bilbo!” she exclaimed. “What a surprise! Do come in, and I shall tell Papa that you are here!”

Bilbo stepped into the front hall to wait, surprised that she did not simply take him with her to see her father. As he stood, looking about him to see if anything had changed, he heard a voice exclaim “Bilbo! It’s so good to see you!” He turned to see a young hobbit rushing towards him, arms outstretched.

The two hobbits embraced warmly. “I was so glad of your return, Cousin Bilbo! I never believed for one moment the claims of the Sackville-Bagginses that you were dead! But of course, as the nearer kin, their words carried a lot more weight.”

Just then Dora summoned Bilbo to her father’s study. She led him in and then departed.

“Bilbo.” There was a certain coldness to his tone. “Please, take a seat.”

Bilbo sat down and looked at his cousin, puzzled. He and Fosco had been fairly good friends at one time, though Fosco had withdrawn a lot after the death of his wife. But Bilbo could not understand the restraint in his voice.

Still, Bilbo went on with what he’d planned to say. “I was wondering when Dudo would like to begin his studies again.”

Fosco sighed. “Bilbo, you can’t have imagined that life would not go on while you were gone? When you left--without a word, I might add, to any of us--we were quite worried. Fortunately that conjurer Gandalf had had a quick word with old Holman, so that we did know you were gone on a journey, and had not been stolen away by those Dwarves. We waited nearly two months for some word of you, but it was important that Dudo finish his studies.”

Fosco leaned back with a sigh. “I hate to say this, Bilbo, but I cannot see any of the family trusting you with the education of their children after this. Running off like that was completely irresponsible, and the manner of your return was not going to reassure anyone.”

“Oh.” Bilbo’s voice had grown smaller. “I see.” He sat there a moment in silence, and when Fosco did not say anything more, he rose to take his leave. “Well, I shan’t trouble you any further about it.”

He looked so very dejected, that Fosco finally relented enough to say “Still, Bilbo, we are glad to have you home alive and well, and are very happy to know you are not dead.”

“Thank you,” he said, so quietly it was almost a whisper. He turned and left, and Fosco watched him with troubled eyes.

Bilbo left his cousin’s house feeling considerably less cheerful than he had before. Truthfully, he had to admit he could understand what happened. It had been foolish to believe that he could simply take up where he had left off as though nothing had occurred.

He took himself to The Ivy Bush, where it was still a bit too early for elevenses, and treated himself to a beer, with some bread, cheese and pickles. Although this was a treat he had been looking forward to, he now found it all rather tasteless. Then he decided to go on to the Goodbodies’ and see what they had to say.

“Tollo is not here right now, Bilbo Baggins, but if he were he would tell you exactly what I am saying now: you have a lot of nerve coming back after such disgraceful conduct and expecting us to hand over our impressionable young tweens for you to teach as though nothing had happened! I should hope that we are better parents than to put our children into the hands of an Adventurer! Good day!”

It was a very sad Bilbo Baggins who made his way back up the Hill to Bag End. He had always enjoyed his position in the family. Most of his cousins and uncles had been eager for him to teach their children--he was good at it, and they learned well from him. And it had always been fun to come up with lessons that would challenge each child in just the right way.

But he couldn’t find it in him to regret his journey or his Adventure. He fingered the ring in his pocket. It was not every hobbit who had the opportunity to have his life touched by a bit of magic, or who could say that he had done something of such importance in the Wide World. But clearly there was a price to pay for what he had done, and his reputation and his position as family teacher was obviously the sacrifice he had made.

For the first time since he had recovered his home and belongings, Bilbo felt out of place. Among the Dwarves he had won a measure of respect for things he had accomplished; here at home, it seemed, he had lost any respect he had because of those same things.

He finally decided to go fix himself some tea. It was nearly teatime after all, when there was a knock at the door. He was not sure he wanted to answer. He always feared it would be one or more of the Sackville-Bagginses.

“Drogo, my lad!” Bilbo was glad to see him. “Do come in, come in, join me for tea!”

“I should like that, Cousin Bilbo,” he said, and followed him to the kitchen.

Bilbo bustled about, setting out another cup and saucer and plate, and searching through the larder for some extra treats. He felt very grateful for the young hobbit’s presence. “Do tell me, Drogo,” he said as he put the kettle on, “what has happened while I was gone?”

“Well, as you know, I was in Buckland when you left. I have to confess I felt myself quite envious of you, going off like that. But I do not think I should ever have had the nerve to actually do such a thing.”

Bilbo did not respond to that. It was probably true, as Drogo had no Took in him. “I was very surprised at Cousin Otho’s marriage so young.”

Drogo chuckled. “Well, thanks to you for wangling me the invitation to Brandy Hall, I extended my stay there among the Brandybucks. From what I have been told, Otho pressured his parents into signing for his early marriage as he was afraid that when I returned, Miss Lobelia would once more transfer her affections towards me.” He gave a shudder. “I could not convince either of them that I would rather remain unwed the rest of my days than be shackled to her of all people.”

“Well, as you know, Rory and Gilda had a sturdy little lad not long before you left--little Sara is nearly a faunt now, and they have another lad, born just before your return, whom they named ‘Merimac’. Saradas is betrothed to Isembold Took’s granddaughter Miradonna--she’s the daughter of Isembrand and Bluebell.”

Bilbo poured out tea for his guest. “Bluebell? Ah, she was a Bunce, was she not?”

“Yes.” Drogo took an appreciative sip. “Thank you. Let me see, what else? Oh yes, Adalgrim Took’s daughters Primrose and Peridot were visiting almost the whole time I was there. They are as thick as thieves with Mirabella and Gorbadoc’s youngest, Miss Primula.” He said this last looking down at the table, and a light blush infused his cheeks.

Bilbo raised an eyebrow, and chuckled silently. “Miss Primula is a beauty, is she not?”

Drogo glanced up, his face flaming. “She’s merely a child, barely into her tweens, Cousin Bilbo! But she seems to have developed a fancy for me, I can’t think why!”

“Can’t you?” Drogo was not the most dashing or handsome of hobbits, it was true, but he had a very keen intelligence, and his kindness and generosity made him attractive to the lasses.

“At any rate,” said Drogo somewhat glumly, “she is very young, and will probably go through many more infatuations before she comes of age.”

“But Bilbo, I would like to hear of *your* Adventure! All the little family doings are no doubt something you wish to catch up on, but I am sure none of them are half so interesting as what happened to you! Surely the tales of you coming home with vast treasures have some little basis in fact.” Drogo looked at him with rapt attention, and something sparked in Bilbo, the wish to tell his Tale to one who wanted to be amazed. “Please, Cousin, tell me how it all happened?”

Bilbo grinned. “Well, you know, it all started one spring morning; I was standing by my door having an after breakfast pipe, when along came Gandalf. Do you know, I actually failed to recognize him at first…”

“Ma,” said Elanor, “what’s that lovely smell? It can’t be roses!” She bent over the pan, still warm and steaming from the oven.

“Those are Bucklebury Cakes. I had some when your Dad and I went to the fair there with the Brandybucks. Estella was kind enough to give me the receipt. They are flavored with nutmeg and rosewater.”

Elanor wrinkled her nose. “Roses smell nice, but I can’t think they would taste very good,” the tweenager said.

“You’d be surprised. Your Dad says they use it in cooking in the South a lot, and that in Rivendell, the Elves put rose petals and other flowers in the salads.”

Her mother grinned. “Try one. Only one, mind you! These are for the baked goods sale we are holding to help the Bunce family.” She meant a family there in Hobbiton that had recently lost a good many of their possessions in a fire. Several of the Hobbiton matrons had decided that a good way to help the family was to hold a baked goods sale on their behalf.

Rose watched indulgently as her daughter picked one of the little cakes up--really, they were more like biscuits than cakes--sniffed it, and then took a nibble. Elanor’s eyes grew wide, and she quickly devoured the rest of it. “Ma, these are wonderful! You can barely taste the roses, but all the same…”

Rose nodded. “That’s what they were charging in Buckland at the fair.” She smiled, for she had not been certain that hers were as good as the ones they had there, but it would make that much more coin for the poor Bunces. She scooped out another measure of flour.

Mother and daughter worked in companionable silence, happy to be doing for others.

Cream the sugar and butter together until fluffy. Sift the flour and nutmeg together in a separate bowl.

Add the rosewater to the sugar/butter mixture, and stir in the dry ingredients gradually until blended. Chill the dough for about ten minutes. Roll the dough out on a floured work surface to about ¼" thick, and then cut with a two or three inch round cookie cutter. Place on an ungreased cookie sheet and bake at 350 degrees for about 12 to 15 minute, or until barely brown around the edges. Remove to a wire rack to cool and store in an airtight container.

*This is actually a recipe for a kind of cookie called “Shrewsbury Cakes”, and dates back to at least Elizabethan times. They smell delightful while baking, and the rose flavor is very subtle.

SUMMARY: In which Merry is in a bad mood and Éowyn and Faramir try to cheer him…

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Marigold’s challenge was to include an irate Merry, a seashell, the Houses of Healing, and any healer…

DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

Merry scowled out the window of the room where he had been placed in the Houses of Healing. He had been allowed to get up and go about the very day after Aragorn had called him back from the Shadow, and so he had made himself free of the Houses of Healing. But somehow, this day he did not feel like going anywhere. There was nothing but the foul darkness of the Enemy to be seen. And somewhere, out there in the worst of it were all the people he had come to hold dearest. Not only Pippin, marching off to the Black Gate, and Frodo and Sam--oh, it was painful to think of Frodo and Sam right in the heart of the Black Land somewhere--but Strider and Legolas and Gimli. And Gandalf. And they had left him behind again, alone and useless--not even as much use as a bit of baggage, really, though he had thought of himself that way more than once. He ran his left hand over the chill of his right arm, and shuddered. It was horrid.

The door opened anyway. It was one of the healers--Merry didn’t know his name. “Master Meriadoc, Mistress Ioreth informed me that you did not come down to the noon meal. Is it your wish to have a tray sent to you?”

The healer looked alarmed. The King had specifically told them that not eating was a bad sign in pheriannath. And Meriadoc had been eating very well indeed for the last couple of days. Perhaps it was a relapse. This was alarming, for the King was gone, and though Aragorn had prepared for them a supply of athelas himself, it was not nearly so efficacious when administered by other hands than those of the King. The healer tried again. “Master Meriadoc--”

Merry turned around, trying not to glare. In a tightly controlled voice he said “Please. I do not wish to be disturbed. Just--Please. Go. Away.”

The healer backed out, closing the door, wondering what to do next. Aside from the fact that this patient happened to be a close personal friend of the soon-to-be-King--if they were victorious--Merry had endeared himself in the last few days to the other staff and patients. In spite of his own obvious worry for his kin and friends in danger, he had kept up a cheerful front, and had done much to raise the spirits of others. Especially the Lady of Rohan and the new Steward.

Ah, that was an idea! The pherian had arrived with the Rohirrim, and with the Lady Éowyn. Perhaps she could help. He thought she might be in the gardens…

He found her there, looking among the beds of herbs. He was surprised not to see the Steward--they had been much together in recent days. His surprise must have shown, for she looked up at him and said:

“If you are looking for Lord Faramir, he was called away a few minutes ago to deal with some problem or other.”

“Actually, my Lady, I was searching for you. I know that you are good friends with the halfling Meriadoc--”

“Hobbit. His people are called ‘hobbits’.” She had begun to feel Merry’s own indignation at his being called a “halfling”. (“Like I’m only half a person. I don’t know if it would be the top half or the bottom half. Or maybe the right half or the left half.” He had laughed, but she knew it rankled, nevertheless.)

“Yes, yes,” the healer said impatiently. “But I am concerned. He will not come from his room, and he refused the noon meal.”

Now Éowyn definitely began to feel alarmed. She knew very well what a hobbit appetite was like. “Thank you. I will go to him at once.”

She heard a thump, and then the door opened. “Éowyn, I am not very good company right now.”

Éowyn guiltily looked at the unaccustomed furrow in Merry’s brow; she had a feeling that his foul mood had as much to do with her as it did with the ever-present gloom outside the Houses of Healing.

The day before had been difficult for her. Her arm had been paining her, and Faramir had some things he had to attend to for the City, something that seemed to happen increasingly as he recovered. She had sat alone, getting more and more melancholy, and more and more angry.

Merry had found her there, sitting on one of the walls, overlooking the battlefield. With his usual good nature, he had done his very best to cheer her up.

At first, she had rebuffed all his efforts. But he had persisted, telling her funny stories about his cousins, and their growing up in the Shire. And he insisted that between Gandalf, and his cousin Frodo--in whom he had the utmost confidence, though he was canny about what Frodo’s mission was--that somehow, it was possible to prevail.

“After all, my Lady, they were certain we would lose the battle here, weren’t they?”

And she had finally felt the gloom begin to lift for herself. But now, she feared, she had simply cast her bad mood onto him, a poor reward for his efforts to help.

“Never that!” she exclaimed. “Lord Faramir enjoys your company as much as I! But even so, he is not there right now.” She knelt to put herself at his level. “Please? Or else I shall think that you hold my surliness of yesterday against me.”

“No, of course not! Very well, I will come.” But his voice did not hold much enthusiasm.

They walked side by side in silence, and Éowyn tried to think of what she could say that would cheer him. She had no such store of funny stories as he did, nor could she tell the ones she did know in such a droll and entertaining fashion. And though her mood was much improved from the day before, she really did not know how to hold out hope to him, if his own had failed.

They walked about among the herb beds, and Merry would occasionally comment if he recognized a plant, but he clearly had no enthusiasm. The sky was as dark and dismal here as indoors, and Éowyn began to despair of a way to cheer him up. A miserable hobbit was almost unnatural. Even on their ride to battle, when they both thought they were going to certain death, he had somehow found hope and humor. She sighed.

She was saved from having to reply by a familiar voice. “My Lady Éowyn! Master Meriadoc!” It was Faramir approaching. He smiled at the hobbit. “It is good to see you!”

For the life of him, Merry could not summon up an answering smile, but he responded politely enough. “I am glad to see you as well, Lord Faramir. You are looking much better.”

The Steward looked at Éowyn in puzzlement. He had never seen the hobbit in this mood. She shrugged, and asked “Did you get that business taken care of?”

“Simply a question of allotting space to many of the reinforcements that have arrived from Pelargir and Lossarnach.” He reached into a pouch and brought forth a seashell. “One of the captains from Pelargir is an old friend, and knows I have an interest in such things. He brought me this.”

He held it forth for their inspection. It was fairly large, filling his hand, creamy white with some bands of golden brown on the outside, and rosy pink within. It was a perfect specimen.

Éowyn looked at it with interest. It was lovely. She had seen one or two before as curiosities, brought to Edoras from those who had visited the sea, but none quite as nice as this one.

Merry’s eyes grew large and moist. He held his hand out, as if to touch, but did not quite do so. In a soft voice, he said “Bilbo had one of those, almost exactly like that, at Bag End. He had it as a gift from his Uncle Isengar, who had travelled and gone to sea.”

Faramir’s eyes met those of Éowyn, and though he was not sure what had been transpiring in his absence, he realized that for some reason this was important. “Go ahead, Meriadoc. You may hold it.”

Merry looked up at him, and he nodded. Picking it out of Faramir’s hand gingerly, the hobbit hesitantly held it to his ear. For the first time that day, a smile lit his features. “I can hear it!” he said. “Bilbo would allow Frodo and I to listen--you can hear the sound of the sea in it.” He held it out, and Éowyn put her own ear to it, and then laughed delightedly.

“Is that what the sea sounds like? It sounds like the wind through the grasses on the plains!”

Faramir nodded. “I am sure that it is just some trick of the ear, but for some reason, one can hear the sound of the sea in a shell.”

Merry had it once more against his own ear, smiling reminiscently. “Frodo would listen to it, and he would get a far away look in his eyes, and then he would tell me stories of the Sea, and of the great Kingdom of Men that was in the Sea and of Elves who sailed magic ships…”

Faramir looked thoughtful, as he remembered Frodo and their encounter in Ithilien. Perhaps it would make up a little for his initial treatment of Frodo and Sam if he could do something for Frodo’s cousin.

“Would you like to have it, Master Meriadoc?” His generous impulse was immediately rewarded by the proud and joyful look Éowyn gave him, and the look of surprised delight on Merry’s face.

“Oh, thank you!” the hobbit exclaimed. “Thank you so much! Would you mind awfully, if--no when--Frodo comes back, if I gave it to him?”

Merry looked up at his two companions. “Is anyone hungry? I do think that I missed lunch.”

The Company moved quietly through the night, the wind coming in chilly gusts over the barren terrain of Hollin. Sam stumbled, and Frodo reached out a hand to steady him. Sam had been uncharacteristically quiet the last day or so, and Frodo knew only too well why.

The gardener turned to Frodo, a wistful sorrow shadowing his usually warm brown eyes, and Frodo returned the look with a sad smile of understanding. Sam nodded, and steadied his pace.

Frodo moved a bit closer to him, to lend his support, and remembered that sad day exactly eighteen years earlier. He and Bilbo had returned from their Yule in Buckland just two days before…

Frodo was removing the greenery from the front hall in Bag End, when a knock came at the door.

“It’s all right, Uncle Bilbo, I’m right here, I’ll get the door,” he called, suiting his actions to his words.

He was surprised to see old Daddy Twofoot standing on the step, twisting his cap in his hand, his face red from the cold and wind, and his face wearing an expression of deep distress.

“Why Mr. Twofoot!” Frodo exclaimed. “Whatever is the matter? What on earth brings you out in this cold? Do come in before you freeze!”

The old hobbit hesitated. He always seemed reluctant to set foot in Bag End, thinking it far too grand for the likes of him. Still, in he came, and Frodo closed the door on the brisk Afteryule wind.

Now Frodo was both startled and alarmed. Daddy Twofoot, like most of the neighbors on the Hill were rarely formal with Bilbo, and usually called him “Mr. Bilbo”, affectionately. To ask for the Master meant something dire. But whatever it was, he was obviously not going to tell Frodo first. Frodo might be coming of age next fall, but right now, he was still considered a lad.

He led the old hobbit to Bilbo’s study, and gave a rap to the side of the open door, to draw Bilbo’s attention. Bilbo looked up almost crossly. He had been struggling with a tricky bit of Sindarin in one of the Lays of Beleriand all morning. But the querulousness disappeared at once when he got a glimpse of Daddy Twofoot’s face.

“Oh, my dear Master Tilbert,” he said, using the old hobbit’s rarely used and seldom remembered first name. Indeed, Bilbo was probably the only hobbit in the Shire old enough to remember it, “whatever is the matter? Do come in and sit down!” For to Bilbo’s eyes, it appeared he might fall down if he did not sit down.

The use of his name, and Bilbo’s brisk and fond concern snapped him out of his hesitation. “No, thank you very much, Mr. Bilbo, I’ve a bit of news to tell, and--” here a tear trickled down his cheek, and Bilbo and Frodo began to be very alarmed indeed. He blew out a deep breath. “Mr. Bilbo, it’s Missus Bell--she--she died this morning.”

Frodo felt his world reel. Bell Gamgee, who had been so kind to him, Sam’s *mother*--snatched away all unexpected, as his own mother and father had been. He caught at the edge of the door, and feeling his knees give way, he slid down to sit upon the floor, as he felt the blood leave his face.

In the distance, as though he were hearing something far away, he could hear Bilbo’s voice.

“No, sir; she were just cooking breakfast and making ready for the Gaffer and Sam to come away to work, and all of a sudden she just keeled over. Mistress Salvia come at once, but it were too late. She said as it were apoplexy.”

“Oh, dear! Oh dear! I thank you for thinking to bring me this terrible news, Daddy. Frodo and I will come down to Number Three at once. Frodo--” Bilbo stopped, and for the first time noticed Frodo. “Frodo, lad, please. I know how distressing this is for you, but think of Sam and Marigold.”

Frodo lifted his eyes to Bilbo’s pleading face, and felt the world begin to lurch back to normal. Of course. Sam and his sister would need all the support they could get--and who better to understand what they were going through than one who had also lost his mother…

Accompanied by the anxious Daddy Twofoot, Bilbo and Frodo entered the smial at Number Three. In the front room were Daisy and May, the Gamgee’s two elder daughters, and their husbands and children. Marigold was on the settle by the fire, softly weeping in Daisy’s embrace, and Sam sat on the floor against the wall, his face white and pinched, a mask of misery. He stared blankly, seeing nothing.

Bilbo shook his hand. “I was so sorry to hear of this, Finch! How is the Gaffer?”

The younger hobbit shook his head. “He can’t rightly seem to take it in, Mr. Bilbo. He was like to have the wind clean knocked out of him. Mistress Salvia give him a sleeping draught, and Daisy and May put him to bed.”

“Not yet, Mr. Bilbo. We’ll send word tomorrow when the regular post leaves--”

“Nonsense, Finch! I will see to sending the Quick Post out today, and pay for it myself! I won’t hear a word against it, it’s the least I can do. Bell was always a good friend to us.”

Finch did not argue, immensely relieved that the Gaffer’s oldest sons would be getting the word all the sooner.

Frodo had been standing at Bilbo’s elbow, watching Sam. Bilbo turned. “It’s all right, Frodo my lad, go to him.”

He knelt down by his young friend, and put his hand on his shoulder. “Sam?”

For a long moment, Frodo thought that Sam did not hear him, and was about to repeat his name, when Sam turned his head slowly. “Mr. Frodo?” He looked confused. He had not even noticed Frodo and Bilbo come into the smial.

Frodo looked at Sam with worry. He recognized that look--utter confusion and devastation--he had, after all, seen it in the mirror for years after his parents’ drowning. He shuddered. Poor Sam! He needed someone to guide him through this loss, as Frodo never had. Surely, Saradoc and Esmeralda had mourned the loss of Primula, and Drogo as well--but they had no way of understanding what it was like to lose a parent so young. They had tried very hard, and Frodo never doubted their love, but they just did not seem to know what he was going through.

Frodo fought down the lump in his throat, and his own rising pain. “She is, Sam.” He took both Sam’s hands in one of his, and put his arm around Sam’s shoulders, guiding him to his feet. “Come, Sam, we need to get out of this crowd.” For the room had begun to fill with more friends and family. Frodo spotted Farmer Cotton and his wife. He did not see any of their children. It might have helped if young Tom were there--he was Sam’s best friend, after all. But apparently they had been left at home.

He started to lead Sam toward the kitchen, where he could perhaps, ply him with tea, but Sam suddenly balked. There was panic in his eyes, and Frodo immediately understood. The kitchen was where she had died. Sooner or later, Sam would have to come to terms with that, but not tonight. Instead, Frodo led him in the direction of his room.

As the youngest of the sons, and the only one left at home, Sam had the room to himself for years, ever since his older brothers had left and gone to their apprenticeships. Frodo guided him to sit down on the bed, and then sat down alongside him, drawing him into his embrace.

Sam looked up at Frodo in surprise. That was not the kind of thing that hobbits usually said at times like these.

Frodo shook his head. “It happened Sam. And it’s not fair, and it’s not right, and your life will never be the same again.”

But though the words themselves sounded hard, even harsh, Frodo’s voice was very gentle.

“Perhaps there is one, but if so, it’s not one we’re ever likely to know while we’re alive.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Even the Elves don’t know what happens to mortals when we die.”

Frodo’s arm around his shoulders squeezed more tightly. “You will do what you have to do, day by day and moment by moment.”

“Some. You may have days when the pain seems to be completely gone, and then something will remind you, and it will be fresh as ever. But the good days gradually outnumber the bad days.”

Sam looked at Frodo’s face, as if really seeing him for the first time since he’d arrived. He saw reflected there the pain in his own heart, and it came to him that Frodo did in fact, know just how he felt. Suddenly, the tears which had eluded him all day, began to fill his eyes, and a great sob burst forth.

Frodo gathered him into his arms for comfort, as he often had his younger cousin Merry, and began to rock him back and forth.

“I’m here, Sam. Just let it out. You‘ve every right to grieve.” And his own tears fell into the sandy curls.

After a moment, he raised his eyes, and saw Bilbo standing in the open door, giving him a look of pride and sympathy. The older hobbit nodded, and then moved on, leaving Frodo to comfort his weeping friend.

The Bagginses, as well as other friends and neighbors of the Gamgees, had continued to offer friendship and support in the days after. At the funeral, Frodo had stood by Sam, and afterwards he and Tom had seen to getting him home, while the adults saw to the Gaffer. Sam had not broken down again in Frodo’s presence, but they often exchanged wordless glances of sympathy.

Bell’s death marked a turning point in Sam’s young life. In spite of the fact that he was still only in his early tweens, the Gaffer began to give over more and more of his responsibilities to Sam, as the ills of his own age seemed to catch up with him almost overnight. It meant an end to afternoons of sharing lessons, as well as to the occasional outing with Frodo. Outwardly, at least, Sam seemed to grow away from his youthful friendship with Frodo, and that appeared to only increase when Bilbo left the Shire, and Frodo became the Master of the Hill.

But underneath it all, that understanding of shared pain remained, a friendship cemented in compassion.

Merry looked at the two new weskits, trying to decide which one to wear. One was a butter yellow, woven so that the faintest of stripes in the same color would appear when the light hit it just right, the other one, a honey-gold yellow with bright brass buttons. It seemed such a luxury now to once more have a variety of clothing to choose from. From Amon Hen to Edoras, he’d had no change of clothing at all. He had been mostly wearing his livery for months, with only the one suit of hobbit clothing made for them in Gondor after the coronation, and some of the hand-me-down children‘s clothing that had been found for them in the City. None of the clothing he had left at Brandy Hall had fit when he returned, and the first thing his mother had done was call in the tailor and the seamstress. But he had ordered these two weskits himself--

“What is it, Pip?” he asked without turning. He knew Pippin was standing in his open doorway, watching him.

“Merry? Do we have to go up to the Hall tonight?” There was a wistful note in his voice.

Merry turned, surprised. “Well, I suppose not, if you don’t wish it.” But he was puzzled. They had been taking tea and supper with his parents since moving into Crickhollow a week and a half before. It was only a couple of miles after all, a brief enough distance on foot or by pony.

“It’s just, well, this is our home now, and it doesn’t feel properly like home if we are going to Brandy Hall to eat every evening. No offense, Merry, Uncle Sara sets a fine table, but--”

“But you are quite right, Pippin. It’s about time we started to fend for ourselves. Only--how’s the state of our larder?” He knew that it was fairly well-stocked earlier in the week, but was uncertain as to its current status.

“Oh, we’ve plenty. Bluebell baked this morning, and you remember there was half a joint left after lunch. We’ve eggs and cheese and butter and apples and pears and pickles and--”

Merry laughed. “No need for an inventory, Pip, I believe you. But if we are going to start having tea and supper at home, I shall have to keep better track myself.” Bluebell was the matron Esmeralda had engaged to go to Crickhollow to do for the “young masters” for half-days twice a week. Most of the rest of the two hobbits’ meals had consisted of whatever they felt like cobbling together, or they had gone to the Inn at Newbury or up to the Hall.

“You’re on,” said Merry, feeling rather relieved that they were not going back to Brandy Hall once more. With a smile, he hung the two weskits back in his wardrobe.

While Pippin made tea, Merry put on his cloak and went out to their small stable, to see to the ponies. They had become used to the routine of being ridden each afternoon.

Pippin’s pretty little mare, Butter, was a good natured and placid little pony for the most part, and was quite content to stay in the nice warm stable, but Stybba was a bit restive, and Merry patted him soothingly. “It’s all right, lad. You get to stay in here nice and warm this evening, and I’ll take you for a lovely gallop down by the River tomorrow.”

He took care of a few things in the stable that needed attention, and stooped to stroke Dumpling, one of the two cats who lived in the stable. She purred and sandpapered his hand with her rough warm tongue.

Merry looked about to see if he could spot the tom. The white cat was very nearly feral, and had a mean streak. He never liked to be petted. Pippin had named both cats, and Merry had not been surprised that he named the little female Dumpling, as Pip had almost always named his animals after food, but for some reason he had dubbed the white tom Haldir. For the life of him, Merry could not think of what it was about the cat that reminded Pippin of Haldir of Ló rien, and when he asked, Pippin had just shrugged, and said “Isn’t it obvious?”

He spotted the animal on a beam overhead, glaring down at him balefully, and shook his head, amused.

He was chilled as he came into the warmth of the kitchen, where Pippin poured out the tea, and they ate boiled eggs and sandwiches made with slices off the joint, and a few apples.

“Now,” said Merry, when they had eaten their fill, “off with you and I’ll keep my end of the bargain and do the washing up. And then we shall make supper together.”

“That sounds wonderful, cousin.” Pippin left the kitchen, and a few moments later, from the window, Merry could see him, cloak flapping along with the ends of his scarf, and his shepherd’s pipes in hand, as he took himself up the bare oak in the front garden and began to play. Legolas had made those pipes for him, and Pippin often played them when he was missing their friends of the Fellowship. He didn’t think that Pippin would be up there long. It was rather cold.

He himself went to the small desk in the front room to answer letters. The latest one from Frodo troubled him a bit. Frodo’d had a good deal to say, and it seemed very chatty, but it was clearly all about the Cottons, where he was staying, and Sam, and Hobbiton, and full of questions as to how he and Pippin were doing--and precious little news of Frodo himself. He was somewhat reassured by Sam’s letter, which indicated that Frodo was doing fine. Still, he worried a bit anyway. He took up his quill to answer.

His attention was caught when he looked once more out the window, to see that someone was coming in the gate. It was his Cousin Ilberic.

Pippin dropped from the tree, and the two of them walked up to the little house.

Pippin opened the front door with a flourish. “Welcome to our humble abode, Ilbie. Come in and get warm!”

Merry sighed. He should have expected that. “Well, you can let her know we are fine, and just decided to stay home tonight. I’d think she’d be tired of our cadging by now.”

Ilberic chuckled, and then turned to Pippin. “What’s that you were playing?”

Pippin, who played several, was instantly sympathetic. “I’ll tell you what--you come by on Sterday morning, and bring about a dozen river reeds with you, and I’ll help you make one, and teach you how to play.”

They exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then Ilbie left to return to Brandy Hall and let Esmeralda know that her son and her nephew would be frequenting her table less often from now on.

As the door closed behind their guest, Merry turned to Pippin. “What do you say to starting supper now?”

A check of the larder revealed some onions and carrots and potatoes, and jars of tomatoes and beans that had come from the Hall. Soon they had a pot of soup simmering, wafting forth its savory smell.

“Why don’t we bake some soda bread to go with it?” said Pippin, and so they did. It didn’t take long until they were covered in flour and breathless with laughter--baking together invariably ended in horseplay.

They cleaned themselves up in time to take the bread from the oven, and set to on the meal, eked out with apples and cheese.

They ate until they were sated, sopping up the last drops of the soup with the last crumbs of the bread, finishing several apples, pears, and half a round of cheese between them.

They lit their pipes, as they filled up the corners with the last of the cheese, Pippin, as was his habit at this stage of the meal, rolling it into little balls before putting it in his mouth. After they shared a companionable smoke, Merry looked the kitchen over.

“Let’s leave it till morning, Merry. We can just put the plates in the dishpan. It’s not like there are any leftovers to put away.”

They went into the front room, and Merry built up the fire, and Pippin sat down on one end of the settee.

Pippin patted the cushion next to him. “Come over here and let me be your pillow.”

So Merry stretched out with his head in Pippin’s lap, and began to relax as Pippin stroked his curls. The fingers stopped briefly, and a gentle finger outlined the scar on Merry’s brow, before resuming the restful rhythm. Merry was feeling very comfortable now, but he knew Pippin would soon get restless. He didn’t want to lose his “pillow”.

“One hundred apple pies cooling on the sill…” he began with the annoying childhood ditty that adult hobbits everywhere dreaded.

Pippin’s fingers stopped, and he grinned down at him. “Just to let you know that *I* know when I’m being managed,” he chuckled. He resumed stroking Merry’s brow.

“Evening has fallen, the Sun’s in the West.
The nightbirds are calling, the Shire is at rest.
Peaceful the night and gentle the breeze,
In cot and in smial, the folk take their ease.
High above the Stars are kindled,
Kith and kin within are nestled,
Safe from harm
In loving arms,
Find slumber deep,
Fall into sleep,
May joy find all your dreams,
May only joy find your dreams…”

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Frodo and Merry are 16 and 2 (or about 10 years old and about 14 months old, in Man years)

“I believe he’s asleep,” said Saradoc, climbing in the bed with his wife. “I don’t know if he’ll stay asleep, though. How’s Merry?”

Esmeralda glanced with a smile at the cradle in the corner of the room. “He’s asleep, too. It’s not going to be long before he’s old enough to move into a crib in the nursery,” she said wistfully.

“Life would be simpler if we could put Frodo in a crib and he could not climb out.”

Saradoc shook his head. “If it’s like it was the last two years, it will ease off in a week or two, and he will almost be his old cheerful self again. But you know as well as I do he was not planning to creep into the kitchen for a snack last night.”

“No, dear, I know. He would not get dressed for that, he would simply have put on his dressing gown--even for a raid on the main kitchen. I think he probably *was* going to slip out and go down to the River.” She gave Saradoc a thoughtful look. “Perhaps it would help him, if he realized that we know what’s on his mind, that we do understand his--temptation.”

“No, Esme, we’ve been over this before. I am afraid that if he realizes we know the extent of his melancholy, he will be humiliated, and will just close up on us even more, and he might redouble his efforts to evade us.”

Esmeralda heard the catch in her husband’s voice. He still mourned his aunt, as Frodo still mourned his parents. Primula and Drogo had been much beloved in Buckland, and not just among their kinfolk.

“Well, as you say, when we get past these next few weeks, he will do much better, I am sure.”

Saradoc just sighed, and turned so that he had a view of Frodo’s bedroom door. It was to prevent midnight excursions to the River that he had been put in a room with no windows, and had to pass through their room to go out.

Since he had been living with Saradoc and Esmeralda, his melancholy had developed a pattern. The first two years, he had been like a small lost ghost, but between the dates of when his parents had drowned and the date of what would have been his mother’s birthday, it was even worse--he hardly ate, seldom spoke, and if not watched constantly, he would try to go to the Brandywine. Which would not have necessarily been a bad thing in itself, if Saradoc had not known only too well that his young cousin would seek to join his parents in its dark waters.

Then Merry had been born. That year, whenever Frodo’s melancholy threatened, one only had to put the baby in his arms to see his face relax in love. He had cheered up a good deal. Yet still, he was troubled by bad dreams and tried to slip out at least three times during that couple of weeks. But afterwards, he began to brighten up; he helped to care for the baby and soon began to also take part in the life of the Hall, playing with his cousins and friends, and actually getting into mischief.

Reminders of his parents would still cause him to withdraw a bit, but except for those few weeks in the spring, his melancholy seemed manageable. Saradoc had breathed a sigh of relief, and blessed his beautiful baby son for his sunny and loving nature. It seemed that Merry was the key to Frodo’s young heart.

Merry was two years old now, and often would be found in Frodo‘s arms. There was a profound connection between them, more like brothers, really, than cousins.

His ears alert for the slightest sound, Saradoc was beginning to think he might dare sleep, when he saw the door crack open a tiny bit. He sat up, and it closed again. A few moments later, he could hear his young cousin’s bitter weeping, and he felt tears prick his own eyes in sympathy.

It was unsurprising that with such a disturbed night’s sleep the Son of the Hall and his family were later than usual arising. The nurserymaid, Dahlia, had slipped into the room and taken Master Merry to feed and change before he could wake his parents.

It was after second breakfast when Frodo came from his room, tying the cord of his dressing gown. He tiptoed past his cousins and went straight to the nursery, where Dahlia was rocking Merry, and she had just finished feeding him some porridge.

“ ‘Morning, Master Frodo,” she said, glancing up. Her brow furrowed. The lad looked terrible. His eyes were puffy and red, as was his nose--he’d obviously been crying. And he was as pale as could be.

“Good morning, Dahlia.” His response was polite enough, but not very heartfelt.

But Merry looked up at him, and crowed with delight, holding his little arms out with a grin. Frodo looked at him and a bit of a smile touched his lips.

Dahlia shook her head in resignation, and held the baby up--indeed, Merry was bouncing on her lap so, she had not much choice. She got up and let Frodo have the chair and Merry, and she went to take the little dishes away.

When she returned a short time later, Frodo and Merry were laughing together, and it did her heart good to see the lad cheered up so. It was a shame that he became so forlorn this time of year.

Merry was standing on Frodo’s knees, and Frodo had both his little hands, jiggling him up and down, and singing a little nonsense rhyme. Merry was crowing with laughter and babbling, and in a moment, there was more laughter from the doorway, as Esmeralda and Saradoc entered.

“Well,” said Saradoc, “it’s good to see both my lads having such a lovely morning!”

Esmeralda moved into the room, and took Merry, who only reluctantly let go of his older cousin. “Why don’t you go get dressed, Frodo, and we’ll let Dahlia get Merry dressed for the day?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Frodo got up, and placed a little peck on her cheek, before going to do as he was bid.

The day was to be a busy one. Old Rory, the Master, and Saradoc’s father, had asked his son to come with him on the annual inspection of Bucklebury Ferry. And Esmeralda needed to go and speak with the Mistress, her mother-in-law Menegilda, about the upcoming Spring Festival.

And Frodo had lessons. His Baggins cousin Bilbo, had given him a lovely set of watercolors at Yule, and he had displayed some talent with them, so he had begun to take some lessons in drawing and painting from Cousin Calla. And after luncheon he would have to report to his Uncle Dinodas for his usual lessons. Today would be figures and sums--not the most favorite of his assignments--he much preferred to be reading or writing, tasks at which he excelled. At least it would not be recitation, which always made him feel silly.

After he dressed, he stopped by the nursery to tell Merry good-bye. The baby grinned and held out his arms, babbling. Some of the noises sounded almost like words. It would not be long now before Merry was talking. Saradoc and Esmeralda had been trying to coax a “mum” or a “da” out of him for weeks.

As he left he could hear Merry whimpering, and he winced. It made him feel guilty to be leaving him like that.

His drawing lesson with Cousin Calla was interesting. He had been learning to draw objects, such as bowls of fruit on the table, but today they talked a bit about drawing people, and Cousin Calla explained how the face, head and body were proportioned. He spent some time drawing copies of drawings she had made, but she told him that before his next lesson, she wished him to try and sketch some on his own.

He took luncheon in the main dining hall, sitting together with several of his cousins at the children’s table. There was a good deal of excited chatter about the Spring Festival.

“Did you hear?” exclaimed one of the lasses, “There’s going to be a party barge, and the Master and his family will be taking their dinner there on the River!”

Frodo suddenly felt as though the world had spun away from him. He could feel the blood draining from his face. How could he? How could his uncle *do* that? His appetite gone, his mouth suddenly dry, he stood up.

“Oh, you know Frodo,” responded the lad who had sat on his other side. “He gets that way sometimes. He hardly touched his plate.” And with that, he took his fork and helped himself to Frodo’s lunch.

In one of the corridors, Frodo tried to still the pounding in his heart. He had tried his best to come to terms with the River. He would swim sometimes--everyone in Brandy Hall had to learn to swim, and he could go down to skip stones or fish with his cousins. And he tried to push to the back of his mind his nighttime visits there, when he would stand at the edge and imagine it taking him to his mother and father, wherever they might be, and wonder what it would be to cast himself in and lose himself to the dark water. The Brandywine was an altogether different and more seductive thing at night. But boats--no. No, he couldn’t. But if he didn’t--what if something happened to the rest of his family, and he were not with them? Would he once more be left alone?

Trying to calm himself, he took several deep breaths. He had to go to Uncle Dinodas for his lessons. Pulling himself together, he headed for his uncle’s apartments.

“Come in, Frodo. You are a bit early. But the book with your problems is on the table, along with the slate.”

Frodo nodded and moved heavily to the long oak table that had served many a young Brandybuck as a desk. Dinodas glanced at him; the lad did not look well--he could easily see that it was more than simply distaste for the subject of the day.

“Frodo, are you all right, lad? You don’t look well.” The older hobbit placed his hand on Frodo’s brow. “You do not seem to have a fever.”

Frodo looked up gratefully. “I am afraid I have a terrible headache, Uncle.”

Dinodas nodded. It was the time of year when Frodo’s melancholy often caused him to feel ill, usually because he was not eating properly, in Dinodas‘ opinion. He thought sometimes that Saradoc and Esmeralda could handle the situation a bit better, but he refrained from saying anything. Drogo and Primula had left them the responsibility, after all. He merely said “Well, Frodo, I don’t think that you could concentrate properly on your work feeling like that. Why don’t you go and take a bit of a nap? We will continue with this lesson when you come back day after tomorrow.”

In a numb fog, he let himself into Saradoc’s apartment. He looked about cautiously. No one else was home. Apparently, Uncle Sara and Aunt Esme were still out and busy, and Dahlia had probably taken Merry for a walk. Good. That meant there would be no questions about why he was missing a lesson, no worried faces trying to make him answer questions.

He lay down on the settee in the sitting room, and began to cry. He wept until he really did have a headache, and a stomachache, as well. Why was his life so miserable? Why were his parents gone? It wasn’t fair! It wasn’t fair! And of course, part of his mind kept saying “What do you expect? Life’s not fair. It‘s never been fair, and it‘s never going to be.”

He found his fingers digging into the cushion, and he gripped more tightly. And then in sudden anger, he began to rend it, sending feathers everywhere. He ripped--and ripped--and ripped--

He looked up in horror to see Dahlia standing in the doorway, holding a sleeping Merry, and staring at him in astonishment. With a cry of pain, he leapt up, and raced to his room, slamming the door behind him.

In the dark of his windowless room, he flung himself upon his bed. It did not matter here if his eyes were open or closed. The dark was comforting.

He did not weep. He was all cried out. If he lay still enough, perhaps he could find the oblivion of sleep. Of course, he’d just wake up again to more misery--

Perhaps he did fall asleep, for he completely lost any track of time, but the next thing he knew was the sound of a rapping at his door, and the sound of Uncle Sara’s voice. His headache was raging, and his stomach was tied in knots.

Heaving a deep breath, Frodo swung his legs to the floor, and shambled to the door. Saradoc put an arm around his shoulders, and led him into the sitting room. Esmeralda was sitting there with Merry on her lap. Merry looked at Frodo and grinned, but for once Frodo was too miserable to respond. Merry’s little brow furrowed in puzzlement.

Saradoc led Frodo to one of the chairs, and sat him down, and then went and sat in another chair across from him.

Frodo would not look his cousin in the eye. “I heard about the Spring Festival,” he mumbled.

Saradoc was baffled. What on earth did that have to do with anything? “I don’t understand?”

Frodo looked up, blue eyes blazing. “How could Uncle Rory even *think* of having a party on the River?” he yelled. “How could he *do* that?”

“But you didn’t hear it from me, or from my father, did you, Frodo? And that’s because it isn’t true. The idea *was* brought up, by one of the cousins from Haysend, and father told them ‘No’ in no uncertain terms.”

Frodo stared, stunned. “But--” He was clearly staggered. “It’s not true?”

“No, of course it isn’t. Father would never do such a thing to you, or to us either. We all still miss them as well, Frodo.”

“Oh,” he moaned. “I’ve made such a mess of things!” He stared up at Saradoc, his face a mask of misery.

Merry was whimpering even more, and struggling in his mother’s arms, reaching out for Frodo, who for once was not even looking in his direction.

Esmeralda tried to sooth him. “Ssh, Merry-mine,” she whispered. “Not right now.”

Merry pushed his feet up against his mother, and lunged towards Frodo with his arms outstretched.

The misery on Frodo’s face drained away to be replaced by amazement. “Merry?”

Frodo reached his own arms out, and just in time, as two sturdy little feet pushed off his mother’s lap, and he launched himself into Frodo’s embrace.

Merry snuggled into Frodo’s arms, and then reached up a tiny hand to brush away the tears, “Fwo,” he said contentedly.

Frodo’s grasp tightened, and he buried his face in the soft curls. “Oh, Merry, I do love you, sprout.”

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a song written in Minas Tirith by Menelcar the Minstrel, in honor of the four hobbits. It is taken from the last chapter of my LiveJournal serial, "Chance Encounter".

We hearken to the harp and hear
of deeds of Elves and Men;
of Silmarils, Thangorodrim,
and fallen Gondolin;

of Beren and of Lúthien;
of Eärendil the Star;
of Hurin who was sadly cursed,
and Turin Turambar.

We sing of fallen Númenor,
and faithful Elendil,
who of his folk a remnant saved,
to do the Valar’s will.

We tell of mighty Gil-galad,
who led against the foe
an army vast of Elves and Men
to lay the Shadow low.

And by such things our hearts are stirred,
to know these tales of yore;
the dire deeds done and victories won
by those who went before.

So we see then in our mind’s eye
these heroes brave and tall
with faces fell and mighty arms
who answered to the call.

In such a way we measure them
whose deeds we may admire,
by strength of hand and height from ground,
to such we may aspire.

There is a land so fair and green
far to the north and west,
where dwell a folk but half Men’s height,
in peace and plenty blest.

They plow the ground, they till the earth,
a simple folk, we find,
who laugh and weep and live and love;
with open hearts and kind.

Yet even there did Evil reach
far to the west and north.
Against the Shadow’s fearsome clutch
were four who ventured forth.

Although in height but half as high
full twice as large their hearts.
When darkness threatened all they loved,
they sought to do their parts.

Into a world grown grim and cold,
where perils oft await,
they wandered in their innocence
toward an uncertain fate.

And two there were, who carried off
by fell and fearsome foes,
yet by their wits and strength of will
they both struck mighty blows.

And two there were who went alone
into the Shadow’s lair;
where nothing good may there be found,
and all is bleak despair.

Betrayed and beaten, whipped and cursed,
they managed to endure.
they struggled on through pain and thirst,
where only death was sure,

and into malice Mercy cast,
and Love and Grace prevailed.
So Power and Pride did tremble then,
And thus the Darkness failed.

Perhaps it was to humble us
when Chance or Purpose called--
and into smallest hands did give
the greatest deed of all.

Frodo smiled. He had feared that his “Hundred-weight Feast” would fall rather flat after all the to-do last year. And he had anticipated that he might be feeling a bit melancholy on this first birthday without Bilbo. True, he was missing him--how could he not? All his life they had celebrated this day together. Twenty-second Halimath was known among Baggins family connections as The Birthday ever since Frodo had been born. But he could not feel truly sad or lonesome tonight, as he sipped his rich Buckland Red, a gift from his Uncle Rory. Not quite so good as Old Winyards, but very mellow on the tongue. Why, Aunt Menegilda had even come, the first time she had set foot in Hobbiton in years. But her objections to the possibility of having to meet Lobelia Sackville-Baggins were gone, since Otho had removed the family to their holdings in the Southfarthing not long after Frodo’s inheritance had been finalized. It was too humiliating for the family to watch Frodo “taking their rightful place”.

He wished Sam and Marigold were not quite so shy--they were trying to keep rather to themselves, feeling a bit intimidated by the Brandybucks and the Whitwell Tooks--Paladin and his family, and by the Boffins and Bolgers who were there--only twenty guests in all, yet all of them near and dear to him.

He glanced under the Party Tree, where Esmeralda was reassuring young Pippin. It would be his first time to play his fiddle at a party, along with his aunt. She had just begun to teach him on his visit to Buckland last summer. Young Folco had his flute as well, and was already playing a sprightly air. But Aunt Esme had given up on coaxing Merry, though she had hopefully brought a tambour with her. Perhaps Pimmie might play it instead.

Merry and Fatty were talking to Sam and his sister, trying to get them to relax. Sam, of course, knew Merry very well. They’d always been playmates on Merry’s visits when he was younger.

Yes, this was the kind of party Frodo enjoyed--only the closest friends and kin, not half the Shire.

Wherever you are, Bilbo, he thought, I know you are thinking of me. He smiled to himself. I’ve seen to that.

“Master Bilbo?” The door to the hobbit’s apartments stood open, and he could see his small guest sitting at his window, gazing west. The old hobbit looked pensive, and Elrond suspected that he was not looking towards uttermost West as an Elf would, but to a much nearer, yet still inaccessible place: the Shire.

“Ah, Lord Elrond, do come in.” His voice sound cheery enough on the surface, but the Elf could hear the brittleness underneath. “I would like to thank you for making me so welcome here.”

“It is my pleasure, Bilbo,” said the Lord of Rivendell with a smile. “I am glad that you have chosen to come and dwell among us, now that your journey to Erebor is completed.” He paused. “You seem a bit preoccupied tonight.”

“Very well, I shall not press you. I sought you out this evening because Gandalf gave me a task.” He took forth from his robes a small package. “He left this in my care, and said that as he was certain you would be here on this date, I was to give it to you.”

Bilbo’s face lit up with frank curiosity. “Now, the Wizard should have known you should have given that to me yesterday. I shall have to tweak him for forgetting Shire etiquette when next I see him.” He reached forth and took the small parcel, done up in brown paper and string, and with an envelope tucked beneath the knot. Puzzled, he took the envelope out, and turned it over.

He beamed, and tears gathered in his blue eyes, as he saw it was addressed to "Uncle Bilbo Baggins, from his devoted Frodo". With trembling hands, he broke the seal and drew the letter forth.

Always, as the byrdings, we have gifted one another on The Day, free of the restraints imposed on others unfortunate enough to have been born on another date.

I do not know where you are, but wherever it may be, I hope that you find yourself warm and comfortable, with plenty to eat and drink, and a nice fire and a roof for your head. I know your opinion of the less comfortable aspects of Adventuring, and hope that you are being spared them.

I gave this package to Gandalf with my instructions as soon as I realized you really meant to go through with your plan to retire from the Shire. For I am very selfish, Uncle, and wanted you to remember me on this special day.

You have gifted me already with everything: not only Bag End, and your wealth, and the headship of the family, but with years of your love and guidance. I know already that I shall miss you dreadfully, but you’ve done your best for me, and I know you deserve this last chance to see the Wide World and all your old friends.

I know that you will sometimes be homesick for the Shire. I hope that this little gift will help to assuage that a bit, and help you to remember me whenever you use it.

Gandalf promised me that he would see to it you received this at the right time.

Tears were streaming down the old hobbit’s face, and he held the letter to his heart for a moment, before giving a mighty sniff, and turning to the parcel. He carefully untied the knot, and drew away the paper.

It was Old Toby, the finest leaf in the Shire. He’d long been making do with Breeland leaf, or the stuff the Dwarves used.

Ah, Frodo, my lad, he thought through his tears. I always knew you were the best hobbit in the Shire.

“I am glad to hear it; I know how worried you were for him. I wished to ask you, some of us in the Third Company were going to spend the evening visiting the taverns--our last night of freedom in the City, before we march away to the Black Gate--and I wondered if you would care to join us?”

For a brief moment, the hobbit’s face lit up, but then he shook his head. “I am afraid I can’t.” He turned and glanced quickly at Merry’s door.

Pippin shook his head. “No, I trust Strider--Lord Aragorn, I mean. He brought Merry away from the Shadow, and his arm is beginning to feel better. It’s not that.”

“Well, what is it then? For I do know from what you have said, that you do enjoy the taste of ale.”

He looked up at the Man, his face serious. “I do enjoy ale and beer. But to be honest with you Beregond, as frightened as I am for what we are going to do tomorrow, I don’t dare have one, for fear that I might not stop. I have a promise to keep, you see.”

Pippin gave a bitter laugh. “Yes. When I was a good deal younger, just barely a tween--that is to say, I was only twenty--I gave in to a dare, and became so drunk that I nearly died of it. Merry was very angry with me over that, and we made a promise to one another. We would never get drunk except together. He’s eight years older than me, you know, yet for years he kept his end of the promise until I was old enough to get drunk with him. We’ve had many a jolly night since, and wakened the worse for it the next day, but since we look out for one another, it’s never been dangerous again. If Merry’s not with me, I never take more than one drink.”

Beregond’s eyebrows rose. “That is quite a promise to make, and even more difficult to keep. You are a man--or I should say--a hobbit of honor, Peregrin Took. And I think that your cousin must be as well. I am glad that he will be all right.”

“Thank you, Beregond. I am glad of that, too.” Once more he looked in the direction of Merry’s door.

“Oh, Merry,” he sighed to himself, “if anything had happened to you, I could not have even drowned my sorrow.”

This was written for the Five Things challenge at fic_inspiration. Warning: This would be AU and have character deaths IF it ever happened...which none of it ever did...thank goodness...

Old Holman Greenhand finished putting a bit of mulch around the spring bedding plants he had placed in the flowerbeds near Bag End’s front entrance. He stood up and brushed his hands on the back of his breeches, and stood back to admire the effect. His eyes narrowed, and he shook his head angrily.

The tweenager came running at his master’s call, leaving the clippers he had been using on the hedge.

“Someone’s been and scratched up the new paint on Mr. Bilbo’s front door!” He snorted crossly, and gestured to the marks on the fresh paint. “Why some people have to be so impatient, I can’t imagine! Mr. Bilbo would be right put out to see that. Go and fetch the little jar of green paint that was left over from when we painted it this last month, and touch those scratches up!”

The hiss was close behind him. He turned now and saw Gollum’s eyes like small green lamps coming up the slope. Terrified he tried to run faster, but suddenly he struck his toes on a snag in the floor, and fell down flat with his little sword under him.* His hands flung outward as he fell, trying to catch himself, and suddenly the little ring flew from his finger.

The Gollum creature came to a sudden halt, with a nasty hiss. “Tricksy little thief. There you are!” With a shriek of rage he fell upon Bilbo, who scarcely had a chance to even move.

Leaving the body of the hobbit where it lay, Gollum turned, and picked up the ring. “There you are, my preciouss, my own,” he hissed softly stroking the ring fondly, and then cackled as he placed it on his own finger. “Trickssy preciouss, thought you would escape uss,” he said as he winked out.

He took Bilbo’s body by one heel and began to drag it back towards his lake. No need to waste food.

Bilbo stood with the other family members in the gloomy Buckland rain. Funerals were always dismal, and this one more than most. The deaths were so pointless, the lives, snuffed out so young--the River ever treacherous had exacted a great price. Things would never be the same again. This would be his last trip to Buckland, for it no longer held anything of value to him.

He watched, breathless, as the three coffins were lowered into the ground, and heard Mirabella’s shriek of grief as the smallest, little Frodo’s, followed his parents’.

With legs weak from hunger, Bilbo continued to move. He had to keep ahead of the goblins. Sting was glowing. He sheathed it, and put on the ring. How long had it been since his companions had all been slain? He was sure he had been wandering these dismal tunnels for days on end. Shuddering in pain and sorrow, he remembered their valiant efforts to fight the goblins, and the blood and the pain and the death. Far worse, it was, than the Battle of Five Armies.

Why had he ever thought he could have another Adventure at his age? He had been making plans; he had thought to bring his orphaned cousin, young Frodo to live with him at Bag End. He had, he believed, finally been settled in the Shire, and no longer troubled with the Tookish urge to wander.

How long could he keep this up? He was no longer anywhere near a place where he could find food. Perhaps letting the goblins find him would be a quicker death than starvation, for he no longer held out any hope of emerging from these dark holes alive. And even if he could find food, what kind of existence would he have? He remembered the Gollum creature, skulking in the dark; a cold cheerless existence, simply surviving from one miserable dark day to the next. How long would it take him until he himself became like that sad, mad creature?

If only, he thought, I had not listened when Balin came, and asked me to join him in his expedition to Moria…

Boromir looked in surprise at Bilbo, but the laughter died on his lips when he saw that all the others regarded the old hobbit with grave respect. Only Gloín smiled, but his smile came from old memories.*

Gandalf looked at him sadly. The cheery voice was forced, and the pain on the old hobbits’ face was plain. But the offer was sincere, and no one had more reason to wish to strike a blow against the Enemy than this valiant old hobbit. Gandalf had had great hopes for young Frodo; but the Morgul-blade had been too much for him, and his life had ebbed away even as Elrond sought to save it.

“Of course, my dear Bilbo. You did not, you know, really start this, as you have heard. But you have as much right as any to help in finishing it. I can think of no one more worthy than one who has proven once before that he can, at will, give up this thing.”

* From The Fellowship of the Ring Book II, Chapter II, “The Council of Elrond”

AUTHOR: Dreamflower
RATING: G
CATEGORY: General
SUMMARY: Buckland prepares for a wedding.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This was written for Marigold's Challenge #21, with the starter line "Wasn't this bottle nearly full?"
DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

”Wasn’t this bottle nearly full?” asked Rory, as only a few drops found their way into his goblet.

Bilbo took it and looked closely at it, upending it as though he could somehow make more, just by turning it over. “It was a little while ago.”

“I suppose,” said Rory, “that we drank all of it after all.” He glanced at the snoring figure at the other end of the table. “Where’s Dudo?”

“He gave up and went to bed a while back,” replied Bilbo. He took the bottle he still held and shook it sadly.

Bilbo shook his head. “I know that Dudo is his brother, but I could have told Drogo he’d be useless to stand for him. Lad has no stamina.

Rory reached a hand across the table, and lifted the snorer’s head. There was not even a miss in the gentle rumble emanating from it. “I think he’s well and truly out.” He glanced about the room. “Dodi and Rufus are asleep, too. “ His younger brother and his brother-in-law were snoring away on the settee. “Where’s Dino?” he asked, referring to his other brother.

“He left when your father did.” Bilbo shook his head. “So did Chop. I guess Chop is just Adalgrim now.” His voice was mournful. “I never thought I’d see the day when he’d be willing to end an evening so early.”

“Well, five children, a farm, and a wife like Periwinkle Goldworthy would be enough to settle even the most flighty of Tooks down.” Rory replied sagely.

“I suppose,” said Bilbo. There was no doubt that the irrepressible scamp Bilbo had looked up to in his youth had married a lass who brooked no nonsense. Adalgrim adored her, but also walked carefully. She never had any qualms about telling him exactly what she thought if he did not live up to her idea of respectability.

Bilbo looked fondly at his sleeping cousin. “I don’t think Drogo will ever scold Primula for not being respectable--she can twist him right around her little finger, and do anything she wishes, and he will just smile.”

Rory sniffed. “But Primula dotes on him as well; just knowing him and how steady he is, is enough to keep her from behaving too wildly.”

“Well,” said Bilbo, “since Dudo has abandoned his duty, I suppose it is up to us as the last hobbits standing, to get him to his bed. He’s going to have a very sore head in the morning; it’s a good thing the wedding is not till noon. I wish my gardener was here.”

“Your gardener!” exclaimed Rory. “Whatever would you want him in Buckland for?”

“He knows an excellent remedy for over-indulgence, but it’s a family secret.”

“Ah. Well there’s no help for it. Come on.” He stood up, somewhat unsteadily himself and tugged at Drogo’s shoulder. Bilbo got up, and came to the other side, and between them, they got one arm around each of them and after a good deal of maneuvering got him upright. He stirred a bit at this, and managed to wake enough to move his feet.

Together they staggered through the sloped passages to the upper level where Drogo’s guest room was located. Bilbo found himself thinking gratefully that it was fortunate hobbits seldom went in for stairs inside their dwellings, unlike Dwarves, Elves and Men.

Unfortunately neither he nor Rory were exactly steady on their feet either, and they found themselves bumping into the walls from time to time. (“Ow,” “Shush, we’ll wake the whole smial,” “He’s heavy, let me shift him,” “Quiet!” “Careful, you’ll drop him!” “My toes!” “Hush!”)

Suddenly a door opened. “What on earth is going on out here? It sounds like a herd of ponies!” The feminine voice sounded cross. “Oh, I see.”

“Primrose!” hissed Rory. “I’m sorry we woke you!” Primrose was Adalgrim’s eldest daughter, and Primula’s best friend. She would be standing with the bride the next day.

She looked at them, and put a hand to her mouth to suppress a giggle. “It looks as though the groom has made a bit too merry, doesn’t it.” She peered at them more closely. “You two will be a bit worse for the wear as well. I think you need some help. I’ll get Father.”

“Wait,” hissed Bilbo, horrified. “We certainly don’t want to wake your mother!”

She smirked. “No, I’ve no doubt that would be a bad idea. But I can wake him without disturbing her. Mother sleeps like a log.”

She backed into the room, and shut the door. A moment later, and it opened again. Adalgrim was still tying the cord of his dressing gown, and shaking his head with an amused smile.

It was only a short distance to Drogo’s room then, and between the three of them, they divested him of his clothes and wrestled him into his nightshirt.

Adalgrim smiled ruefully. “I’ve not been called ‘Chop’ in a while. Winkie doesn’t like it.”

“He’s going to make a poor showing as a groom,” said Rory, shaking his head.

“He’ll be all right,” Adalgrim assured them. “I’ve a sovereign remedy for what will ail him. I’ll check in the morning, for I’ve no doubt Dudo will need the help. Shall I see you then as well?”

“If you’ve got something that will work better than willow-bark for a hangover,” said Rory, “you most certainly will.”

“I will be most glad, Chop,” said Bilbo. “I should like to compare your remedy to that of Master Hamfast.”

Adalgrim chuckled. “Let’s tuck him up, then. Do I need to come tuck the two of you up as well?” he asked with a mischievous twinkle that reminded both his friends of their irresponsible youth.

The next day, after elevenses--for none had felt much like either breakfast--the groom and his friends stood ready. Their eyes were a bit bloodshot, but otherwise none of them showed signs of the party the night before. Dudo was chided for his dereliction of duty, and blushed to admit to it.

And then all went to stand beneath the pavilion where the Master of Buckland waited to conduct the wedding of his youngest and most beloved daughter…

A SMALL INCIDENT ON THE GREAT RIVER…

It was the sixth day of their journey from Lothlórien. Or night. Travelling by night again, Sam thought, did make a body confused; but anyway, it was coming up day, as the grey light of dawn began to break, and Strider gave the signal that they would be stopping as soon as he found a good spot to bring the boats up.

Sam looked over at Mr. Frodo, as he helped Strider to paddle, and then over at the other boats. Mr. Merry was helping Boromir, and even Mr. Gimli had got the hang of paddling. Mr. Pippin didn’t paddle, but that was because even with the shortened oars his arms weren’t long enough. But Mr. Pippin wasn’t afraid of the water, and always helped to beach the boats and unload them. He glanced nervously at the River, and towards the shore. Well, it wasn’t no deeper at the edges than the Water back home, and he’d done his bit of wading there as a lad. He was tired of feeling useless--this morning when they stopped, he made his mind to help, too. They’d be in these boats a few more days, surely, and it was time he pulled his weight.

Strider raised up his arm, in the signal they were using, and then pointed to a small grassy area where the bank came right up. There was a dead tree there, it’s upper limbs a-laying in the water, and a good bit of shrubbery growing near, that would hide them from prying eyes when they made camp. Sam wondered if there was a good spot to keep a fire hidden. Strider wasn’t as bad as poor old Mr. Gandalf had been about fires. As long as Sam could keep it from smoking and keep it out of sight, he didn’t mind.

The boats were angled against the current, so they could come up out of the water at the right spot. That always seemed to Sam to make them a bit more wobbly than they were to begin with, and his knuckles went white as he gripped the front of the seat to either side of him.

As the front end of Boromir’s boat began to bump against the bottom, Merry and Pippin jumped over one side, and Boromir stepped out over the other, and they pulled it up.

Legolas and Gimli were a bit further back, but Legolas waved an arm, to show they would be there in a moment.

Now the boat Sam was in bumped, and his insides wobbled a bit, but as Mr. Frodo and Strider jumped out, he steeled himself, and placing both hands on the side, jumped out as well. Mr. Frodo looked back, and gave him a look of pleased surprise. The water only came up to his knees here. Not too bad. He gripped the side as he saw his master doing, with Strider on the other side, and they pulled up.

Then suddenly, as Sam put his right foot down in the water, a sharp pain lanced through his foot. With a gasp, he let go. It was only with difficulty that he kept from crying out.

“My foot,” he managed to gasp out. Frodo let go of the boat instantly, and took his friend by the arm.

The boat was up enough that the Man could let go. He stepped over it quickly, and picked Sam up in his strong arms.

Frodo had tried to see Sam’s foot as Aragorn walked over and sat on the trunk of the fallen tree, but had to give up as the Man was moving too quickly. “Something to do with his foot!” answered Frodo.

“I’m that sorry, Strider,” Sam gasped, as Aragorn set him down next to him and lifted his foot.

It was a splinter. It was a good three to four inches long, and had gone deeply into the ball of his foot.

Aragorn suppressed a smile. “It’s not so bad as that, Sam, but I shall have to get it out. Frodo, would you get my small satchel?” He referred to the small bag where he kept his herbs and medical tools.

Frodo let go of Sam, and raced back over to the boat. By this time Boromir, Legolas and Gimli were all gathered around as well. Frodo had not even noticed Legolas and Gimli arrive. He grabbed the small bag Aragorn had spoken of and dashed back.

Sam’s face was white and pinched. It was clear that the splinter was extremely painful. He flinched and his foot jerked, as Aragorn probed around it. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I can’t seem to help it.”

“Of course you cannot, Sam.” Aragorn looked into the satchel as Frodo proffered it, and took out an even smaller pouch. He opened and took out a pair of pincers. He looked at Sam. “I am afraid this will be painful.”

Aragorn got a grip on one end of the splinter, and yanked as hard as he could, and brought forth the jagged piece of wood.

He held it out, and Sam took it. It was a good four inches long, but it had felt much larger. His foot twitched again as Aragorn began to clean the blood from it.

“Frodo, there is a small white jar. Would you please get that out and open it?”

Frodo did so, and Aragorn took a fingerful of the aromatic salve, and applied it to the wound. “And now I need the linen bandage.” For he kept a roll of boiled linen strips in a small waxed pouch. Frodo found it, and Aragorn bound Sam’s foot. Then he smiled at Sam, who was looking thoroughly abashed and embarrassed. “Sam, you are going to need to stay off that foot as much as possible for a couple of days--”

“A couple of days!” he burst out. “But what about the cooking? And who will--”

“Sam,” Merry put in, “Pip and I may not be as good as you, but we can perfectly well make breakfast--and supper. We *do* know how to cook you know.”

Aragorn nodded. “It’s a good thing we are travelling by boat. You won’t have to do any walking. And I should think that it will be all right in two days or three at the most.” He looked up at the others. “We should get camp set up. I think behind the shrubs, near that copse of trees over there.” He pointed to an area about thirty feet in distance from the water.

“Yes,” said Boromir. “An excellent spot. It will provide cover from any prying eyes on the other shore.” He turned and began to take up some of the provisions from the boats. Gimli followed suit. Merry and Pippin had already gone in search of firewood.

Legolas looked at Aragorn, and then said, “Come Master Samwise, I shall carry you over to the campsite.”

“Mr. Legolas!” It just wouldn’t be right for an Elf to be carrying the likes of him around!

“Sam, be a good fellow and cooperate.” Frodo was concerned for Sam, yet amused by his dilemma. It was so seldom that Sam ever was in need of cosseting that he simply did not know how to take it.

Short of defying his master, Sam could not object further, and submitted to Legolas picking him up.

Frodo and Aragorn watched him, and then Frodo helped Aragorn to pack up his medical supplies. “Thank you,” he said.

“What? For getting the splinter out? I assure you it was no trouble at all.”

They dined on soup that morning, and Merry and Pippin were complimented on how tasty it was. They had not, however tried to make griddle bread to accompany it. “No need to push our luck,” said Merry. Baking in an oven was one thing, but baking over a campfire was tricky at best.

Later that morning, as the four hobbits huddled together in their blankets, Sam tried once more to apologize. “I so sorry, sirs, to be so much trouble,” he started.

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Pippin, “I’m sure the silly ass thrust a tree in his foot on purpose so he could eat our cooking.”

Sam found himself snickering in spite of himself. “I think I could have found a less painful way to do that, Mr. Pippin.” He sobered up though. “I just wanted to be useful.”

Frodo, who had been quiet during the earlier exchange, simply lying there with his arm across Sam’s chest, shook his head. “Useful? Sam, you’ve no idea. You are quite the most useful person on this journey. Now let’s be quiet and get some sleep.”

There was a bit more gentle shifting and the hobbits gradually drifted off into slumber. Sam lay awake for a short while, feeling unexpectedly gratified at his master’s words. “Sam Gamgee,” he told himself, before he fell asleep as well, “you are a ninnyhammer and make no mistake. But you have some good friends.”

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This was written for hobbit_ficathon, and was to include the words "bed" "rose" "candle" and "kitten"

SURPRISES

It had been a splendid Buckland Yule, in spite of the fact that Frodo had remained in Bag End this year for the first time ever. Merry acknowledged to himself that the crowd had possibly been more than his cousin could have handled now. Still in spite of that, it had been a memorable evening. Even though he had but a few hours sleep, Merry found himself awake shortly after the Sun had shown her face.

Stopping briefly in one of the kitchens for a pastry and a cup of tea, he wandered into the front garden.

He was unsurprised to see that Pippin had the same idea. His Took cousin sat on a nearby bench, an empty cup and a plate with a few crumbs next to him. He was singing softly to himself, but stopped. “Hullo, Merry,” he said without turning around.

“Hullo, yourself.” Merry sat down by him, and took a sip of his tea. “You’re sounding remarkably chipper, cousin,” he grinned.

Pippin turned to him, a rather dreamy look in his green eyes and a small amazed smile on his lips. “I kissed her, Merry,” he confided. “I kissed Diamond.”

Merry looked at him with his own confiding smile. “Estella and I set the date.”

Pippin gave a whoop, and clapped Merry on the back, then stopped and looked confused. “But you aren’t betrothed yet.”

“That’s just a formality since we’re only waiting to announce it until Freddy gets back from the South. But we plan to wed next Yule.”

“That’s wonderful, then!” His grin faded slightly. “Diamond and I have a long wait. Six years before we’re old enough, and she’s finished her apprenticeship.”

Merry broke a piece off his pastry and handed it to his cousin, who took it and ate it absently. “Cheer up, Pip. It’s not nearly so long a wait as Strider had--what? Forty years?”

“I keep telling myself that.” He licked a finger thoughtfully. “After second breakfast, why don’t we see if the lasses would like to come down and see Crickhollow? I know Estella’s been there, but Diamond never has. We could make them elevenses, and maybe even lunch before we bring them back here to the Hall?”

They took the pony trap; Pippin drove, with Diamond and Estella riding next to him. Merry rode Pybba, and led Pippin’s Butter. As they approached the lane leading up to the little house, they saw the post hobbit.

“Yes, Captain Merry, it is.” He handed up the package and the letter, gave a nod of his head, and went cheerily on his way.

Merry smiled. “They’re both from Bag End. The package is from Frodo. I think the letter is from Rose.”

As they arrived in sight of the cottage, Pippin was gratified to hear Diamond exclaim “Oh, what a dear little house! It looks almost like a smial!”

Merry helped the lasses down from the trap, and Pippin followed more slowly, with the aid of his walking stick. They stood, Diamond gazing about and taking it all in. Estella, who had seen it before, also glanced around, and then giggling, gave Diamond a nudge. “Look,” she said.

A pretty little ginger cat had come out of the stable, waddling with the heavy dignity of advanced pregnancy. Behind her, a white tom approached cautiously. But as he neared her, she turned with a hiss, and smacked his face. With an offended yowl, he dashed across the garden and up the tall oak that grew near the gate, where he glared down, tail lashing.

Merry laughed, and Pippin shook his head. “For some reason Dumpling has not been too pleased with Haldir lately. She’s usually such a sweet-natured little cat.”

Indeed, she approached them now, with a little mewl of greeting, and began to weave in and out of Pippin’s legs, begging for attention. He bent over and put a hand out, which she butted affectionately, and then began to sandpaper Pippin’s hand.

Diamond bent over as well, stroking her, and giving her an experienced eye. “It looks as though she is due any day now.”

“He was an Elf we met on our travels. I have no idea why Pippin named him that.”

“Don’t you?” said Pippin, standing up and looking amused. “Our Haldir is not exactly the trusting sort, wouldn’t you say?”

Laughing, the four went up to the cottage. Merry unlocked the door and they went in. “It’s a bit stuffy,” he said, for they had been staying at the Hall for several days before the holiday. “I’ll go and open some windows.”

Pippin checked the larder, and when Merry returned, they soon had made a nice luncheon of soup, cheese and scones. The lasses were all set to help, but both Merry and Pippin were intent on impressing them with their skills as cooks, so instead they contented themselves with sitting at the table and offering humorous advice.

When they finished the meal, as they sat about the table, Merry turned his attention to the post. First he opened the package--it was a dozen taper candles, of fine beeswax, and scented with herbs. Merry opened the letter.

I am so sorry that I was unable to be with you for Yule. But here is a gift for you, and may it bring you much light and joy in the coming year.

Estella picked up one of the candles and smelled it, and then put it back down. “This is a wonderful gift,” she said.

Merry nodded. “It was sent from Bag End, and that’s not Frodo’s hand nor Sam’s.”

“Ah,” said Pippin. Both Frodo and Sam had excellent handwriting; they had both been taught by old Bilbo, after all. Rose’s hand was not so expert. Sam had begun to teach her after they became betrothed.

I know you was worrited about Mr. Frodo being on his own at Yule. I just wanted to tell you that he won’t be. Well, wasn’t as you won’t get this till after. Sam and me are staying here at Bag End, except just for dinner on first Yule. We’re taking the Gaffer to my folks for dinner, and we have finally persuaded Mr. Frodo to come with us, since we will not be staying over.

He didn’t want to, but I told him it would fret me to have him alone, and I wouldn’t go if he didn’t, and Sam said it wouldn’t be good for me to be fretted right now, what with expecting the little one and all, so Mr. Frodo finally give in.

I know how you both were sorry he wouldn’t come to Buckland, but really, I don’t think the trip would do him good right now.

P.S. Sam sends his love. He‘s right busy putting the greenery up around the hole, and said I should write, as I needed the practice.”

Merry and Pippin exchanged an amused glance. “Clever Rosie,” said Pippin. “She knew just how to get her way with our reluctant cousin. Perhaps we don’t need to worry so much.”

“Well,” Pippin said briskly. “Why don’t we show the lasses around?” For he really wanted to show their house off to Diamond.

They showed them the cozy little parlour, and the small study, and then the two guest rooms, and Pippin’s room--

They opened a door, and Pippin said “--and this is Merry’s room--” and stopped.

In the middle of Merry’s bed, looking inordinately pleased with herself, Dumpling lay, her sides heaving. She had already produced one kitten, which was mewling and nuzzling its mother’s side.

The hobbits watched quietly, as she produced, finally, four offspring. One was ginger, one was white with ginger markings, and two were white.

Pippin stroked the mother’s tired head, as the kittens began to nurse. “Well,” he said, “this one--” he pointed to the little ginger one, “is Toffee--" then he pointed to the white one which had a strawberry-shaped ginger mark on her forehead "and this one is Strawberry. But those two--” he pointed at the little white ones, “are Elladan and Elrohir.”

This was written for Auntiemeesh, who wanted Frodo and Sam talking about the Conspiracy...

“Yes, Mr. Frodo?” They stood at the window of Tom Bombadil’s house, and watched the rain together as it came down upon Goldberry’s garden.

“Why what, Mr. Frodo?” although Sam had more than a good idea of what he meant.

“Why did you agree to spy on me? I wouldn’t have thought it of you, you know.” Frodo’s voice was pensive, and a little disappointed.

“Well, you know, Mr. Frodo, when Mr. Merry asked me to help him, we didn’t know nothing about the Ring. But he was mortal afraid you’d go off and leave him, to find Mr. Bilbo.”

Frodo looked a bit startled. “That was in my mind a good deal last year, before the news of the Ring drove it out. And he would have been quite right--I would never have taken him or Pippin on a jaunt like that. I should not have agreed to take them now.” But with those Black Riders on the prowl, it seemed they might not have been safe even had they remained.

“Well, you know what that Elf, Mr. Gildor said, ‘take them as was willing’. I’m glad you did. And not just for you, but for them. Isn’t a one of us could have borne the Shire without you in it, sir.”

But he tried, and failed, to imagine his own life in the Shire without the presence of these three dearest of friends.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: Fatty and Folco are 15, the equivalent of 9 years old in Man-years. Estella is 10, or about 6 ½ in Man-years.

“Yes, Fredegar?” Rosamunda looked up from her embroidery, knowing what the question would be, as it was bound to be the same one he had asked only a quarter of an hour before.

His mother gave an impatient sigh. “Folco and his parents will be here before noon, or so his mother wrote.” She glanced to the corner of the room where Estella was busily trying to put a doll’s bonnet on her kitten, Topsy. Topsy was beginning to be impatient with the procedure, and Rosamunda didn’t wish to see Estella get scratched or bitten. “Why don’t you take your sister to the kitchen and have Cook give you some elevenses?” It was a little early for elevenses, truth be told, but it would put an end to Fatty’s impatient queries after his friend, and give the kitten a chance to get away.

Food is always an excellent distraction for young hobbits, and most especially for Fatty, whose nickname had begun as a mispronunciation by his baby sister, and then persisted when it became apparent that he would continue to be rounder than the average hobbit lad of his age.

The Boffins had been away for a month, visiting Daisy’s Aunt Dora in Bywater. They were returning now to the Yale, and to their home near Budgeford. Fatty had been moping about nearly the whole time, missing his friend, but Rosamunda had been glad of the break. One never knew when Folco was going to say something unfortunate. The child had his foot in his mouth so often that she wondered he could walk. Of course, it had helped a bit when his parents saw to his flute lessons. One had only to suggest to him that he play. It was very effective. Still, he couldn’t play the flute *all* the time, and it was exhausting having to stay alert all the time. She had no idea how poor Daisy managed.

And the lad was often given to bouts of unexpected generosity as well, also not always appropriate. It had been he who had given Estella the kitten, the last time he had been here to tea. It had been a singularly ugly and ill-favored little thing at the time, and Rosamunda was just grateful that it had improved its appearance markedly with regular meals, for of course one could not turn down a gift. She supposed she should be glad he had not come across one of the fabled oliphaunts instead of a stray cat.

Still, for all his faults, poor little Folco meant well. And it couldn’t be denied that he and Fatty were extremely devoted to one another.

In the kitchen, Fatty was devouring the toasted cheese and sweet cider that Cook had given to him and to Estella, as he regaled them with a list of all the fun that he and his friend would be having on Folco’s return.

“Mother has said we may go for a ramble, and take our tea along for a picnic this afternoon! We might take fishing poles with us!” He gave Cook and engaging smile. “If we catch lots of fish will you make them for our supper tonight?”

“Well, Master Freddy, if you are so lucky as to catch *lots*, I guess that I will. But don’t forget there’ll be company here tonight, so there must be enough for everyone, mind you!”

“No, Master Freddy, I’m making some jam tarts. And if you and young Master Folco are good lads, then I will give you some to take for your tea.”

She grinned. In truth, though Mistress Bolger was a very demanding mistress, it more than made up for it, to have such a lad about who appreciated her cooking as well as this one did. It made her quite blush at times to hear him praise her cooking to all and sundry.

“Why certainly Miss Estella! Here, you stand up in the chair, and you shall use the teacup to cut the rounds out. Master Freddy, would you like to put the jam in the middle?”

And so the time after elevenses passed pleasantly enough, until the sound of coach wheels could be heard, and Freddy darted from the kitchen.

He tore out the door to be there when Folco jumped out and the two friends spent several minutes in exuberant hugs and back-poundings. Then Fatty remembered his manners. “Hullo, Uncle Griffo and Aunt Daisy!” They were “aunt and uncle” by courtesy only, and the relationship was more distant than that. Daisy was Odovocar’s third cousin once removed through her paternal grandmother Ruby Bolger.

The parents exchanged more subdued greetings. Then Folco said “Hullo, Aunt Rosamunda! That’s a very purple dress you’re wearing! Have you been sick?”

Behind his wife, Odovocar placed his hand over his mouth to stifle a chuckle. She might forgive the child, but she’d never forgive him if he laughed.

Griffo rolled his eyes, and poor Daisy went beet red. If it had been anyone but Folco, Rosamunda would have been highly offended. As it was, she just sighed. “No, Folco, dear, my health is just fine. Why don’t you children go to the playroom until luncheon?”

The children went off, Estella carrying Topsy under the front legs, and showing Folco how much her kitten had grown.

Rosamunda gave a rueful laugh. “Well, I should have known this color would not flatter my complexion, for all that it is popular this season.” Now that she thought of it, her dressmaker had tried to discourage her from choosing this material. She should have listened.

The friends enjoyed a fine luncheon, unmarred by any tactless remarks due to the fact that Folco’s plate was kept full and his mouth occupied with the food.

Afterwards it was time for Estella’s nap, and Rosamunda encouraged the two lads to take their picnic and return in time for supper.

Cook made up a small basket, with some of the jam tarts, and a small stone bottle of cold milk, and some bread-and-butter sandwiches, and armed with a pair of fishing poles, the two lads headed off. They went north along the Scary road until they left the village, and then cut across country until they came to a small stream that flowed down from the Water. They wet their lines for a while, but there were no fish to speak of. Folco proposed going on to the Water, but Fatty did not wish to go there--he was a bit frightened of the Water. So they sat in the shade of a large willow tree, and Folco took out his little wooden flute. In the few years he had been taking lessons he had grown quite proficient, and it was a lovely pleasure to Fatty to close his eyes and listen to the music that his friend made. Folco started out with some familiar Shire airs, but soon he simply began to improvise, letting the music take him where it would.

So the two of them set to on the fine treats they had with them. “Why don’t we save the last two tarts for the walk home?” asked Folco. He was full.

Fatty looked at them with longing, but reluctantly agreed. “I suppose we should head back then, if we are to be in time for supper.”

They were cutting back across the meadows, when they heard the distinct sound of a young child crying. It sounded quite close by, and after casting about for a few minutes, they found the source.

It was a tiny little lass, barely a faunt, who sat alone, hot and dirty, and screaming at the top of her voice. Fatty was somewhat taken aback, Folco went over and picked her up.

“What’s the matter, little one?” he asked, bouncing her on his hip. “Are you lost?”

She sniffled mightily, and looked up at her young rescuer with huge brown eyes. “Lost,” she repeated.

Folco looked at Freddy. “She shouldn’t be out here by herself. What if a fox came along?”

Now the brown eyes went huge. “Fots?” she asked fearfully. “Where fots?” and started to scream again.

Fatty shook his head, and took her from Folco. “No, no, there’s no fox, really there’s not.” But she kept crying.

Folco reached into the basket and took out the jam tarts. “Here,” he said desperately, “don’t cry, baby. Here.”

The sight and smell of the treats dried up her tears instantly, and Fatty watched with a twinge of regret as she took one tart in each grubby little hand and began to devour them. They had been such good tarts, too.

“I guess she’s gone and lost herself,” said Folco. “Do you think we should try to find her family?” The way he said it made Fatty think his friend was hoping he’d say no, they could keep her, as though she were another stray kitten. He tried to imagine what his mother would say if they came home with a baby and Folco decided to give her to Estella for a gift.

“Yes,” said Fatty. “we do. Come on, then.” She had finished her tarts, and was enthusiastically licking her hands.

The two boys took turns carrying her, as they moved closer to the road, in the hopes of spotting the smial or cot where she might have lived.

Dimly, they could hear voices calling. They headed in that direction. Soon they could hear them more clearly.

Folco was carrying the child now, and she began to bounce excitedly in his arms. “Mummy! Da-da!”

“Oh, Blossom!” called the mother, as she raced over and snatched her child, covering her in kisses and hugs.

The father approached more quietly, but there was a look of relief on his face. “Oh, thank you, lads! Where did you find her?”

Fatty pointed back over the fields from which they had come, and the farmer shook his head in astonishment.

The mother began to cry, and now the father looked cross. “Her Gaffer was supposed to be watching her, but he fell asleep. She‘s only just learned to toddle, I don‘t know how she could have gone so far.”

Fatty shook his head. “My friend didn’t mean anything by it, sir. It was just surprising to us to find her like that.”

The farmer looked mollified then. “I guess it was,” he said. “I suppose my old dad’s getting past it, if he canna’ keep awake to watch his grandchild.”

The mother, who had been inspecting her little one from head to toe, and was trying to wipe her sticky face with the tail of her apron, said “What did you lads feed her?”

She smiled. “Well, I don’t suppose that I can replace the jam tarts, but I did make a seedcake this morning, if you’d like some, and maybe a cup of cold buttermilk?”

They followed them down to the road and around a bend, where a little thatched cot stood. An elderly hobbit was leaning on a stick in the doorway, looking anxious. His relief on seeing them was great.

The lads enjoyed their treat in the cozy farm kitchen, and then headed back to Budgeford and Brock Hall. They were very nearly late for supper, but their parents praised them when they told their tale.

As they went in to dine, Daisy noticed the relieved look on Rosamunda’s face. “What is it?” she asked her friend in amusement.

“I am just counting my good fortune that your son did not decide to give my daughter a stray baby this time.”

I knock on the door of my favorite cousin’s apartment, and he opens the door. “Bilbo! How good to see you!”

I enter, and Drogo looks at me with a grin, and that mixture of astonishment and exhaustion often found on the faces of new fathers, I have observed.

“Well, of course I should like to get a look at your excuse for missing my birthday last week,” I jest.

He leads me into the room where Primula rests with a blanket wrapped bundle in the crook of her arm. She smiles at me. “Have you come to have a look at our lad?” she says with that mixture of pride and shyness I have often heard in the voices of new mothers.

At my nod, Drogo bends over and picks up the bundle, which squirms a bit, and makes a mewling noise. Truth be told, I don’t expect much. Most week old babies look much of a sameness, all red and raw-looking, with squinty little faces, but it doesn’t do to say such things to the proud parents, and fortunately the children do grow out of it--most of them, at least.

He tucks the babe up in his arm, and carefully draws away the blanket. The little one is clad only in a nappy, and he is indeed rather red and new-looking. He has astonishingly thick dark curls on head and feet.

Drogo offers him to me, and I take him gently. He squirms a bit, and puts a tiny fist to his mouth like any other newborn.

“Very good, Bilbo.” Bungo cast his eye over the essay in his hand with approval. “Excellent work, and very neatly done as well. You may be finished for the day, son.”

“May I wait for Siggy?” He glanced with longing at his cousin Sigismond, still struggling with quill and ink.

“I think not. I am afraid Sigismond will be a while yet. Perhaps you might go out in the garden, or see if your mother needs any help in the kitchen.”

“Yes, sir,” Bilbo said dejectedly. He tried and failed to catch Siggy’s eye, as he left the room.

He had looked forward so much to this visit from his cousin. They were fast friends, and almost the same age. When Uncle Hildibrand had suggested that Sigismond could benefit from some extra tutoring from his Baggins uncle, and had arranged for Sigismond to spend the fall at Bag End, both lads had been ecstatic. A whole season in one another’s company! Siggy was to stay from the beginning of Halimath to the end of Blotmath!

However, their joy soon turned to dejection, for Bungo soon began to realize why Hildibrand had wanted the extra tutoring. Bilbo was an excellent student, and often basked in his father’s praise. Siggy, however, was an indifferent pupil, and was woefully behind in his studies. The result was that as the two lads worked under Bungo’s watchful eye, Bilbo would quickly finish his assigned work. But Sigismond would still be struggling on. And now, after a few weeks of this, it was beginning to strain the lads’ friendship.

Bilbo’s face flamed, as he recalled the day before. In an effort to mend matters with his cousin, he had deliberately made a mess of his work, spelling words wrong, blotting the ink, and putting down answers that were blatantly incorrect. He hoped that he would then have to work longer alongside his cousin.

But the plan had not worked at all the way he expected. When he handed the flawed work to his father, Bungo had simply stared at him, a knowing expression in his eyes. “I would not have thought this of you, son,” he had said, his tone of sad disappointment more cutting than any angry shouting might have been. He had simply thrown the offending work away, and said, “We’ll have no more of this.”

What was worse was that Siggy had been angry at him, and accused Bilbo of mocking him.

But Siggy had turned away, and refused to talk to him the rest of the evening. And though he was speaking to him today, it was in a cold and polite tone, not like they were best friends at all. In fact, Bilbo thought Siggy might be in a fair way to hating him.

And it wasn’t fair at all. It’s not like Siggy wasn’t much better than Bilbo at a lot of things: he could run faster, climb higher, was ever so much better at games, and in thinking up pranks, and it never made Bilbo mad at him. In fact he admired his cousin immensely, and was proud to be his friend.

He sat dejectedly upon the front doorstep, and before he knew it, a great tear was trickling down his face. Angrily he rubbed it away, and gave a mighty sniff. It was going to be a mighty long fall, sharing a smial with someone who loathed him.

His birthday was in only a few days, and he’d eagerly planned the gifts he was going to give. But now, it all seem flat and uninteresting, and he didn’t care if he had a birthday or not.

“Yes, sir,” he said, unenthusiastically. He supposed his father was going to berate him. He certainly deserved it, the way he’d been acting. Slowly he stood up, and they walked down the path.

“I’ve had a word with Sigismond,” said Bungo. “I think he understands now that you were simply trying to help yesterday, and not making fun of him. It was not a very wise way to try to help, however.”

“I think, however, that you *can* be of help to your cousin. Part of the reason he does not do as well as you in his lessons is that his cousin Isembard has so many students. Sigismond shares his time with at least four other cousins. You however, are my only student, or were my only student. And I hate to say this, but I do not believe that Isembard is very patient or demanding of excellence. He has tolerated sloppy work, and now Sigismond suffers from that.”

Bilbo nodded. “I told Siggy he’s just as smart as I am--maybe smarter--but I don’t think he believes me.”

Bungo smiled. “I daresay he is intelligent enough. I am thinking that I have been going about things wrong. I am not used to having two students at a time. So I am going to have you help me with him. I will give him an assignment tomorrow--*your* assignment will be to help him with his. Do not do it for him, but help him with any corrections he needs to make, and show him some of the ways you have of keeping your work organized and neat.” He looked at his son sternly. “It’s not to be a playtime--you will work, understand?”

Bilbo nodded solemnly. Anything to help Siggy, and to heal this breach between them.

For the next few days, the lessons were alternated. One day of regular lessons, with both the lads taking instruction from Bungo, and the next day they would collaborate. Siggy’s work was improving greatly in appearance, and there was some gradual improvement in content as well.

Now that Sigismond was seeing improvement himself, he was more tolerant of Bilbo’s being better at lessons. And now that he had his cousin’s help, the two lads had time for the things they had hoped to do during the visit: climbing trees, going for rambles, wading in the Water, fishing and other such pursuits.

The day before his birthday, Bungo let Bilbo off from his lessons, and spent the day working with Siggy on his own. Belladonna and Bilbo were spending the day going through the mathom rooms to find birthday gifts.

“Mama,” he said, “when I am grown, I think I will buy people new presents on my birthday!” He said this as he cast a jaundiced eye on a scarf of a rather sad shade of yellow and brown.

Belladonna laughed. “Well, when you are grown you may do so if it pleases you, although you may find the practice a bit wearing on your purse.”

Bilbo picked up a bronze paperweight in the shape of a mushroom. “Do you think Uncle Rudigar will like that?”

Belladonna suppressed a smile. “I am quite sure he will; you know how fond he is of mushrooms.” And, she thought, it should be to his taste, as it was a wedding gift from him. The idea of giving it back to him tickled her fancy. “What about something for your cousin, little Otho?”

His mother laughed. “I know he’s a bit of a brat, Bilbo, but he *is* your cousin.”

Bilbo picked up the rejected scarf. “Here, then.” He looked about. “I want to find that draughts set for Siggy--” He began to rummage in a corner, and then stopped. “Or maybe he would like this better now,” he said.

“Well,” said Bilbo seriously, “he mightn’t a few days ago, but I think he would now.”

The next evening, Bilbo passed out the gifts as the party guests arrived, mostly Baggins relations. Tookland and Buckland were a bit far to travel for a mere child’s birthday. But Siggy, of course, was there. He hung back until the other gifts had been given.

“Here, Siggy.” Bilbo was a bit anxious. It had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now it came to it, would Siggy really like it? It was really more of a grown-up present.

Siggy opened the package curiously, and then his face took on a look of pleased astonishment. “Oh Bilbo! This is splendid!”

Bilbo was surprised to see tears standing in his cousin’s eyes. “Do you really like it then?”

Siggy looked at the nicely carved deskset, with its porcelain inkwell, a penholder, and little cubbyholes for holding letters. “You really do think I’m smart and can do well in lessons!”

“I’ll use it right away!” said Siggy. He grinned. “And the first thing I’ll use it for is to write a thank you note to you!”
____________________________________

Between Bilbo’s encouragement, and Bungo’s patient teaching, Siggy’s lessons showed a remarkable improvement, and when his parents arrived at the end of Blotmath to pick him up, he was sorry to go. For years he used the deskset to keep up a lively correspondence with his favorite cousin, and later to correct the lessons of his own young students.

AUTHOR: Dreamflower
RATING: G
CATEGORY: General
SUMMARY: A bit of reminiscing about the night the Black Riders came to Crickhollow…
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This was written for Marigold's Challenge #22; I had to answer two questions--How did Fredegar feel when he ran from Crickhollow to warn of the Black Riders? and How did Esmeralda feel when she learned that Merry and the others had left the Shire?
DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

Odovocar sat back in his comfortable chair by the hearth and surveyed his remaining guests. Estella’s and Merry’s betrothal party had been a stunning social success, and as soon as all the regular guests had left, Rosamunda had pled fatigue and a headache, and taken herself to bed.

He spared a smile for the happy couple. Merry sat in a large chair with Estella perched on his right knee, his arm firmly around her as she rested her head on his broad shoulders. His cousin Pippin sat on the floor, leaning his head against Merry’s left knee, and looking a bit pensive. Odovocar thought he was probably missing his own lass. Diamond had left early, with her mistress, Lavender Bunce, to attend a childbirth in Whitfurrows, and Pippin clearly wished she had not. But such absences were only to be expected, if he had formed an attachment to an apprentice healer.

He glanced at the settee, where his son Freddy sat, Angelica Baggins leaning into his side, and his arm about her shoulders. There soon would be another betrothal party, and a wedding shortly after. Freddy had made it clear that after a year’s absence, he would not welcome a waste of time in making the fair Angelica the new Mrs. Fredegar Bolger. He was very proud of all Freddy had accomplished in his journey to Rohan and Gondor. A friendship with the Kings in the South would not be a bad thing for his future at all.

At the other end of the settee, Saradoc Brandybuck and his wife Esmeralda had made themselves cozy, sitting close, their hands entwined like newlyweds, instead of the parents of a son who was nearing forty. He could not imagine being so demonstrative in front of others with Rosamunda. She was a wonderful wife to him, but she had a very firm belief in the importance of appearances.

The last guest in the room was Frodo Baggins, who sat across from him in another armchair. Odovocar cast him a brief worried look. Frodo did not look well. He was too thin, and there were dark smudges beneath the blue eyes, and he was far too pale for health. Odovocar suspected that if this party had been for anyone save his beloved cousin Merry, Frodo would most certainly not have attended. He had come with his friends the Gamgees, but they were not staying at Brock Hall. Mistress Rose had a cousin at the other end of town, whom they were visiting as well.

Freddy had been regaling the small group with details of his visit to the South, and his time in Minas Tirith, and Merry and Pippin were quizzing him from time to time about certain of their friends and acquaintances there.

“I wish,” said Pippin, “that they had been able to stay awhile, and come into the Shire. And I wish that Bergil had come back.” He gave a deep sigh.

Freddy shook his head. “King Elessar made it clear that he wished them to begin abiding by the edict. It is only another six years until the decision is made whether or not to make the ban permanent. He said that he has given us Shirefolk the right to make the decision as to when an exception may be made, but he hoped that we would save such exceptions for emergencies, or for truly special occasions. That was one reason all three of the Shire worthies must agree.” Pippin still looked a bit doubtful, and Freddy added, “As to Bergil, he’d already been away from his father for months. He was ready to stay home for a while.”

“I was hoping,” said Merry, “that Legolas and Gimli would return with you.”

“They accompanied us as far as Rivendell, and then they decided to return to their own lands again for a while. Rivendell is so different than I had envisioned it. But I was pleased to see Cousin Bilbo again.”
Frodo looked up sharply. “How is Bilbo?”

“He is feeling his age. He has days when he does nothing but sleep, and days when his mind seems to wander--one day he took me for my father, and seemed to forget that he was no longer in the Shire. But he also had some good days, and we talked a bit then. He wanted to know how all of you were doing, of course. He seemed rather pleased that I was planning to speak for Angelica here,” and he gave her shoulders a squeeze, “when I returned home. He said ‘I take it she overcame her silly tween vanity, then?’ and gave me a little mathom for a wedding gift.” At Angelica’s inquiring smile, he shook his head. “And no, I am not going to tell you what it is, except it’s *not* a mirror.” He laughed as she blushed beet red.

“And is there yet any sign of an impending heir to the throne?” asked Frodo hopefully.

Freddy chuckled. “No, not at the time we were there. I don’t believe that the King and Queen are in a hurry to start their family. They seem to be enjoying one another’s company a good deal.”

He fell silent a moment, and then said “He is most concerned about all of you. I know that he misses you a lot. I wonder sometimes if it had not been better if I had been brave enough to come with you all after all.”

Odovocar sat forward. It was rare for Fredegar to speak of the role he had played in the Travellers leaving the Shire.

Merry shook his head. “None of that, Freddy. You know that what you did do was every bit as brave. And if you had not stayed, there would have been no one to challenge Lotho’s depredations.”

“Yet I could have stayed at Crickhollow, perhaps deceived those Black Riders as to where all of you had gone…”

Pippin leaned forward, looking very serious. “No. There is no way you could have faced up to them. They would have killed you.”

Frodo nodded. He was very pale, and Merry turned to look at him in concern. “Freddy, it would have been useless. As long as I bore the Ring, I drew them after me like a lodestone. Pippin is quite right. It would have been the death of you.” He blinked and swallowed, and rubbed his shoulder, as he leaned back once more, seemingly exhausted by his speech.

Frodo nodded, and then said, “I am very proud of you for all that you did do, Freddy.”

Freddy sighed. “I was so sure that everything was working out well. No one had really come to challenge your still being at Crickhollow. I had begun to relax, was working on learning Sindarin from that book you left me, and enjoying the peace and quiet. My only worry was that Gandalf still had not arrived. And then, as evening drew in and I began to close the windows against the damp and prepare to lock the door, I saw them--dark shapes in the garden. I remembered your description, and knew who they must be. I was terrified. For a few seconds I couldn’t even think. Then I remembered the back door. I crept out, and as soon as I was outside, I raced like the wind towards the Boffin’s cottage. I couldn’t help it, I seemed to get more frightened the further I went…

…tearing through the garden, through the fields, lungs burning, heart pounding, soon a terrible cramp in his side, yet he kept going until the lights of the cottage greeted his eyes. He fell against the door, pounding with both fists, calling out “Help! Help!” And then suddenly the door had opened, and he had fallen forward collapsing onto the mat. “No, no, no! Not me! I haven’t got it!” * He felt himself lifted up, a cup of water being brought to him by the wife. He drank it down gratefully, and at last, with a bit more coherence was able to make them understand that Merry Brandybuck and companions had gone in the Old Forest, and that there were strange menacing creatures come after them to Crickhollow…

Mr. Boffin sent his son to ride to the Hall, and soon we heard the Horn-call--‘FEAR! FIRE! FOES! AWAKE! AWAKE!’* I am afraid I rather collapsed after that, for the next thing I recall was being awakened as I lay in a strange bed by Berilac, who was informing me that the Master wished to see me at the Hall.” Freddy stared off as if into some far distant time or place. Angelica had taken one of his hands, and was squeezing it so hard both their knuckles had turned white.

Merry, Pippin and Frodo all looked at him with understanding, nodding. It was clear this was his first time to really relate what had happened that awful night since the event first occurred.

There was a brief silence, and then Saradoc nodded. “Yes, the evening before, I had found your note, Merry. You had concealed it rather cleverly, but the ledger book was not quite as I had left it. I was extremely disturbed by what it had to say. I sat there for a good long time, trying to think what to do, and had very nearly made up my mind to ride to Crickhollow myself, in spite of the late hour, to see just what *had* happened. And then young Boffin came rushing into the Hall with his bit of news: there was an invasion from the Old Forest. I sent Merimac out at once to blow the Horn-call and rouse Buckland, but the invaders left as quickly as they had come.”

Esmeralda reached a hand up, and tucked a stray curl behind her husband’s ear. “I know I’ve not been so frightened in a long time. You came up to tell me that it looked like Merry, Frodo, Pippin and Samwise Gamgee had slipped away out of the Shire. He showed me the note, and when I saw the part that said Frodo was ‘in peril of his life’, I thought the breath had been knocked right out of me…

…that night had been a sleepless one for Esmeralda. Saradoc had gone back down to his study, to speak to his brother, and get a report of the evening’s happenings. She had gone to bed, tossing and turning, and wondering what kind of peril Frodo might have been in, and thinking back to little signs of nervousness and distress she had noticed in Merry over the last few days she had seen him. How could she have missed it? Why had Frodo not confided in Saradoc? He must know that they would have protected him from any threat. What kind of enemy must he have? Lotho came to her mind instantly, and she found herself realizing that she should have known something was wrong when Frodo had sold Bag End to the S.-B.s of all people…

After hours of tossing and turning, she had finally drifted off into a restless doze at about the time dawn came through the window…

“Well, we learned much later,” said Saradoc, “more of the state of things, though I do not think any of us guessed the true nature of the Black Riders. Still, I do not think any of us in Buckland ever believed the rumor in the rest of the Shire that they were hired ruffians sent by Lotho. It was clear that whatever those creatures were, they were far beyond the likes of Lotho Pimple to deal with.”

Odovocar glanced over at Merry, who was not looking much happier than Frodo at this point. Estella had taken his right hand in both of hers, and was chaffing it, as though it were cold. Pippin had reached up, put a hand on his cousin’s other arm, and said, “Well, I’m glad to hear a bit of what happened that night. We had a bit of a fright ourselves what would have been that same evening, if I’m remembering aright. But the main thing is that we all came through it and out the other side. And you are a stout fellow, Freddy, and a good friend and Conspirator.”

“Indeed,” said Frodo, and if the cheer in his voice sounded a bit ragged and forced everyone feigned not to notice, “and now you have made the journey, and have met our King, and we are most pleased to have you home again, safely in the Shire.”

Merry, whose color had returned, gave a fond look to the lass on his knee. “And I for one, am most heartily glad you came back when you did.” He looked at Estella mischievously. “Do you still want to wait until Yule, or shall we have the wedding tomorrow and surprise your mother?”

And at this sally, everyone laughed heartily, and the conversation turned to weddings.

But Odovocar could not help but notice that Frodo Baggins' own laughter had rung just a bit hollow.

Pippin tiredly entered the tent he still shared with the other three hobbits. It was only his second day of having duty since his awakening, and though Aragorn had him sitting on a small stool as he awaited his various orders, which were yet few, he still was very weary.

A single lantern lit the area. Legolas was seated on the floor, talking to Frodo and Sam, who sat upon Frodo's cot.

“Ah, Pippin!” said the Elf, as he rose gracefully, “it must be later than I thought! I shall take my leave, and allow you all to rest.” He gave Pippin a companionable pat on the shoulder as he ducked out.

Pippin placed his helm on a small table, next to Merry’s. “Where’s Merry? He didn’t have any duties this evening.”

“One of them Riders as he is friends with was having a birthday,” put in Sam.

Frodo nodded, but a worried crease appeared in his brow. “He said he would not stay long, as you could not be with him, Pippin. But he’s been gone longer than I would have expected already.”

Pippin bit his lip. As tired as he was, he didn’t think he could rest without being sure Merry was all right. And Frodo had begun to look alarmed. Frodo didn’t need any more to worry about. He sighed. “Merry wouldn’t get drunk without me--not on purpose anyway, but you know how Men can be. I’d better go check on him.” He sighed. All he really had wanted to do was go to bed.

Yet just as he was starting to turn and go out of the tent, a tall figure ducked in. It was the young King of Rohan, Éomer, and carefully carried over one shoulder was the slumbering form of his cousin.

Pippin’s jaw dropped, and he started to say something angrily, but the King shook his head, and said softly “No, Pippin, he’s not the worse for drink--he had only one ale, in the goblet Master Gimli made him. He simply fell asleep by the fire. I thought he would slumber more soundly with the rest of you, so I brought him back.” He walked over, and laid Merry gently on his own cot. Merry stirred slightly, but did not wake. Pippin walked over to the cot and drew the blanket up over him. Fortunately his cousin was not wearing his armor, but some of the clothing that had been sent for them from the City.

Frodo stood, and gave a small bow. “Thank you, Lord Éomer, for bringing him back to us.”

The King smiled. “You are most welcome, Frodo Baggins.” He cast a look back at the slumbering form of his small esquire. “He has had many days of weary waiting, and much lost sleep to make up for.” With a final gracious nod, he left the tent.

Pippin stood by his sleeping cousin, his hand on Merry’s head, brushing back the sandy curls. Frodo and Sam walked over, and Frodo lay his left hand on Merry’s shoulder, to reassure himself all was well.

“Poor Mr. Merry,” said Sam. “I wish we had not given him so much grief.”

“I know,” said Frodo, “he nearly worried himself sick, from what I was able to get out of Aragorn.”

“Just think, Frodo. What would have been the only reason he would *not* have worried about us?”

“Oh!” Frodo gasped. “I see what you mean!” Tears sprang to his eyes, and the hand on Merry’s arm clutched slightly.

Sam looked puzzled. “I’m afraid I don’t get your meaning at all, Mr. Pippin.”

Pippin looked at Sam earnestly. “Sam, hurt as we all were, there would be only one reason he wouldn’t have worried--that’s if he’d been there at the Black Gate with me, and badly hurt--or killed--himself.”

Sam looked shocked at the thought of it. “You have the right of it, Mr. Pippin! Put it that way, I’m thankful as well.”

Merry’s face was pale, his grey eyes haunted. “So, you’re going with them, aren’t you?”

Pippin swallowed, and nodded. He had come to tell Merry just that, as soon as he had heard himself. “For Frodo. It’s all that’s left for us to do for him.”

Merry nodded as well. “I know. I wish you could stay, or that I could go. I don’t even have a sword anymore, Pip.” His voice was not much more than a whisper, and his eyes filled, though he blinked the tears away.

“My poor Merry.” Pippin put his hand on Merry’s brow. “It’s dreadful no matter how you look at it. I know you were up for a bit this morning, but you need to get some rest now.” He stood back, and blinked away his own tears. “I have to go see to a few things, some preparations the Third Company is making. But I will get leave to come back, and I’ll spend as much time as I can with you before--” he stopped. If he finished the sentence no amount of blinking would keep his tears from flowing. He gave Merry a pat on the hand, and a kiss on top of his head, and left.

Merry nodded, and lay back against the overlarge pillows of the bed. Strider had said he could get up this day, but he had found just wandering around the Houses of Healing depressing, and he was already tired out from his brief excursion. And now, Pippin’s news, of the decision made by the Captains of the West, to march on Mordor and distract Sauron from the Ringbearer--Frodo, dearest Frodo! And as always, the thoughts of all their beloved cousin and their friend Sam might be enduring plunged Merry into deepest sorrow.

Pippin stood by the door to Merry’s room, leaning against the wall, and trying to collect himself. He glanced up, and saw the tall form of the new King of Rohan, Éomer, exiting the next room and walk down the hallway ahead of him. That must mean that was the room of the Lady Éowyn, his sister. And *that* reminded Pippin of one more thing he needed to do before he left the Houses of Healing.

Blessing his extra inches from the Ent-draught, Pippin reached up to open the door and enter.

“I do not wish--oh, I’m sorry!” said Éowyn, “I thought you were one of the healers with another draught. But you are another holbytlan. You must be Merry’s cousin, of whom I have heard so much.” She attempted a polite smile, but Pippin could tell she had been weeping, from her red nose and eyes. She was very white against her pillows, with her left arm in a sling.

He gave a bow. “Peregrin Took, at your service and your family’s, Lady Éowyn.”

He grinned. “No, my lady, I expect if he’s not calling me a ‘nuisance’ or a ‘tom-fool Took’ he’s probably calling me ‘Pippin’ or even ‘Pip’.”

Her smile finally reached her eyes, and she gave a little laugh. “Yes, I do believe that is what I have heard him call you: Pippin. He is very fond of you.”

Pippin nodded, and his face became solemn. “And I of him. That it why I wished to speak to you. I wanted to thank you, for bringing him with you.”

“It seemed only right, for I could tell how it cut him to the quick to be left behind. He did not mean to be left, and yet by himself, he should never have arrived on time. It was not fair that they leave him.”

She nodded. Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli had meant well when they left Merry in the keeping of her uncle as they travelled the Path of the Dead. And her uncle had meant well when he told her and Merry to stay behind.

“But ‘meaning well’ is not always right,” she said. “And there it is; I would not be left, nor would he. It seemed only right that we travel together.”

Pippin approached her. “You will always have my everlasting gratitude. I do not know what would have happened if the two of you had not come, but I cannot think it would have ended so well as it did.”

A cloud passed over her face. “It was a victory of sorts, but I would not say it ended well.”

Pippin nodded sadly. He knew that Merry grieved for her uncle as well. “He was so kind, Pippin, and he listened, and he cared what I had to say. He reminded me of Da.”

“My lady, I owe you so much already, yet if I could I would ask one more thing of you?”

“Will--will you look after my Merry for me? I hate that I must leave him, all alone and friendless here. This great pile of stone--it’s--it’s not easy for hobbits.”

“I will. I would anyway, for he is not friendless--he’s my dear friend and sword-brother.” And though she looked very solemn and did not smile, there was kindness in her eyes.

“Thank you,” Pippin tried for dignity, but it was a lost cause. He went to her side, and gave her good arm a brief squeeze. “Oh, thank you so much! You’ve no idea what it means to me!”

She looked a bit startled at the quick embrace, but now she smiled. “I will look after him for you, I promise.”

He stepped back, and taking a deep breath, drew himself up. “Well, I thank you again, twice over. And now I must go. Farewell, my lady! Perhaps things may turn out well after all, and if they do, I will see you again.”

He turned and went out, back straight and proud, a small soldier of Gondor, and she gazed after him with glistening eyes.

Frodo tells young Merry and Berilac a story...
(Written for Marigold's Challenge #23)
AUTHOR: Dreamflower

RATING: G
CATEGORY: General
SUMMARY: Frodo tells young Merry and Berilac a story.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: (1) My story starter was: “_______ looked around_______. This was getting them nowhere.” I had to include a spyglass, a pair of slippers, a flood and a party, and Berilac Brandybuck.
(2) In this story, Frodo is 23, Berilac is about to turn 11, and Merry is 9. (14 ½,7 and 6 in Man-years.)
DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

Beri snatched his hand away quickly, and turned to see Cousin Frodo standing in the door to Grandda’s study. He blushed. “What are you doing? You know Uncle Rory would not be best pleased to see you messing about with his spyglass.”

“I was just waiting for him. Mum said I had to ask his permission to go in the mathom rooms--she said I’m still too little to go by myself.”

“Well, I’m glad Merry saw you coming in here. Uncle Rory’s gone to see if any of the fields between here and Standelf are flooded from last night’s rain.” Frodo saw the child’s face fall. “Perhaps we can catch Uncle Sara before he gets too busy; he has to go to Bucklebury to see the blacksmith. But he can give you permission, and then Merry and I can come with you.”

Frodo smiled. “Well, it’s good to see everyone again. I’m sorry you couldn’t come to my birthday in Hobbiton last week, but I am glad that I could be here for your birthday.”

Frodo led the lad out of the tempting room that was the Master’s study. As he knew only too well, there were a good many interesting things in there that were hard for a young lad to keep his hands off.

Merry was waiting just by the door, and the three of them hurried back up to see if they could catch Saradoc.

The Son of the Hall had a good many duties to attend to that day, but he gladly gave Frodo permission to escort Beri and Merry down to some of the storage rooms, so that Beri could pick out some mathoms as gifts for his upcoming birthday party.

Most of the items they came across in the first room were simply unsuitable for a child to give as gifts. They were mostly large items of furniture that were going unused. There were beds and chairs and tables and shelves and chests and a great stack of unused copper bathtubs.

Frodo looked around the room, and a sad look came over his face. This was getting them nowhere. He stood for a moment running his hand over a nicely carved rocking chair, before he cleared his throat, and said huskily, “I don’t think we will find anything in this room, Beri. Let’s try another.” He gave a final pat to the chair, and then found Merry clinging to his side, hugging him. His arm went around his little cousin automatically, and they left the room behind.

The next room was more likely. It was filled with a jumble of all sorts of interesting things, and Frodo watched amused, as his two little cousins began to rummage.

“Merry! Do you think your mother will like this?” Berilac held up a small blue bowl with daisies painted around the rim.

Merry looked at it very carefully, before finally saying, “Yes, Beri. I think she’d like it very much.”

The bowl was put aside with several other items that had been selected, and the two younger lads continued their search.

“Frodo!” Merry called sharply. “What is this?” He held up an item that Frodo had never seen before, yet in a way it looked somewhat familiar--as if he had heard it described before.

The lads brought them to Frodo, who took them gingerly. He inspected them carefully. Although soiled, it was clear they had once been white. They appeared to have been made out of leather, and were a little over half the length of his forearm, roughly oval in shape, flat on the bottom, hollow. He looked at them, trying to tease out the memory in the back of his mind. He put them on the floor, side by side, and stood back. What *were* they? It was on the tip of his tongue--

“Slippers!” he said, as he suddenly remembered some of Bilbo’s stories. “Those are slippers!”

Both the lads nodded, and Beri said “Sometimes our fathers put them on their feet if the fields are flooded or muddy.”

Merry shook his head. Berilac squinted in thought. “Are they like boots? Big Folk put them on their feet?”

Frodo smiled and nodded. “That’s right. ‘Shoes’ are the leather things Big Folk wear on their feet, because their feet are soft, and they don’t have nice curly hair on them, to keep them warm. So they wear ‘shoes’ and ‘boots’ for protection. ‘Slippers’ are the kinds of things the ladies wear on their feet. I’m very certain that those are slippers belonging to a lady of the Big Folk, though how they might have come to be here I’ve no idea.”

The younger lads bent down and inspected them carefully. “They must be terribly uncomfortable,” said Merry.
“I don’t know, sprout. I would think that they would get used to them, as they wear them all the time. Uncle Bilbo told me a story once, and slippers were rather important in it.”

Merry and Berilac exchanged a delighted grin, and then turned their eyes on Frodo with ill-disguised pleading. Frodo laughed. “Well, I can see now we shan’t finish until you’ve heard the story.” He pulled a box over, and sat down upon it, and his two little cousins plumped themselves down at his feet. Frodo’s stories were always a delightful treat.

“Long ago, in the Wide World, where Men and Elves dwell, there was a woodcutter and his wife who dwelt together in their cottage in the forest. They lived far from other Men, and seldom saw any other people save once a year, when the woodcutter would drive his sledge to the nearest village to sell his wood, and buy those few things they could not grow for themselves. They were happy enough together, except for one thing--they had no child.

One night, as they lay asleep, they were wakened by a great commotion in the forest beyond. They heard a clamor of voices, and the sound of hooves, and the clashing of metal. The sounds grew closer, and the two of them huddled together in fear of what it meant, but then the sounds began to fade away, lost in the distance. They lay awake for a while, but as they heard nothing else, they soon went back to sleep.

The next morning, they rose, and the wife kissed her husband good-bye as he went off into the forest to cut wood, and she turned to her duties of tending their little garden, and feeding their chickens and their goat, and sweeping their little cottage.

The woodsman went into the forest, to see which trees he would cut that day. He was a careful forester, taking only the trees which needed to be cut, so that other trees could grow straight and tall. He had not gone far, when he heard a sound. This was a small sound, a whimpering sound. He wondered if perhaps there was some animal, hurt and alone.

So he followed the sound, and lo and behold! he found a large basket. It was tucked away near the bole of a large tree, and hidden by ferns. Inside the basket was a baby. The baby was dressed in a finely woven and stitched gown, and wrapped in a blanket knitted of the finest wool. And tucked down beside the child was a pair of beautiful green slippers.

Well, the woodcutter was amazed to see this, but of course he was worried for the babe, so he took the basket up, and returned home to his wife.

Of course, they felt this was the answer to their heart’s desire. They discovered the babe was a lass, and they named her ‘Fern’ as they had found her hidden behind the ferns. They took her in, and raised her with love as their own darling daughter. But they never told her where she had truly come from. The woodcutter never took her into the village, and she never saw anyone but her parents there deep in the forest.

Now what the forester and his wife never knew was this: the king of their land was the enemy of the king of another land. One night, after their king had given a great party, his wife the queen had gone into the nursery to check on her children. Her son, the little prince, was asleep, but the little princess, who was only a tiny baby, was restless. So the queen took the baby up. She took off her slippers and lay down next to the babe until the little one fell asleep. Then she slipped away to her own room, forgetting her slippers there among the child’s blankets.

Now a short while later the nurserymaid came in. What no one knew was that she was secretly in the pay of the enemy king. She gathered up the little princess, blankets and all, and put her in a basket and spirited her away.

She met some soldiers in the pay of the enemy at the gates of the castle, and they rode away together. For the enemy thought that if he had taken the king’s child, he could make her father do as he wished.

But a guard witnessed the deed, and blew the alarm. Soon the party from the enemy land found themselves pursued by the king and many of his soldiers. They had ridden through the forest.

Finding pursuit so swift behind, the treacherous maid hid the basket and the child, meaning to come back for her later. But all of them were caught as they left the forest.

Hoping to purchase her freedom with news of the child’s whereabouts, the maid kept her silence until the king agreed. But a few days later, when she led them to the place where the princess had been hidden, there was no sign of her to be seen. Furious, the king had the maid flung into a dungeon, and he went home to his queen and his son, where they mourned the loss of their little princess.

Many years later, when Fern was very nearly a grown maiden, she was helping her mother do the spring cleaning. She came across the blanket, the baby dress and the green slippers. Since she had never before seen them, she asked her mother about it, and her mother wept and admitted the truth--that they had found her in the woods.

Fern was very confused about this, but she forgave her mother and father for keeping the truth from her.
“For if my real parents had left me there alone, I surely would have died, and so they must not have loved me as you have done.” For of course, none of them had any idea of the truth.

But Fern was very taken with the beautiful green slippers, and as they fitted her, she began to wear them.
One day her father went out into the forest and forgot the luncheon his wife packed for him to take, and so Fern took the bundle of food out into the woods and gave it to her father. On the way back, she heard noises as of many Men riding, and so she hid behind a tree.

Peeking out from behind its trunk, she saw a party of Men on horses. They paused briefly, and then there was the sound of a horn being blown. This frightened her so that she began to run. She ran through the trees to her home, never realizing just when she lost one of the green slippers in her flight.

Now over the years, many things had happened in the kingdom beyond the forest. The cruel king who had ordered the princess kidnapped had died, and his brother who was king after him was much kinder. He made peace with the father of the princess, and his son had become her brother’s good friend.

And so it was that a hunting party, made up of the two princes had come into the forest.

“I could have sworn it was a beautiful maiden!” said the other prince, who was called Prince Gallant.

The two princes dismounted and walked over to the place where they had spotted Fern, and began to look about.

But Prince Noble went pale. “That was my mother’s slipper, that went missing the night my sister was stolen! What could this mean?”

The two princes and their hunting party began to search the forest, and they came across the woodcutter in his work.

“Master Woodcutter,” asked Prince Gallant, “have you seen a maiden in the forest? She lost a slipper, and we would return it to her.”

Now the woodcutter felt dread at their words, for he feared that if anyone found out about her, he would lose his daughter. So he lied. “No, my lords, I do not know of any maiden in the forest.”

So the hunting party searched the rest of the day, and then puzzled and discouraged, returned to the castle.

The two princes told the king and queen of what they had found. When Prince Gallant pulled out the slipper to show it to them, the queen swooned, and the king declared “Why, our daughter must be alive!”

The king proclaimed a great reward for the finding of his daughter. Proclamations were sent throughout the land.

The day came that the woodcutter went to the village to sell his wood, and to buy the things his little family would need for the winter. There he found the villagers all abuzz with the news of the proclamation. He returned home with a heavy heart; now he knew the truth of who his daughter was--not abandoned by her family, but stolen from them in malice.

That night, the woodcutter stayed up to speak to his wife after their daughter had gone to bed. He told her of what he had discovered.

“But husband! How can we bear to lose her? I love her so! And there is this--if the king learns we have kept her all these years, perhaps he will punish us!”

And so the woodcutter listened to his wife’s fears, and kept silent. They did not know their daughter was still awake and had heard their conversation.

Early, before dawn broke, Fern arose, and dressed herself. She put the other slipper in her pocket, and made her way through the forest. She had spent much time with her father, and was canny in the ways of the wood, so she had not much trouble in finding her way to the village.

When she arrived, she was amazed to find a great crowd of young maidens gathered in the village square. She was suddenly shy of so very many people--never had she seen this many people at one time in her life, and she was far too tongue-tied to say anything or ask any of the many questions she had. But she found herself, nevertheless, being hustled into the square with the other maidens.

And then a great coach drove up. A herald in splendid clothes stepped out and read a proclamation: all the maidens would be given an opportunity to try on the slipper found in the forest. The true princess would be she whom the slipper fit.

The maidens were all made to stand in a long line. Shy as she was, Fern managed to get at the very end of the line.

Many of the maidens could *almost* wear the slipper, but not one did it fit exactly. Some of them were very cross indeed when they could not put it on. As the line grew shorter and shorter, the two princes were feeling very discouraged.

The next to the last maiden was very buxom. It was quite clear that her large foot would never fit the slipper, but she insisted on trying anyway. She could barely get her toes in, but she pushed and pushed, until the seams of the slipper gave way and it split.

Prince Noble gave a cry of anguish. “Foolish girl!” he cried, “now I shall never find my sister!”

But Fern stepped forward, and took the other slipper from her pocket, and handed it to him. He stared at her, amazed, and then held the slipper for her to put on. Her foot fit perfectly.

With a shout of joy, Prince Noble grabbed her up, and swung her around! “At last, little sister, you are found! Our parents will be overjoyed!”

But Prince Gallant looked at them with shining eyes, for he had fallen in love with the beautiful Fern at first sight.

The king and queen *were* overjoyed to see her once more, and lavished presents and parties and beautiful clothes on her. But she was sad, for she missed the woodcutter and his wife, who had raised her all her life. So the king had them brought to the castle, and greatly rewarded them, for as he said “Had you not found her she surely would have died.”

And Prince Gallant paid court to her, and soon she fell in love with him, and they were married in the most splendid wedding ever seen in the two kingdoms.”

“Yes, sprout, it is. That is just the way Bilbo told it to me.” Frodo smiled. “Did you like it?”

“It was a good story,” said Berilac. “But I like ones with dragons and battles better.”

Merry picked up one of the slippers and studied it carefully. “Do you suppose *this* slipper belonged to a princess? How do you think it came here?”

Frodo shook his head. “I’ve no idea how it may have ended up here at Brandy Hall. And I don’t think it could have belonged to a princess, for I do not think it is so old as the last of the kings.”

Merry cocked his head. “Maybe there will be princesses again when the King comes back!”

Frodo chuckled, and tousled Beri’s curls. “You never know, Beri-lad. It could happen someday. Now, if you’ve found enough mathoms let’s be on our way. I think it’s nearly time for luncheon.”

And at the mention of food the two lads jumped up, and gathered together the chosen gifts, and they left the room, and left the pair of slippers behind on the dusty floor.

Growing Pains by Dreamflower
Young Pippin makes an unexpected journey to Bag End…
(Written for Marigold's Challenge #23; title by Marigold)
AUTHOR: Dreamflower
RATING: G
CATEGORY: General
SUMMARY: Young Pippin makes an unexpected journey to Bag End…
AUTHOR’S NOTES: (1) My story starter was: “Mersday had always been the chief baking day at Bag End.” I had to include: A journey, the Tookland (bag)pipes, a storm, a jewel and Marigold Gamgee.
(2) In this story, Frodo is 43, Pippin is almost 24, Sam is about 31, and Marigold is 28. (27, 15, 20 and 18 in Man-years).
DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

Mersday* had always been the chief baking day at Bag End; Frodo usually looked forward to a morning spent in his kitchen, kneading dough, mixing up seedcakes and other treats. It was an especially nice activity on a cold morning in late Solmath*. The kitchen was warm and toasty and filled with the lovely smells of baking. In the back of the smial he could hear Marigold Gamgee humming as she changed linens and gathered the laundry, for Mersday was also the day that she came in to do what cleaning Frodo did not handle for himself. Just then there was a knock on the front door. A rather loud and persistent one. Frodo wondered who it could be, as he was expecting no company right now. He rolled his eyes, and hoped it was not Lobelia. He held his breath a moment, and then heard Marigold call “I’ll get it, Mr. Frodo!” Good! He had begun to understand why Bilbo always had someone else answer his door if he could manage it.

“Why, it’s Master Pippin! You must be frozen, sir! Do come in! Mr. Frodo?” she called.

Frodo grabbed a towel and quickly wiped the flour from his hands, and made his way to the front hall. “Peregrin! You mad Took! What *are* you doing here, and in such weather, too?” He reached out to give his younger cousin a welcoming embrace, and then jumped back as frozen hands met his.

“It’s all right. There was a sledge making a delivery to Brownlock’s and the carter gave me a ride. It’s not as though I tried to walk.”

Frodo’s eyes fell on the large pile of luggage on his front step. “Pippin? Do your parents know you’ve come?” Frodo had a sinking feeling.

Uh-oh. It was as Frodo feared. Pippin had clearly had another row with his parents--probably his father.

Pippin turned and started to drag in the luggage--including, as Frodo could tell, the case he carried his Tookland pipes in and his fiddle case as well. How long was the lad planning to stay this time? He didn’t normally bring his instruments to Bag End.

“I’ll help!” Pippin grinned and started dragging as much as he could in the direction of his guest room. Frodo shook his head and gathered what remained, and followed after. He wondered what the story was this time.

While Marigold put clean linens on the guest bed, and Pippin began to unpack, Frodo began to get some idea of what the problem was. “And with the wedding coming up, Mother is constantly finding all sorts of things for me to do. Weddings are lasses’ business, you know, Frodo, and Pearl’s asked me to play my pipes--that’s all well and good. I’m glad to do that for her--but that doesn’t mean I need to be entertaining strange lasses to tea or writing out invitations or any of that sort of rot, but if I say anything, Mother gets cross, and Pearl gets weepy, and Pimmie and Vinca start calling me all sorts of selfish. And Father is no help at all, no, all he says is ‘don’t vex your mother, Peregrin!’ which is all well and good for him to say, for if she asks *him* to do anything for the wedding, he says he’s got Thain’s business to see to and sloughs off to his study. But yesterday when *I* decided it would be a good day to take Gooseberry out for a nice long ride--because it might be cold, but say what you will, it was fair and sunny enough for riding yesterday--he goes and tells me that’s what the grooms are for and I would probably get sick--and you know it’s been at least two years now since I was really sick--and I wasn‘t all that sick even then--and that I need to take responsibility seriously because I’m going to be Thain one day--and that Mother needs me to make some list or other. Well, Frodo, I ask you, is that fair?”

Frodo just shook his head, for he knew he’d not have time to say anything before the flow of words started up again, and sure enough--

“But at any rate Falco is as sick of all this fol-de-rol as I am, though he daren’t say anything to Pearl about it, and of course, being a Bolger he can’t get out of any of it--you know how proper they all are--but last evening he took me in to The Bouncing Bunny with him” (this was more properly known as The Leaping Hare, a favorite inn in Tuckborough) “and while we were there I heard some carters talking about this delivery they had to make today to Hobbiton, so I decided to get out while the getting was good--”

He paused a moment to slide his fiddle case beneath the bed, and then opened the case with his pipes to check them. “--and so I’ve come to stay with you until the wedding--”

Frodo’s eyes went wide. It was nearly a month until the wedding. True, Pippin had stayed at Bag End that long, or longer, before, but never without prior parental permission, and never that long without Merry. He took a deep breath and interrupted the flow. “Pip!”

“Pippin, I need to go see to the bread. The first batch is fresh from the oven, and there’s a seedcake. Why don’t you finish unpacking and come to the kitchen for elevenses?” He looked at Marigold, who had been listening to Pippin’s monologue with what he could swear was a smirk. “Marigold, will you join us?”

Frodo fled to the kitchen. He had at least a few minutes to collect himself before Pippin finished his unpacking. Good heavens! he thought, I do wish Merry were here.

This was the fifth time in three years that Pippin had turned up unexpectedly at Frodo’s door, running off from what he saw as parental tyranny. But the tween had never before come and announced his intention to stay an entire month! And Pippin was supposed to come to Bag End *after* the wedding, along with Merry, for his usual spring visit. Frodo gave a great sigh, and removed the bread from the oven.

He put the kettle on for tea, and there was a knock at the kitchen door. “Come on in, Sam!” he called. There was not a good deal that could be done in the garden this time of year, but on the days when Marigold came in, Sam would find some jobs to keep himself busy, and then he would join Frodo and his sister for elevenses before he walked his sister back down to Number Three.

“So, Master Pippin is here?” Sam asked with a grin. “I saw the sledge driver drop him off.”

Frodo rolled his eyes. “Yes, he’s here, *and* without leave. Sam, the lad wants to stay with me a *month*!”

Sam’s eyebrows rose at this, but he was spared having to comment by the arrival in the kitchen of his sister and Pippin.

In spite of his irritation, Frodo could not help but smile at the sight of his young cousin, his color still high from cold and wind, as he laughed and joked. Frodo set out some of the fresh bread, with blackberry jam, and butter and honey, and seedcake, and he poured out the tea and listened to Pippin as he told of how his Cousin Ferdinand had hidden his son Ferdibrand’s pipes (for though old Ferdinand was quite good on the pipes, and had in fact taught Pippin to play, poor Ferdibrand made the sorts of sounds that made dogs howl and cats run and hide) and how Ferdibrand had searched for them high and low. His description of the search, and how old Ferdinand had enlisted the help of nearly everyone in the Great Smials to keep his son from finding the pipes soon had Sam and Marigold wiping their eyes with laughter. Pippin did liven a place up. It would be nice to visit with him a day or so. But not a month. *Definitely* not a month! Not without Merry! And especially not without his parents’ leave!

Soon after they had finished elevenses, Pippin helped Frodo with the washing up, and then Frodo sent him into the sitting room while he put a pot of vegetable soup on, to simmer until luncheon. A bit of bread and cheese along with the soup would make a nice meal in a couple of hours after elevenses had worn off.

Frodo wondered about supper. He liked to make some of Pippin’s favorite foods when he visited--there was another seedcake in the pantry. No fresh mushrooms this time of year, but dried ones would make a nice mushroom soup. He could make a batch of noodles and cheese, maybe a pot of beans and fry up some sausages and potatoes. They could skip tea, and have a combined late tea and early supper, something that Frodo had rather got into the habit of from Bilbo.

He finished his preparations, and leaving the pot of soup simmering away, he went into the sitting room. Pippin was sprawled on the settee with a book, but he wasn’t really reading, he was half dozing. He looked up with a smile as Frodo came in.

“It’s one of Bilbo’s books of Elven tales. It’s rather frightening--I always thought Elves were rather kind and silly from the way Bilbo spoke of them when he told of his Adventure. But these Elves were rather fierce, and not at all kind.”

Frodo took it, and glanced at it. Ah, it was Bilbo’s rather simplified translation of “The Silmarillion”, which he had written out for Frodo back when he was just a bit younger than Pippin was now.

“Shall I read it to you?” He sat down at the end of the settee, and Pippin propped his feet in Frodo’s lap. Frodo gave his cousin a mock stern look, but Pippin just smirked at him and left his feet where they were.

Frodo read the tale of how the famed jewels were created, and how they caused the downfall of the Elven paradise, and the rash oaths of vengeance that caused so much grief in Middle-earth.

Pippin did not appear to be paying that much attention, but Frodo knew that was deceptive. His cousin was taking in every word, as he showed by his occasional shrewd questions and observations.

“I’m rather glad hobbits don’t go in much for oaths and vengeance,” he said. “It’s not at all a comfortable thing.”

Frodo laughed. “That is an understatement if I ever heard one, Peregrin Took! And of course, being comfortable is more important than anything?”

Pippin looked serious for a moment, and was rather quiet, before he said, “No, I would say there are a lot of things more important than being comfortable--like your friends and family--but if you are *not* comfortable, then comfort seems very important indeed.”

Frodo smiled and closed the book, and stood up, dumping Pippin’s feet to the floor. “Well, I don’t know about you, but my stomach says it will be more comfortable with some luncheon in it.”

The two cousins spent a pleasant afternoon after luncheon, taking a brief walk down to The Ivy Bush, where Frodo treated Pippin to a half, and then returning to Bag End, where Pippin spent some time trouncing Frodo at draughts. They prepared supper together, and ate until there was not a crumb left between them. Frodo was unsurprised however that Pippin took more than his share of the noodles and cheese--it was a favorite dish of his.

Frodo lay awake for a while, wondering how he was going to handle this problem of Pippin. While Paladin and Tina did not seem to mind Pippin escaping to Bag End for a few days on occasion, Frodo was fairly certain they would not at all appreciate his staying on for a whole month, especially with all the preparations for Pearl’s wedding that were going on. And it was unfair of Pippin to slip away from his responsibilities there.

Frodo did understand--he had seen enough of weddings when he still lived in Brandy Hall to realize that there was something about them that made even normally sensible hobbit matrons like Eglantine Took suddenly obsessed with all sorts of insignificant details. And besides Pippin’s mother and sisters there were dozens of aunties and female cousins who all wanted a say, and probably were cornering Pippin at every chance to see if he would let fall some detail of what was being planned.

But he couldn’t just send Pippin away. In the stubborn mood the lad was in, he would not go home, but would probably try to head for Merry in Buckland. And whatever Pippin said, Frodo was not sure his health would be up to that sort of trek this time of year.

No, Pippin needed to want to go home, and to realize that he should not have left his family in the lurch. It was how to make him understand that Frodo had to puzzle out.

The next morning brought rain, a storm at first of sleet and rain, that gradually turned to a persistent drizzle, washing away the last slush of a late Solmath snowfall. Winter had been colder and lingered longer than usual this year.

The cousins sat in the kitchen, and ate their way from first breakfast to second without a break, as they talked about different things. Pippin showed Frodo the small leather purse, embossed with his monogram that Merry had sent him. Pippin, due to all the family preparations for Pearl’s wedding, had been unable to travel to Buckland for Merry’s birthday this year. Frodo had travelled there, and spent a few days in his old room at Brandy Hall. Merry had only had a small family celebration this year, for next year, when he came of age, it would be expected that the Son of the Hall would have a magnificent party. Frodo showed Pippin the weed pouch Merry had given him.

They cleaned up the kitchen, and then Frodo persuaded Pippin to bring his fiddle to the sitting room and play for him for a while. He was still trying to think of how to talk to Pippin, to get him to see that he needed to be at home.

After a luncheon of toasted bread and cheese and pickles and ham, Frodo took out his pipe. Pippin looked at it longingly.

“Oh, no, Peregrin Took!” Frodo said before Pippin could even open his mouth to ask. “Your parents will be grieved enough with me for your coming here, without my letting you do something they haven’t said you can do yet.”

Frodo cut him off with a wave of his hand, “I don’t want to know what Merry lets you do. Merry’s as big a rascal as you are.” He smiled to take the sting out of his words, and Pippin shrugged.

Frodo decided that now was as good a time as any to bring up the subject of his sister’s wedding. “So Pearl and Falco will be sitting for their gifts in a week or so. Do you know what you plan to give them?”

Frodo’s eyebrows climbed. For all his embarrassment when it came time for them to be opened, Pippin loved to give gifts, and usually put a good deal of thought into them.

Frodo studied his cousin for a moment as the silence stretched. Did Pippin have problems with Pearl getting married? Perhaps he didn’t like Falco Bolger. Frodo did not know him well--he was only a distant connection through Odovocar Bolger, and not a relation, and he lived in Waymeet. In fact the first time Frodo had been introduced to him was at Pearl’s betrothal party, though he had seemed a nice enough chap, and thoroughly besotted with Pearl.

Pippin looked up, startled. “Well, of course I knew she’d be marrying soon. She’s nearly thirty-nine, after all.” There was no ring of conviction in his words, though.

Again a shrug. “He’s very nice, I suppose. He tries hard, anyway. I don’t really know him, though. I just--” Pippin stopped, blushed beet red to the tips of his ears, and shut his mouth with a snap.

“I couldn’t hear you, Pip,” said Frodo, as patiently as he could. Actually, his patience was wearing a bit thin. Pippin was seldom this reticent with him.

“I just--Frodo, I always hoped Pearl would marry *you*!” he finally blurted.

Frodo was stunned. “Pippin!” he exclaimed when he could get his voice to work. “Me?” He’d had no idea Pippin had such a notion. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself, for he didn’t know whether to laugh or be angry, and really neither was the right response to the tween’s shamefaced admission. Finally he said as gently as he could, “Pippin, I am fond of Pearl, but not at all in that way. And I doubt she would ever have considered me that way either.”

“Well,” Pippin said defensively, “I wasn’t the only one to think it was a good idea. I hadn’t really thought about it at all until Pearl came of age and I heard some of the aunties talking. *They* seemed to think it would be a splendid match! And when I heard them, I realized how *perfect* it would be--then you’d be my *brother*!”

Frodo found himself touched to the point of tears by this artless admission. “Oh, Pippin!”

“It would have been really lovely to have you married to Pearl. We would have seen a good deal more of you!”

Frodo reached over and gave Pippin a hug. He had been aware that a number of spinsters and matrons would have liked to have seen him make a match of things with Pearl Took, but they simply were not interested in one another romantically, and such things could not be forced.

“Well, Pippin, I am very flattered that you wanted me for a brother-in-law, but I have to say that I am very relieved that you never tried any matchmaking.” He shuddered to think of the awkward encounters that might have resulted if the impulsive tween had attempted to get him together with his sister.

Pippin blushed again. “Well, Merry said he’d thump me from one end of the Shire to the other if I ever plagued you with any such thing. He wasn’t angry when I told him, but I am sure he would have been if I had done something about it. So I promised him I wouldn‘t.”

Frodo breathed a sigh of relief. Blessed Meriadoc! If there was anything in the world this Took feared, it was making his Brandybuck cousin angry. It happened so rarely that when it did, Pippin was devastated.

Frodo placed an arm around his cousin’s shoulders. “Pippin, I hope you know that I love you and Merry dearly--I do not think I would love you more if you were truly my brothers. Nothing would change that.”

Pippin nodded, his green eyes shining. “You aren’t angry that I told you?”

“No, I’m not. But I do think that you have been doing Pearl and her intended an injustice. Your sister has no way of knowing how she has disappointed you, and even if she did, there is naught to be done about it. The heart bestows itself where it will, Pippin.”

He looked up at Frodo, and blushed again. “I haven’t been very fair to her, have I?”

Pippin looked rather shamefaced. “I guess I had better get busy and try to find a nice gift for her then.”
Frodo studied him for a few moments, and then stood up. “Come with me, Pippin.”

Curious, Pippin followed Frodo to his room. Frodo opened the wardrobe, and from the top shelf took a box. “I had planned to give her this myself, but I think it will mean more coming from her brother.” He carried the box over and sat down on the bed. Pippin sat across from him, green eyes glittering with inquisitiveness. Frodo took his key ring and opened the box. It was filled with jewelry.

“These were my mother’s,” he said. He took out a small pouch of burgundy velvet. “But not this. You know that your father once had a sister named Pearl.”

Pippin nodded. “Pearl was his oldest sister. But she was thrown by her pony and died when he was only a faunt. He doesn’t remember her, though sometimes Auntie Primrose and Auntie Peridot talk about her. Pearl was named for her.”

“You may not realize that all three of your aunts were good friends of my mother. Pearl was about four years older than my mother. The accident had happened just before your aunt turned twenty. This was to have been her birthday gift on becoming a tween, from my mother and her parents.” He opened the pouch, and within was a bracelet of pearls, interspersed with small silver beads, and a silver clasp shaped like a tiny shell.

Frodo shook his head. “It’s a mathom, really, for I’ve no use for it, and as I said, I think it will mean a good deal more if it comes from her little brother.” He grinned and then said in a conspiratorial tone, “Besides, if your family thinks you came to visit me so you could fetch Pearl’s wedding gift, they are likely to be a good deal more forgiving don’t you think?”

“Oh, Frodo!” Pippin gave him an enthusiastic hug. “But what will you do for a gift?”

“Don’t you worry your head about that. I have a good many possibilities as a gift. I do believe there is a silver bowl on the sideboard that your sister has admired on more than one occasion.”

Pippin sat back, and looked at the bracelet once more. “I suppose I shall have to go back soon, then.” He sighed.

Frodo looked out the window. “The rain has stopped. If it is not too wet tomorrow, I shall go down to The Ivy Bush and hire a couple of ponies, and we shall ride back together.”

“That would be nice.” Pippin grinned mischievously. “I still think you would make a splendid brother-in-law. But I have two more sisters…” He stopped and broke into a guffaw. “Oh, Frodo! You should have seen your face! Don’t worry--Pimmie’s been spoken for by Milo Goodbody for ages--they’re just waiting until they are old enough for it to be respectable. And Vinca is far too fickle--I wouldn’t do that to you, I promise, Frodo!”

Frodo chuckled. “I should hope not, you rascal! Now that it’s not raining, why don’t you get out your pipes, and we’ll go in the garden, and you can play me the pieces you have planned for the wedding.”

And Pippin darted off to fetch his pipes, and Frodo gave a sad look to the box he held, before locking it, and putting it once more upon its high shelf.

*Mersday is more or less the Shire equivalent of “Thursday”, except that it is the sixth, not the fifth, day of the week. Solmath is the Shire equivalent of February, except that it always has thirty days.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: In the flashback, Frodo is 18, and Merry is about to have his fifth birthday. (12 and 3 in Man-years)

SWEET MEMORIES

Merry set Stybba loose to graze and wander about the orchard as he would. The Rohan pony would not stray out of his sight. He took the satchel he had removed from the saddlebag, and sat down beneath one of the old pear trees, and removed from it a sandwich, an apple, a bottle of ale--and a book.

He sat, his back against the tree, and for a few moments, just rubbed his hands lightly over the book, before he took a small drink from the bottle. He pulled his cloak up a little snugger--the Solmath wind was chill, even though the day was mild for the time of year. He took a bite of the sandwich Estella had made for him--sliced cold meat, mild white cheese, sliced pickle and spicy mustard, and opened the book.

It was a thin book, the lettering in it, large and bold and precise. There were only a few words on each page, dominated by large watercolor pictures at the top. He did not read it at first, but just sat and looked at it.

Bless Pippin for understanding his need to be alone, this day before his birthday, and for helping Estella to understand, and not be angry when he had told them of his plan. They had only been married a little over a year, and sometimes she would take it personally when he did not wish to be constantly in her company once in a while. But she had not argued after Pippin had explained to her.

For a moment, tears gathered in Merry’s grey eyes, but he blinked them away. Today was not a day for sad memories of Frodo, but for sweet ones.

And when he had come across this book, among some of his old things from Brandy Hall, he had known what he had to do today…

Merry had bounced on Frodo’s stomach enthusiastically. “Ugh! Merry-lad! You are getting too big to do that!” Frodo protested.

Frodo rolled him off grinning, and started to tickle. Amid Merry’s shrieks of laughter, he said “Of course I do! It’s the day before your birthday--you’ll be five tomorrow!”

Merry scooted towards the head of the bed, away from the wriggling fingers. “Presents! Presentspresentspresents! *Real* ones! I won’t be a faunt no more!”

“ ‘Any’ more!” Frodo corrected. “And yes--real presents for you today, and you will get to pick out real presents to give tomorrow! Not just flowers for your Mum.”

As though she had been summoned by the mention of her name, there was a knock upon Frodo’s bedroom door, and Esmeralda’s voice--”Lads! You don’t wish to be late for your breakfast today of all days! Merry--come along to the nursery, and let Dahlia get you dressed.”

Merry shot from the bed, and turned to look at Frodo from the door. “Hurry up, Frodo!” he ordered imperiously.

Frodo laughed, “You hurry up yourself, sprout!” and then winced as the overexcited lad slammed the door going out. He could hear Aunt Esme’s gentle admonition to her son about slamming doors as they walked away, and he jumped up and went to the washstand for his morning ablutions.

In the nursery, Dahlia was hard put to it to get the wriggling child into his clothes for the day. “Dahlia!” he kept saying “I’m not going to be a faunt no--I mean *any* more!”

“No, Master Merry, I’d rather be surprised. Now here, let me brush up your toes…”

Soon Dahlia brought Merry to the small private dining room in the apartments of the Son of the Hall. Saradoc, Esmeralda and Frodo were already seated. Dahlia put the little wooden seat, meant to raise Merry up to the height of the table in his chair, helped Merry into it, and took her own seat next to him.

“Thank you, Mistress,” she said to Esmeralda, as she did every time she ate with the family. Dahlia was from Whitfurrows, and never expected to eat at the same table with gentry, but Brandybucks were nothing if not practical, and soon convinced her that it made sense to eat with them if Merry were doing so. Still, she felt as though she should show her gratitude, and Esmeralda had given up trying to get the nursemaid to think of herself as “family”.

Merry’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the small pile of packages on the table. He would be five years old, so he would get five presents on the day before his birthday. He might possibly receive a few more between now and noon tomorrow if any other relatives felt inclined to do so, but there would be no presents for him at his party--that was the time for *him* to give, and not receive. Esmeralda sincerely hoped Merry would not embarrass her the way young Berilac had embarassed his parents a couple of years before, when he had tried to keep *all* the presents.

Of course, presents were not to be thought of when the food had yet to be served, and soon Merry was deeply engrossed in his scones and jam and eggs and sausages and fried taters and warm milk sweetened with honey. But that did not keep him from casting frequent longing glances at the presents.

Finally, when all had finished eating, and the food was cleared from the table, he could open his gifts.

First was the gift from Grandda Rory and Grandmum Gilda. It was wrapped in a brightly colored handkerchief, and when Merry opened it he grinned. It was a mug, of heavy clear glass, just the right size for his little hands. It had two curved handles on each side, shaped like fish, and etched around the bottom was the scene of a riverbank, and young hobbits fishing or splashing in the shallows.

Merry grinned, and pointed to two indistinct little figures with fishing poles. “Look! There’s me and Frodo! Oh, this is splendid! I shall always drink from this--it can go with my pony plate!”

Saradoc smiled. “You must be sure to thank Grandda and Grandmum, then, Meriadoc!”

Next came the box, tied with a yellow ribbon, from his mother and father. He pulled the bow loose with one tug, and as it fell away, he lifted the lid. “Oh! Oh, Mum! Oh, Da!” He took out a carved wooden boat, as long as his forearm, and realistically detailed in every way. It was painted green, with yellow details. There were even little oars and oarlocks.”

“It really floats, Merry,” said his father, grinning nearly as much as his son.

“Merry,” said his mother seriously, “you may take it in your bath at any time. But you are not to float it outside in the River, or even the stream or ponds unless an older person is with you!”

“Does it have to be a grown-up, Mum?” he asked, flicking his eyes to Frodo.

She smiled. “Yes, *unless* it is Frodo. Otherwise it *does* have to be a grown-up.”

The third parcel came from Whitwell, and was from all his Took relations. He pulled off the string, and tore open the parcel to find a beautiful leather ball, just the right size for playing catch or kick-the-ball. His eyes shone as he thought of all the fun that would be.

The fourth parcel came from Hobbiton, from Cousin Bilbo. “What do those words say, Da?” he asked.

“ ‘Open Carefully’,” said Saradoc. Merry’s eyes grew serious, and he held the package to his nursemaid, who untied the string, and helped to unfold the brown paper. Inside were two boxes--one had a large stack of inexpensive rag paper. The smaller box held a dozen brightly colored chalks.

Merry laughed. “Look, Frodo! Now *I* can make pictures the way *you* do, and write stories, too!”

Frodo chuckled. “Well, I think perhaps Uncle Bilbo is hinting to me that it’s time for me to start teaching a young Brandybuck his letters!”

Saradoc glanced over at his ward. “Frodo, Merry is still a bit young for that.” For most young gentlehobbits began to learn their letters between the ages of six to eight.

Frodo shook his head. “Merry’s smart enough for that, though. He’s much smarter than most of the other cousins his age.”

Esmeralda looked at Frodo seriously. “It’s a big responsibility, Frodo, and a lot of work. Take it slow.”

“I will, Aunt Esme. But I’m rather like his brother, you know, so it *should* be my job.”
Frodo blushed a bit when he said it, but it was quite clear that this was something he had looked forward to for a long time.

“Very well, dear. But if he tires of it, we shall put it aside until later.”

“*Now* I’ll open the *best* one!” said Merry, who had been quiet during this exchange. He wanted very much to make Frodo proud of him by learning his letters. Why, even Berilac had just started to learn his--and he had to learn from his mum, as he had no big brother or sister. But Merry had *Frodo* and that was even better.

“But it’s from you, so it has to be the best!” he exclaimed. He took the largish, flat parcel, wrapped in a bit of muslin, and tied with a green ribbon. He untied the bow, and pulled the cloth aside. It was a book. He grinned and opened the front cover. “You *made* this for me?” he asked Frodo with shining eyes.

“Yes I did, sprout,” said Frodo, feeling a bit relieved that Merry was not disappointed.
He looked at the large picture which filled the first page, of two hobbits, one with dark curls, a bit larger, and a smaller one with sandy curls. They stood, hand in hand, on bright green grass, against a vivid blue sky with one puffy cloud. There were three words beneath it.

Saradoc and Esmeralda found themselves blinking away tears, and Dahlia openly used her napkin to wipe her own.

Merry just scrambled down from his chair to give Frodo a fierce hug. “I *knew* your present would be best!”

After breakfast, Frodo bundled Merry up, and they fetched a picnic from the main kitchen, and they took his new ball, and the book, and they took a walk down to the old pear orchard. They could stay until luncheon, after which Frodo had to go to Uncle Dinodas for his own lessons, and Merry’s mum would take him to the mathom rooms to pick out the presents he would be giving out on the morrow.

The cousins played catch for a while, and ate their picnic, and then Frodo sat down beneath the pear tree, with Merry in his lap, and opened up the book, and began to read:

“Once there were best cousins, and their names were Merry and Frodo, and they lived in a lovely great hole with Merry’s mum and da. One day Merry and Frodo went for a walk and had a great adventure…”

Merry read the story, looking at the lovingly painted illustrations, telling of the improbable meetings with a Wizard and Dwarves, and a Dragon which the cousins tricked, and a great treasure found, all in an easy afternoon’s stroll from home…

For several years, the day before Merry’s birthday, Frodo would take him to the pear orchard and read the book to him, though long before his sixth birthday he had learned to read it himself. Even after moving to Bag End, Frodo had usually come back for Merry’s birthday most years. But the year Merry turned fourteen, they had a very busy little faunt to accompany them, and Pippin at that age was not one to sit still for story books. And then, somehow that year, the book had got misplaced, and the next year Frodo could not make it, and the custom fell into abeyance.

How different their real adventure had been, thought Merry, how frightening and painful and yet glorious as well. But however much he wished things would have turned out differently for Frodo, however much he wished that the Ring had never been, for himself he would not have changed a thing.

He turned the page, and cleared his throat. “Once there were best cousins…”

AUTHOR: Dreamflower
RATING: G
CATEGORY: General
SUMMARY: Rosie's oldest brother ponders his friendship with Sam...
AUTHOR’S NOTES: I wrote this as a very belated entry for Marigold's Challenge #1.
DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

I look over at the table where they sit, and I know if I went over there, I’d be welcomed right warmly and invited to sit with them. But for all it ought to be a table for four, I’m not the fourth they’re wanting, though I am Sam’s brother-in-law twice over.

There’s still a few gives them suspicious looks when they come in The Green Dragon. For all they done to rid us of the Troubles, there’s a handful that thinks the Troubles was their fault for going off in the first place. But they don’t know what I’ve come to know.

They’re celebrating now, welcoming little Frodo-lad into the world. I know there was some who thought Sam’s first lad would be named for his old dad, the Gaffer, but me, I always knew what their first lad would be named even before my sister told me. There wasn’t no one else Sam would be likely to name his first son for--and if little Ellie had’ve been a lad, then she’d’ve been “Frodo-lad”. But even though they look cheerful enough, I can tell how much they’re missing the one what the babe was named for.

I used to be Sam’s best friend, afore he took off for foreign parts with his Master. I knew, none better, how dearly he loved the hobbit he worked for, more like a big brother than his Master, though he never presumed. And I knew he was always friends with those cousins of Mr. Frodo as well, though when he come of age, he tried not to be--thought it wasn’t proper.

But that Baggins and that Brandybuck and that Took, they never took no notice of the differences between them and Sam, even if they *was* gentry. I guess a lot of it was being brung up in Buckland--even the young Took spent a lot of time there--and Bucklanders got queer notions about things like that.

And when they come back, I could see they was really friends, for all that Sam still said “Mr. Frodo” and “Mr. Merry” and “Mr. Pippin”, he was easy with them in a way he hadn’t been before. And when Mr. Frodo left for good, he mostly stopped saying “Mr.” to the other two.

And that was only right and proper, as he’s now the Master of Bag End his own self.

Yes, I used to be Sam’s best friend. But when he chose for Mr. Frodo to bless his marriage to my sister, he didn’t ask me to stand up with him, he asked Mr. Merry. And I have to say, it hurt just a bit, for I’d’ve had no one else but him stand with me, when I wed *his* sister. But I didn’t say nothing, because I reckon whatever the four of them went through together while they was gone, it wasn’t nothing I would envy. We think we had things bad during the Troubles, but I heard the nightmares when they was staying out to the farm with my family after coming back. And Sam’s told me a little bit, and so has Rosie, enough to make me know I can never understand how bad it was.

So, I reckon now Mr. Merry is his best friend. And Mr. Pippin comes next, afore he’d even think of me now. They come through nearly dying together, and that makes a bond that’s stronger than childhood games.

I’ll give them the chance to drink the babe’s health, and to drink to the one what he’s named for, and then I’ll go over, and raise a drink myself to my new nephew. And maybe if they ask me to sit with them, I will, even though they’d rather someone else make a fourth--but he never will no more.

AUTHOR: Dreamflower
RATING: G
CATEGORY: General
SUMMARY : Frodo makes one last try…
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Story starter from Marigold: “I’m not leaving you here, so don’t even say it.”
DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

“I’m not leaving you here, so don’t even say it.” Merry returned Frodo’s glare with one of his own.

Pippin smirked. “That goes for me as well, just in case you think it needed saying.”

Frodo cast a desperate look at Sam for support, but Sam merely shook his head, his expression apologetic, but no hint of agreement.

“But you can’t stay away from your families so long…” he tried once more, his voice trailing off at the implacable looks on his cousins’ faces. He had just had word that the last two places in the Company going south had been filled--by Merry and Pippin.

“Frodo, after consulting with Mithrandir, and with Bilbo, and after hearing what your cousins have to say for themselves, I have decided to allow them to take the two remaining places in the Company of Nine. I was at first reluctant to allow them to go. But I have come to realize that they know their own mind in this. And it was made abundantly clear to me that if I should deny them, they would make every effort they could to follow after. I shouldn’t like to be in the position of having to hold them prisoners in order to keep that from happening.”

Frodo had swallowed hard. On the one hand, a part of him was more relieved than he could say that he would have their company among all those other folk, most of whom were still relative strangers to him. He would have Sam, it was true, and no one would be more loyal, but it would mean a good deal to have Merry’s clear-sightedness, and Pippin’s unquenchable cheerfulness as well, as he undertook this dreadful task.

Yet he could not help but feel utterly selfish as well, at that feeling of relief. If he truly loved his cousins, would he not make every effort to get them to go home?

He had not argued with Lord Elrond. And his attempt to speak to Gandalf about it had not been very successful either. All the Wizard would say was that if they came, then clearly they had been *meant* to come, which sounded wise coming from him, but made little sense to Frodo when he came to think about it later.

He’d yet to speak to Bilbo about it. He felt just a little betrayed that Bilbo had not given more thought to the safety of his younger cousins. So he had gathered Merry and Pippin and Sam, for a last ditch effort to persuade them to go home. It didn’t seem to be working…

“We have been over this before. You tried to send us home the day after the Council. But nothing’s changed. Everything we said to you at Crickhollow still holds true.”

“We shall stick to you, Frodo. We told you we mean to stick together. I was not joking about being tied up. That is the *only* way we would not go with you, one way or the other.” Pippin grinned at him. “What would you do without us, cousin?”

“Mr. Frodo,” said Sam, who had not said much, because for once he did not agree with his master, “Lord Elrond, and Gandalf and Mr. Bilbo--they’re wise folks. I think it’s a bit late to change the plans now, anyway.”

“Well,” said Pippin, “now that’s all settled, I have to tell you that I had word from Master Lindir that they would be baking mince tarts in the kitchen this morning. Who’s for elevenses?”

And Frodo allowed himself to be distracted, and to forget for just a little while his forebodings about the journey ahead.

AUTHOR: Dreamflower
RATING: G
CATEGORY: General
SUMMARY: Merry watches over Pippin at Cormallen on Pippin’s birthday…
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Scenario from Marigold: It is Pippin’s birthday in Cormallen, when he is still so badly hurt. This actually takes place *during* my story "Kingly Gifts", and expands on the day. I suppose you could call it a gap-filler for a gap-filler.
DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

Merry knew he was awake, though he’d yet to open his eyes. For just an instant, just the briefest instant, he had thought he was a child again, in his own bed at Brandy Hall, with Pippin snuggled up to him as he always did in visiting.

But of course, the illusion could not last. The cot was not his childhood bed, though it felt large enough to be, and this was not his little Pippin, but Pippin grown, and Pippin injured, as the feel of bandages beneath his hand told.

Yesterday, for the first time, Pippin had awakened briefly. He had seen Merry, he had asked after Frodo and Sam, and he had slept once more. But, oh! He had been awake! And at that moment it had seemed miracle enough.

He leaned up on one arm, and watched his cousin breathe. Was it his imagination, or was Pippin breathing easier? He reached to move the curls away from Pippin’s face. So bruised it was, and pale--yet it seemed to have more color today than yesterday.

Today. His eyes widened, as he suddenly realized the date. It was the first of Astron, and it was Pippin’s birthday. His cousin was twenty-nine years old today.

Tears stung his eyes, as he studied his younger cousin. Pippin was always a little embarrassed when he passed out birthday gifts, worried about whether they would be liked--but this was the best gift of all, this clinging to life, this getting better.

The lashes fluttered, and the eyes opened. Pippin looked at Merry in momentary confusion, and then managed to say huskily--”Is it?”

Merry nodded. “It is. It is your birthday, Peregrin Took, and you are twenty-nine years old today.”

Pippin drew in a hitching breath, and tears gathered in the pain-filled green eyes. “ ‘M sorry. N-no gifts…”

“Oh, Pip!” Merry’s own eyes overflowed. “You are still alive, and that is the best gift I could have. Don’t worry about presents.”

Just then, the tent flap opened, and Aragorn entered. He came over to the cot and smiled to see Pippin awake.

“Merry, you need to go to the mess tent, and get some breakfast--no, don’t argue--you eat breakfast, and then you are to bring back a tray for Pippin--a bit of thin porridge and some watered ale. Also bring back some hot water, for I have some medicine to mix for his pain. But take your time and eat a proper breakfast, Meriadoc. I shall be here, with Pippin, and with Frodo and Sam as well for a while.”

Merry sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the cot, and then slid to the floor. He ran his fingers through his curls, and then padded over to the other side of the tent, to stand next to the cot where Frodo lay, and Sam in the one beyond that. He stood, gazing at Frodo’s sleeping form for an instant, and then glanced at Sam. He shook his head sadly.

“Strider?” he asked, without turning. It bothered him how deeply they slept; it seemed unnatural not to see Frodo moving in his sleep, or hear Sam’s soft snores.

“They are still doing as well as can be expected, Merry. This sleep is the best thing for them.” said Aragorn. “Now go on, and get your breakfast.”

Merry hurried from the tent, and trotted in the direction of the mess. Now that he was out of there, he realized that he actually was hungry.

The porridge, flat bread, dried meat and thin ale that he was given did not go much toward satisfying a hobbit’s appetite; but Merry had gone longer on shorter rations than these, so he made no complaint. He told the cook of Aragorn’s order for Pippin’s breakfast, and was given a tray with the required elements, and he headed back to the tent.

As he walked in the direction of the hobbits’ tent, he found himself joined by Gimli and Legolas.

Merry smiled up at him. “Yes, he woke up for a bit yesterday, and again this morning.”

Gimli harrumphed. “It is about time! After all the effort it was to find him,” he grumped. But Merry saw the Dwarf blinking, and knew he was more affected than he let on.

Aragorn greeted his friends, but Pippin was having trouble finding his voice. He gave Legolas and Gimli a weak and rather watery smile. Aragorn mixed up his medicine with the hot water Merry had brought, and after Pippin slowly drank it down, he made way for Merry to sit by him and feed him the porridge. Aragorn left, and Legolas and Gimli sat down, and talked to one another and to Merry for a little while, telling Pippin of some of the things that had happened.

But soon the medicine began to make him drowsy, and Merry put aside the half finished food, so that Pippin could lie down and rest again. As he began to drift off, he caught Merry’s eye. “Mer--Fro--needs--you…”

Legolas smiled. “He thinks of Frodo, Merry. I think he wants you to go sit with Frodo for a while.”

“I know,” said Merry. He brushed aside Pippin’s curls and found an unbruised spot on the forehead to leave a little kiss. Then he carefully got down from the cot, and went over to Frodo’s, and climbed up beside his older cousin, and took Frodo’s uninjured hand in his.

Merry sat by Frodo’s sleeping form, the warmth of the hand and the very slow rise and fall of breath all there was to indicate that his cousin was alive.

He talked to Frodo softly, more to reassure himself really, than in any hope that his cousin heard.

“Frodo, it’s Pip’s birthday today. You’re going to be so proud of him when you wake up. He’s done so very much since we saw you last. It was his cleverness got us away from the Orcs. And in the City, they think he’s a prince, if you can believe it. He saved Boromir’s brother, saved him from being burned alive.

“He’s taken the oath of a Guardsman of the Citadel, and he looks so fine in their livery. He’s grown--not just grown in wisdom and bravery, but he’s actually *grown*, thanks to Treebeard. We’re both taller than you are now. I can’t wait to see the look on your face!

“And then he marched away to battle. All alone, among a great throng of Men. I couldn’t come with him, Frodo, I’m sorry. I couldn’t protect him.” Merry’s tears overflowed and ran unchecked down his cheeks. “I had to let him go all alone, and we really thought it would be to certain death. I’m so sorry, Frodo. I couldn’t protect you, I couldn’t protect Pip. I’m so sorry.” He sobbed for a few moments, overcome by remorse and guilt, and then he gave a sniff and wiped his eyes with his free hand.

“But I’m being ridiculous now. He’s alive--he was so brave--he killed a *troll*, Frodo, all alone, he did! And yet he’s alive, and he woke up yesterday, and Strider says he’s going to get well, so I don’t know what I have to weep over now.” Merry began to brush the dark curls away from Frodo’s pale brow. “He’s alive, he’ll get better! And Strider says you and Sam will be all better soon as well. Oh, Frodo, I do wish you’d wake up soon. I miss you so.”

He fell silent then, and just sat quietly, and then after a few moments, he turned his head to see Pippin, eyes open, watching him.

Pippin swallowed, and when he spoke his voice was a bit stronger. “No, just wondering how he’s doing, and Sam?”

Merry shook his head. “Aragorn says they are doing all right for now.” He hoped he did not sound dubious.

“Strider!” Pippin’s voice sounded almost normal, but then it was spoiled by a fit of coughing. His eyes teared up from pain, and Merry slid off Frodo’s cot and was by his side in a flash.

Pippin took a few sips, and then waved his hand to show that it was enough. Merry eased him back down, and then stood, taut and hovering.

Merry gave him a glare. He knew very well it was just a ruse to get him away from the others and make him take a break. But he didn’t argue. Fealty was fealty, after all.

“I know. Right now, this is the best we can do. Unless you want me to put him to sleep like Frodo and Sam?”

Merry shuddered. Thank you, Pippin, he thought. The idea of being put to sleep like Frodo and Sam was almost as frightening as riding to battle had been.

He spent a couple of hours sitting next to Éomer, as the young King talked with some of his officers about the plans to send some of the Riders home. He took notes of all that was said, something he had done for his father more than once, so it was not at all difficult, though he had a bit of trouble concentrating, as he kept wishing he were back with Pippin, Frodo and Sam.

Then he was sent to fetch luncheon to his King, and was invited to partake with him. He ate distractedly, and did not really listen to what was being said.

Éomer smiled. “Doubtless you are worrying for your kindred and friends again. I release you for the day.”

Merry hopped down from the cushions where he sat. “Thank you, my Lord!” he exclaimed, and flew from the tent.

He spent the afternoon chatting with Pippin; the conversation was sporadic, as his cousin would sometimes doze off in the middle of a sentence, and he sometimes had to stop and concentrate on breathing, but it was good to just natter on in hobbit fashion of their friends and what was happening.

“It’s true, Pippin,” Merry told him, “I do believe that Faramir and Éowyn are going to make a match of it.” He grinned. “You just wait till you see them together.”

“Well,” said Pippin, “I am glad to hear it, for poor Faramir really deserves a bit of happiness. He really was very grieved for Boromir, and his father was not at all kind to him.”

Merry nodded, and both were quiet for a few minutes, thinking of poor Boromir, and grieving for him a bit themselves. Merry felt for his pipe, and then moved his hand away, remembering that Aragorn had said there was to be no smoking around any of the invalids just now.

“So I see,” said the wizard. He was bearing a laden tray. “I brought a bit of supper for us all. Peregrin, you will have to make do with broth and a bit of bread to soak in it; I’m afraid Aragorn doesn’t want anything heavy in your stomach just yet.”

Actually there was not much more than bread and broth for Merry and Gandalf--a bit of meat and a few vegetables floated in their broth, and they had some cheese to go with slightly larger pieces of bread. None of them complained, however, but made short and silent work of the food, Merry helping Pippin to eat the bread and sip the broth.

Gandalf sat back, and Merry couldn’t help but notice that the wizard too almost reached for his pipe, and he suppressed a smirk.

“How did I know? Not through any wizardly omniscience, I assure you Peregrin Took! But for how many years have I been friends with Bilbo and Frodo? How could I not know of your birthday?”

“Now,” the wizard continued, “I know it’s not much, but when a Took has a birthday it calls for something special.” He reached inside his capacious robes, and drew forth two sparklers, such as neither Merry nor Pippin had seen since Bilbo’s famous Party.

“Here.” He handed one to each hobbit, and as they held them wide eyed he made a tiny gesture. Both burst into a display of brilliantly glittering sparks, that changed to all the colors of the rainbow. It seemed to Merry that the sparklers lasted far longer than he remembered them doing in the past, and Gandalf watched them, his eyes twinkling beneath his bushy brows. But finally, they came to an end, both at the same time.

There was a brief appreciative silence, and then Pippin said “Thank you, Gandalf.”

“Not at all, my dear little fool of a Took!” He stood up and then placed a hand on Pippin’s head. “I’m most uncommonly proud of you, you know,” he said. He looked at Merry. “And of you as well Meriadoc. Sometimes the hardest and heaviest task in the world is to simply wait.” He chuckled briefly, and then went out.

“Well, let’s sleep a bit more.” Merry clambered up on the cot, and to lie next to Pippin, arranging himself carefully, so that he would not hurt his cousin. “Good night, Pippin. And I hope you had a happy birthday.”

AUTHOR'S NOTE:(1) Frodo is 20, Merry is 6 (or 13 and 4 in Man-years. This story takes place a few days after my story "Waiting for Bilbo") (2) This was written for the LJ hobbit_ficathon. The challenge was to work the titles of Christmas songs into the body of the story.

“Where’s Uncle Bilbo?” asked Frodo, as he and Merry sat down to first breakfast in the private dining room of the Son of the Hall.

“He’s with your Uncle Rory and Aunt Gilda,” said Esmeralda. “He’s taking breakfast with them. They have some special Yule preparations to make.” She placed Frodo’s plate in front of him, and then took Merry’s from the trolley that had brought breakfast up from the main kitchen. “Here you are, Merry.”

“Where are my ponies?” he asked crossly. He liked to eat off his own special plate, that had ponies painted around the rim.

“I’m sorry, Merry-lad, but it’s still in our small kitchen, in the dishpan. I am afraid I had no time to wash it last night.”

Merry poked with a doubtful finger at the sausage on his plate, as though it might taste differently if it were not served on his own plate. His mother rolled her eyes. His father, who was reading a letter, lowered it and looked at Merry to remonstrate. But Frodo grinned. “That’s all right, Merry. If you don’t want to eat it, I will.”

Merry looked alarmed. “No, I’ll eat it!” and suited his action to his words.

Esmeralda took her own plate and was seated. “Lads, when you are finished, you may want to go down and help to deck the halls. Cousin Seredic is bringing in the greenery this morning.

A short while later Frodo and Merry were in front of the Hall, all bundled up, with their other Brandybuck cousins--Margulas, Marroc, Laburnum, Berilac, Merimas and little Mentha--and their older Took cousins, Pearl and Pimpernel--for Pervinca was scarcely a faunt, and a couple of Burrows and Goold cousins as well.

They were passing the time chasing about, but soon the sound of silver bells was heard in the lane, and they all quickly stopped and lined up to wait. Into view came a sledge, driven by Cousin Seredic, and in it, piled high, the greenery he had brought to brighten Brandy Hall: the holly and the ivy , the spruce and pine boughs, the mistletoe. The fragrance of cut evergreens was added to the crisp cold air. He pulled up, with a jolly laugh, as the children swarmed over, and began to unload his precious cargo.

Cousin Seredic followed the children into the Hall, and was greeted by the Mistress. He planted a kiss on her cheek. “Happy First Yule, Aunt Gilda!” he grinned.

Menegilda jerked back with a start. “Your nose is frozen, you rascal!” she exclaimed. “What took you so long this morning?”

Frodo and Margulas were helping their older cousin divest himself of his outer clothing, as he moved into the warmth of the huge smial. “Well, I stopped by the Grubbs’ place over by Crickhollow, as they have all that mistletoe in the great oak near their cottage. I found Ned up on the housetop, trying to get at some of it. Fortunately I had that ladder with me. The old fellow grumbled crossly, and his wife kept telling him he needed to buy a ladder of his own. The two of them kept me listening to their bickering for ages! You would never think the two of them were newlyweds!”

The Mistress laughed heartily. “You should have known better. No amount of mistletoe is worth having to listen to them!”

Meanwhile, the children surrendered their armloads of greenery to the aunties and older lass cousins, who with the aid of string and a lot of brightly colored red and golden ribbons, were transforming it into swags and garlands and wreaths.

Uncles Dinodas and Dodinas, and Cousin Saradoc, who had emerged finally from the Master’s study, went out to the sledge to bring in the final item--the huge Yule log, which would be lit that evening before the feast.

The ladies and the children now began to hurry about the Hall, placing the decorations about. Smells began to waft through the passageways from the many kitchens, of baking and cooking, and Brandy Hall began to be very festive.

The Master stood with his oldest and dearest friend as they watched the activity. “Frodo seems very happy--much brighter than I’ve seen him in a while. He always has happy holidays when you are here, Bilbo.”

Bilbo chuckled. “My Baggins relations are always at me to stay home for the holidays,” he said, “but I say nothing beats Yule at Brandy Hall!”

Bilbo smiled indulgently, and pointed with his chin at Frodo, who had lifted Merry up to hang a ball of mistletoe. Merry’s eyes were wide with alarm at being up so high, but there was a set of determination to his chin as he hooked the ribbon over the nail above the doorframe. “I did it, Fro!” he gasped. “Let me down now!”

“It does my old heart good to see him enjoying himself so.” Bilbo sighed. He wished that Buckland were not so far from Hobbiton, and that he could see young Frodo more often. After Yule was ended and he returned home it would be three long months until the lad paid a visit to him at Bag End.

After luncheon in the main dining hall, presided over by the indulgent eyes of the Master and Mistress, and the Son of the Hall and his wife, came the time for presents from family. Tomorrow would be the day to give gifts to the servants, and to those friends who came to call.

Not every relation gave gifts to every other, and nor were they all new--many gifts had made several rounds of giving without ever making it back to the mathom rooms. But the Master and Mistress always made sure that every child and tween had at least one new gift.

When all was done, Merry and Frodo, their arms laden with their bounty, were shepherded back to the apartment by Saradoc and Esmeralda, accompanied by Bilbo.

The little family spent awhile in quiet activity in the small sitting room, with a treat of chestnuts roasting on an open fire, while Bilbo sat with Merry on his lap, Frodo sat on the floor in front of his beloved older cousin, leaning against his knee. Saradoc and Esmeralda sat on the settee, and all listened to Frodo read from the new book that had been his gift from Bilbo. It was a long and complicated poem about a mariner, and the lilting words soon put Merry to sleep. When Frodo finished reading, he carefully took his little cousin in his arms, and carried him to his room and put him on the bed. “I think I shall take a little nap myself,” he thought, and next to Merry’s warm little body, he drifted off to the sounds of the adults’ quiet conversation.

Sometime later, after they had a small tea--for no one wished to blunt their appetite for the marvelous feast of the evening, they all prepared for the evening, dressing in their best finery.

In his own room, Frodo chuckled at the sound of Merry’s protests, as his mother was combing his curls, head and foot. He fingered the fine weskit that had been his gift from Bilbo--a rich blue figured silk with silver buttons. Quite the fanciest and most grown-up bit of apparel he had ever had. He grinned as he buttoned it up, and admired himself in the mirror for a few minutes, before putting on his jacket of an even darker blue. There was a tap at the door.

The door opened, and Saradoc stood there. He had come to tell Frodo it was time to go down to the main dining hall for the lighting of the Yule log. But he stood there speechless for a moment. Frodo turned, to see tears standing in his cousin’s eyes.

The older hobbit coughed. “I am sorry, my lad, but you looked so very like your mother just now.”

Frodo came over and gave him a hug. “Thank you, Uncle Sara.” He blinked himself, and gave a little sniff. Saradoc returned his hug, and chuckled warmly.

“Come now, lad, it won’t do to show a sorry face to Merry and his mother.”

The four stopped by Bilbo’s nearby guest room, and then all five of them went down the sloped passage to the first level, where they were joined by the dozens of hobbits as they entered the main dining hall. The room was chill, for there was as yet no fire lit. All gathered about the huge fireplace, wide enough for a grown hobbit to stand in, though as Frodo had reason to know, with a chimney nowhere near wide enough for a teen to climb up. The great log was there, and laid about with kindling, and the Master of the Hall stood by, and the Mistress. Old Rory wore a splendid weskit of burgundy velvet, which matched the frock the Mistress wore. Both weskit and frock had been gifts from Saradoc and Esmeralda, who looked pleased to see them.

Rory called for attention, and there was instant silence. All the younger children were toward the front of the crowd, and the adults stood by in anticipation.

“This year, before the singing, we have something a bit special. Our dear Cousin Bilbo Baggins has brought us a marvelous gift.” He took a small pouch from an inner pocket of his jacket. “This is a powder, supplied by his friend the Wizard Gandalf, which should make our Yule log burn even more splendidly than usual.”

There were gasps and murmurs among the gathered relations, not all of whom approved of Cousin Bilbo *or* the Wizard Gandalf, but Rory turned and began to sprinkle the powder liberally on the mighty log and its kindling. Then he applied his striker, and the fire caught at the first try, a sign of good luck. As the small flames grew to a blaze, there were gasps of appreciation as the flames began to turn various colors: blue, green, violet, and red, in addition to the usual cheery yellow. They watched as the log caught, and then there was the signal to sing, beginning with "Buckland Yuletide".

This was soon followed by “It Is the Turning of the Year”, “Wassail, Wassail” and other favorites of the season. As the last notes were sung one of the children gave a cry of joy, and pointed out the window.

White flakes could be seen, swirling and dancing, between the windows and the darkness--there was a great cheer from the children who rushed toward it jumping about and shouting “Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!”

The adults were hard put to calm their excitement, but the smells as the servants began to bring the food in to lay upon the waiting tables were soon enough to claim the younglings’ attention.

The tables were groaning with food--Old Rory was not called “Goldfather” for nothing, and he was determined to surpass his father’s reputation for hospitality and the generosity of his table. The hobbits ate. And ate. And ate.

But soon enough, some were slipping away--the musicians went to fetch their instruments; Esmeralda fetched her fiddle, Uncle Dinodas fetched his flute, Cousin Seredic his squeezebox, and Uncle Rufus brought out a drum. Then the work began of moving the tables over to the walls to make room for dancing.

Merry hung back, looking on a little wistfully. He would not be able to stay for the dancing until next year when he was seven. He felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to Cousin Bilbo. “Are you ready for the story-telling?” he asked.

Merry nodded, his wish to watch the dancing evaporating, for Cousin Bilbo always took the little ones to the side parlor for story-telling. He did turn back for a moment, to watch as Frodo was assisting to move tables.

Bilbo chuckled. “Frodo will be along shortly, Meriadoc. He likes to dance, but he likes to hear the stories as well as any of you younger ones. Let him have a few dances first, shall we?”

And Merry nodded, and took Bilbo’s proffered hand, and they went to the parlor where a cheery fire burned, and some of the aunties and lass cousins who were not so fond of dancing were already waiting with many of the little ones. He saw Pimmie, and there were Pervinca and Melilot, who were barely faunts, and several other cousins. He plopped himself down next to Berilac, who had claimed a prize spot by the hearth, near the armchair where Bilbo always sat.

The old hobbit sat down, and began with the children’s favorite, his story of the trolls he had met with in his Adventure. He had told it so often that he often believed that was the way it had really happened…

He was telling the tale of Bandobras the Bullroarer and his battle with the goblins when he saw Frodo slip in and sit down by Merry, who, without even looking up, snuggled into his lap.

Bilbo continued weaving his spell of words until the fire had nearly died out and almost all the smaller children, including Merry, had dozed off. Parents or older siblings came in and claimed their children, and Bilbo got up, and Frodo, carrying Merry. Off in the main hall, they could still hear the sounds of music and dancing.

“No, I’m rather tired. I’ll take Merry up to bed, and I think that I shall get some sleep myself.”

They returned to Saradoc’s apartment, and with the ease born of long practice, Frodo undressed his limp and sleeping cousin, and drew his nightshirt over his head, and tucked him into his bed.

Bilbo was in the sitting room, looking out at the snow. Frodo joined him at the window. “It looks like a winter wonderland,” he said with awe.

“It does, doesn’t it?” The older hobbit put a companionable arm on Frodo’s shoulder, and for a while, they stood and stared out at the peaceful and silent night.
_______________________________________________

AUTHOR: Dreamflower
RATING: G
CATEGORY: General
SUMMARY: Good friends gather in the White City to celebrate …

AUTHOR’S NOTES: (1) This takes place in the same AU as “Eucatastrophe”.In that AU, due to Gandalf realizing in time that the idea of the Three Elven Rings fading is one of Saruman’s lying curses, they do not fade, and are actually strengthened, and freed to do what they should have done all along. As an unexpected reward it is no longer a one-way trip to Valinor, and Elves there may return to Middle-earth if they so desire. Furthermore, in that AU, Saruman was killed by Quickbeam during the storming of Isengard, so even though there had to be *some* Scouring of the Shire due to Lotho, the destruction there was not as bad as it would have been otherwise.

(2) From Marigold--the theme is Yule, and the elements to include are: Heavy snow, Gondor and Aragorn.

DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

Wrapped tightly in his Elven cloak, his nose and cheeks berry red from the cold, Frodo watched with a grin as the older Gamgee children and Merry’s son and daughter, and Pippin’s oldest daughter darted about pelting one another--and attempting to pelt Legolas and Faramir‘s young son and daughter Elboron and Théorigithu--with snowballs across the courtyard of the old guesthouse in the sixth circle. A sudden gust of wind caused him to take a step to the side, and he heard a deep chuckle from above.

“Frodo,” said Gandalf, “I am neither a tree, nor a wind-break! Master Greenleaf is perfectly capable of watching the children. Let us step inside where it is warmer for my old bones.”

Frodo laughed, and watched his breath steam. “I suppose you are right, Gandalf. But I do love watching them; and I am given to understand that this snowfall is very unusual for Gondor.”

“It is, indeed, my friend,” the Wizard said, as he held the door open for Frodo to pass through beneath his arm. “It is rare for snow to fall heavily enough to stay on the ground in this clime. Even so, I do not expect this to remain more than a day or so.”

The sudden warmth as they stepped inside made Frodo’s frozen face and hands burn, and he gave a shudder at the sudden temperature change.

He glanced around the room, decorated with branches of laurel and cedar, rather than the holly and pine or spruce garlands one would find in the Shire, but looking cozy and homey all the same.

“Here, cousin!” called Pippin, from near the fireplace, where he was using a hot poker to mull wine. “Merry!” he shouted, “grab Fam!” for little Faramir Took, who was well into faunthood had started to toddle over to the hearth, his tiny hands outstretched.

Merry moved quickly. “No! Fam, you mustn’t go near the fire. Come with Uncle Merry!” He jiggled the child and swung him high overhead, gaining ear-splitting squeals of laughter.

Pippin heaved a deep breath of relief, and crossed over to hand Frodo and Gandalf goblets of mulled wine. “I think that child is going to be the death of me,” he sighed. “He doesn’t seem to know the meaning of the word ‘no’ when it comes to danger.” Then at the outburst of laughter that greeted these words he glared around at the others. “What?” he said crossly.

Frodo chuckled again. “Let’s just say that you are getting a taste of what it was like to watch *you* as a faunt.”

“I beg to differ, Peregrin Took!” said Merry. “Shall I start telling stories?”

Pippin gave a long suffering sigh, and prepared two more goblets, which he carried over to his son’s namefather and his wife.

Faramir sat on a bench with little Petunia Took on his knee, drowsing in the crook of one arm. When Pippin handed Faramir the mug, she smiled at her father. But when he reached to take her, she shook her head, and snuggled closer to the Man.

Faramir grinned at him, as little Pet turned and said “I like Unca ‘Mir, Papa. He’s big and warm.”

Pippin looked a bit taken aback, as his daughter turned back into the large and snug arm enfolding her.

Pippin scooted up to sit on the bench between Faramir and his wife. Éowyn smiled down at him. She had Petunia’s twin Pansy in her own lap, and cuddled there as well was tiny little Primrose Gamgee, only ten months old. She shook her head at his offer of a goblet.

Pippin fixed Faramir with a mock glare. “My prince, if I didn’t know better, I would think that you and your lady are trying to steal my daughters--and Sam’s as well!”

Éowyn laughed. “Well, it seems you might miss yours. But Sam has so many. Do you think he might not notice if we kept just the smallest one?” she asked playfully.

Merry had come to stand at her elbow. “Don’t you believe it, my lady! Sam and Rose count each and every one of their chicks morning and evening!”

“Not to mention,” said Frodo from the other side of the room, “that her doting Uncle Frodo might very well take it amiss!” Everyone laughed, and then Frodo asked “Speaking of Sam and Rose, where are they? Not to mention Estella and Diamond? And Gimli, for that matter?”

“Is there something wrong with your nose, cousin?” asked Pippin. “Can’t you tell they are all in the kitchen preparing a wonderful Yule feast?”

“Now that you mention it--” Frodo began, when the door burst open, and in came the swarm of cold and rosy cheeked children from the courtyard, followed behind by the lightly clad Elf, looking no different than he ever did.

“It appeared to me,” said Legolas, “that in spite of their protests, these younglings were becoming overcold, so I insisted it was time to come in.”

The parents all moved toward their offspring with various reproaches on their lips. Éowyn handed the Gamgee baby to Frodo, and little Pet and Pansy were placed upon the bench and told firmly to stay put by their father.

The children’s blue lips indicated that Legolas had made them come inside none too soon, and soon they were being stood near the fire and divested of their damp outer clothing.

Frodo watched the scene for a moment more, and as soon as he realized he was unneeded, for Elanor and Frodo-lad were expertly handling their younger brothers and sisters, he wandered into the kitchen with little Primrose, who had begun to show signs of hunger.

Rose was stirring something in a pot that smelled savory and delicious. She glanced up. “Ah, she’s ready to be nursed!” she exclaimed. Sam looked over, and closed the oven door on something he had just put in, and came over to the hearth to take over the stirring for his wife. She took the baby and went to a corner, where a small rocking chair, just the right size for a hobbit, was placed. She arranged herself and the baby’s blanket modestly.

Gimli and Diamond were cutting vegetables at the small table in the center of the room, and Estella was using the special step-stool to take dishes down from the cabinet. Frodo went over, so that she could hand them to him, rather than having to climb down with each armload.

Frodo shook his head. “The King and Queen have not arrived. He had to hold court today, for this is not a holiday as such, here in Gondor. And of course their guests will arrive with them. Still, they should be here any--”

Frodo grinned up at Estella. “As I was about to say, ‘any minute’. Excuse me, Estella dear.”

He found that Aragorn and Arwen had arrived with the other guests from the Citadel: there was the Court Bard, Menelcar, and young Bergil, now twenty-four years old, and serving as a King’s Messenger. In her arms, Arwen carried the tiny Prince and heir to the throne, little Eldarion, only two months old.

And there was Lord Elrond of Rivendell, and his lady, Celebrian, newly returned from Aman only the year before. The new arrivals were nearly being smothered by enthusiastic young hobbits, eager to give hugs and kisses to their friends.

After pleasantries were exchanged, Rose came from the kitchen to announce that the meal was nearly ready, and they had better get the tables prepared.

In a trice, in the large room adjoining the kitchen, a large trestle table was quickly set up, and dishes placed upon it. There were hobbit sized chairs for the Shirefolk, and cushions for the Big Folk to sit upon. A separate small table had been set for the children, with Elanor and Frodo-lad Gamgee and Elboron of Ithilien in charge of the younger ones.

Soon the meal had been brought forth, and placed hobbit-style upon the table. There was a huge tureen of mushroom soup made with dried mushrooms, and redolent with the smell of leeks and garlic. There were roasted chickens, and medallions of beef braised in wine, and pork cooked with ale and apples. There was a slaw of beets and carrots, and there were roasted potatoes and parsnips, and mashed turnips, and several kinds of breads, and butter and cheese, and strawberry and blackberry jam. For afters, there were fruitcakes and mince pies and cherry tarts and plum puddings and sugar biscuits and gingersnaps.

The Big Folk soon began to lag behind while the hobbits seemed to just be getting started, yet eventually the meal came down that part of the feast called filling up the corners.

Frodo, who sat with Aragorn on one side, and the Lady Celebrian on the other, enjoyed himself immensely. He had been reluctant when the King’s summons came in late summer: for the King’s Councillors--which consisted of all the four Travellers: Frodo, head of the Baggins family, Samwise Gamgee, Mayor of the Shire, Peregrin Took, Thain of the Shire, and Meriadoc Brandybuck, Master of Buckland, to come to the South, to Minas Anor as the White City had reclaimed her old name, to be present for the birth of the Heir to the Throne of Gondor and Arnor. They would stay through the winter, and in the spring travel back to the North with the King’s Progress, to the newly built City of Annúminas. There the King would stay for two years, establishing his Northern Kingdom.

Frodo had feared that a return to the places where he had known his darkest sorrows would somehow bring on a return of the melancholy that he had long put behind him. Yet he had soon discovered that while he did still have some sorrowful memories, they had no power over him any longer.

And he had discovered quite a kindred spirit in Lady Celebrian. She had been pleased to tell him that Bilbo still lived when she had left Tol Erresea, and though immensely old, and no longer able to get around, his mind had regained its sharpness and his memory was clear.

“He still thinks of you with fondness, Frodo, and he does not mind that you did not stay with him there. He was pleased, though, that you had accompanied him on the voyage, and had at least a glimpse of the Blessed Realm. I do not think he has very many years left to him, but he seems quite happy with the fact that it is unlikely that any other hobbit shall ever catch up to him in age!”

“I am looking forward, Lady Celebrian, to our journey back in the Spring. We will be stopping in Lothlórien. I look forward to seeing the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn again.”

“As do I,” Celebrian replied. “I especially look forward to meeting my new little sister, Indis.”

They chatted a bit more, and Celebrian told Frodo some anecdotes of some of the things Bilbo had been doing, and Frodo spoke to her of his sojourn in Lothlórien, years before, on the Quest.

The meal soon was ended, yet no one really wished to leave the table or the congenial company.

Pippin grinned. He needed no coaxing; he stood up, and raised his sweet tenor in a traditional Yule song of the Shire.

“Again! Again” came the cry of the assembled merrymakers! So Pippin began the song once more, this time accompanied by Menelcar’s harp. Halfway through several of the other hobbits joined in.

When he had finished with that one, he grinned. “Let’s show these Big Folk how the Shirefolk can harmonize! Shall we sing ‘The Turning of the Year’?

At several eager call of assent, Pippin began the first line, joined by Frodo, Sam and Merry. When they began to sing the third line, the hobbit lasses began at the beginning of the song, and as the lasses reached the third line, the piping voices of the hobbit children joined in.

“It is the turning of the year,
In the mid-winter, bleak and blear--
While the weather is dark and drear
When we find joy and good cheer!
For friends and kin from far and near
Gather with all that they hold dear.
Away with sorrow, away with fear:
And with good song, good food, good beer,
Welcome the turning of the year!”

Frodo glanced around the room, at the smiling faces of Men and Elves and one Dwarf, and the eager faces of his fellow hobbits. Yes. “Friends and kin from far and near”--how glad he was that he had come.
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*In JRRT’s universe, it would have been F.A. 14, as the New Reckoning did not begin until the Ringbearers went West. But in this AU, the Fourth Age began when the Ring went into the Fire.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This story takes place in S.R. 1433 (actually going into 1434 on 1 Afteryule) . Merry’s children are: Simbelmynë 9, called Wyn, ( 6 in Man years) and Peridoc, called Perry, 8 (5 in Man years ). Pippin’s children are Primrose, called Primmie, 5 ( 3 in Man years) Pansy and Petunia, called Pet, twins 4, (2 ½ in Man years) and Faramir, called Fam, 3 ( 18-20 months in Man years. Elboron is 10, Théorigithu is 5 ( or 16 and 7 in Hobbit-years).

“And I could say the same of you, Master Elrond. It is very good to be once more in the Last Homely House.”

“Far less eventful than my first visit,” the hobbit chuckled. “It was very pleasant to go the whole way upon the same pony, with no side-trips through goblin-mines or up in the air with Eagles or down rivers atop barrels, and no dragon at the other end to singe my heels.”

The lord of Rivendell smiled at this description. “Have you given any further thought to my invitation?” he asked gently.

The elderly hobbit turned a bright and clever eye up to his host. “And are you so very sure that you wish to have a lowly hobbit take up space here indefinitely? I am afraid that you might find my presence a bit trying at times.”

“I think,” Elrond said, looking down at his guest with affection, “that we would find ourselves very honored to have a hobbit of such distinction make his retirement here in Rivendell.”

“I would not expect you to. But I know that you will be courteous enough not to smoke indoors in any of the common areas.”

“Of course. Well, in that case, I should truly be glad of taking your offer of a home here, for I have always been very fond of Rivendell, ever since I first set foot here over fifty years ago. It’s a most remarkable and unforgettable place you know.”

“Very well then, I hope, Bilbo Baggins, that you will not take it amiss that I anticipated your answer, and have prepared a place for you? I have even placed there some of the items you left here for safekeeping on your way to Dale.”

Filled with amazement at this revelation that his stay had been foreseen, Bilbo followed his host down a wide and airy passageway. Elrond opened a door all the way at the end, and Bilbo stepped through.

He gazed about in astonishment. They were in a large, but not overly large, room with a cheery fire blazing on the hearth. An assortment of furniture was placed about the room, with seats of varying sizes, that would accommodate a hobbit or a Dwarf, or any Elf or Man who might visit. Beneath one of the wide windows overlooking the valley was placed a small desk of hobbit size.

“In addition, there is a sleeping chamber through *that* door--” Elrond indicated a small round door at the opposite side of the room. “The bed and other furniture there are all of hobbit size. There is also a bathing room, and a very small kitchen.” He pointed to another door to the left of the room, opposite the window. “You are free to take your meals here or join us in the dining hall, as it please you, and we hope that you will honor us with your presence in the Hall of Fire in the evenings.”

“Oh my! Oh dear!” The old hobbit sniffed and reached for a pocket handkerchief. He blew his nose, and cleared his throat. “I did not imagine that you would go to such trouble for such an insignificant fellow as myself, Master Elrond.” He turned, suddenly and impulsively, and hugged his host about the knees, and then jumped back in dismay. “Oh, I am sorry for presuming! But I was quite overcome by your kindness!”

Elrond smiled down, and placed a hand comfortingly on the curly head. “Not at all, my dear friend, I am very glad to have you here, as I hope this may show. Now, I shall leave you to get acquainted with your new home, and I hope that we may expect you to dine with us this evening.” He gave a polite half bow, and went from the room.

Bilbo looked about him, seeing placed here and there a few of the cherished treasures he had brought away from Bag End, mostly things of sentimental import, and which he had left here for safekeeping when he had journeyed on to Dale. It was not Bag End, by any means, but it was cozy and welcoming and altogether homely.

“Well, hullo, Dumpling.” Pippin put down the letter he had been reading to stroke the ginger cat, who had come to rub her head insistently against his elbow. She gave a soft mewl of pleasure, and flopped over to expose her belly for more petting. He chuckled and obliged. It was a pleasant Afterlithe morning, not yet too warm. He had come out to the front step of Crickhollow to finish his tea from elevenses, enjoy a pipe, and read his letter from Faramir.

Merry wasn’t home today. He had gone out early, right after first breakfast, and wouldn’t be home until the next day, to pay a visit to Estella at Budgeford.

Pippin and Merry had only just returned from Bree the day before, taking messages from their fathers and from Frodo to the King’s Messenger who awaited there, and receiving dispatches in return. When the hobbit delegation returned from the South, Pippin hoped the two of them would be able to cut the message runs from once a month to every other month. He had never thought that riding out like that could get old--but it had, and even the excellence of the beer at The Prancing Pony did not make up for having to go away from home every month.

Still, it had been very pleasant to get a personal letter from Faramir, and he had saved it to read until they had arrived home.

It was good to hear from his friend. Faramir said he and Éowyn had begun to establish their new home in Ithilien, Emyn Arnen, and were quite pleased with it. Beregond was doing well as the Captain of his Guard, though he missed his son Bergil. They had received a letter from Bergil, penned in Tharbad, and he had waxed enthusiastically over his visit to the Shire, and had told them much about Pippin’s home and family.

Pippin had to admit to himself that he greatly missed his good friends, though he was happy with his life here in Crickhollow with Merry. What a shame that they were all so far away. Well, Strider had promised to come North one day and establish Arnor--maybe he would be able to see more of them when that happened.

He had stopped stroking the cat. Dumpling rolled over, and began to knead his leg, and then to climb into his lap.

He bent his head and buried his face in her warm fur, as she purred. Not all his friends were in the South. And some of them had four legs, a tail, and a lovely soft purr.

(AUTHOR’S NOTE: Merry is 11, Pippin is 3--or 7 and about 18-20 months in Man-years)

“Since when have I ever embarrassed you?” asked Pippin saucily, knowing very well he would be daring Merry to open the floodgates.

“Aha!” Merry leaned back his chair, and put his hands behind his head. “Let’s see--I guess the first time was when you were just a faunt…*
_____________________________________

Merry sat with Pippin on the step in front of Brownlock’s dry goods store. His father and Uncle Paladin had gone inside to purchase some pipeweed, and their mothers and Pippin’s sisters had gone to the dressmakers, for Pearl was to have a new dress for the coming Lithedays celebration at the Great Smials.

He had taught the faunt at his side how to clap, which Pippin had taken to with enthusiasm, until his clapping was beginning to hurt Merry’s ears.

“Here, Pip,” he said, catching the little one’s hands. “let’s play peek-a-boo!” He grinned engagingly at his tiny cousin, who at first had pouted on having his clapping stopped. But Pippin’s green eyes grew wide, as Merry put his hands over his own eyes. This was a game his Pippin had always loved, and it usually made him crow with laughter.

Instead, he felt a movement at his side. He yanked his hands down to see that Pippin had moved quickly, and was a good ten feet away.

“Mer! New game! Can’t cats me!” he trilled, and took off running down the street.

Merry was for just an instant paralyzed with shock. He’d no idea that Pippin had learned to run so fast in just the few months since he’d last seen him. But he quickly jumped up to give chase. “Pippin! Stop! Come back!”

His answer was a squeal of laughter, as Pippin’s little cap flew from his head, and landed a few feet behind. Merry paused briefly to snatch it up in passing, only to see that the tiny delay had given his little cousin more of a lead.

“Cats me, Mer!” he squealed, and the next thing Merry knew, the little green weskit was flying through the air in his general direction. Again he paused. Aunt Tina would kill him if he let Pippin’s new clothes get lost. But then again, she’d kill him even worse if he let Pippin get lost.

As he hurried down the street, yelling for Pippin to stop, he suddenly realized that Pippin’s shirt and breeches were lying on the ground. Wondering *how* the lad had removed them, he paused once more to collect them. Then he glanced up to see Pippin far down the street, clad in only his nappy! His face flushed with embarrassment at the sound of laughter from the passers by.

He put on a burst of speed, as he saw Pippin pause briefly and give a little wriggle. Oh no!

The nappy fell to the ground, and Pippin, completely unencumbered by a single stitch of clothing, continued his dash, laughing “Cats me, Mer!” once more.

Pippin was nearly even with The Leaping Hare, Tuckborough’s most popular inn--just as a hobbit was coming out.

Pippin collided with the hobbit, and landed on his bare little bottom with a thump. Merry put on a burst of speed, and as he drew near, realized just who his little cousin had run into.

It was Thain Ferumbras. He bent down and picked up Pippin, whose eyes widened in surprise, and held him out at arm’s length.

The Thain fixed Merry with a glare. “Here, young Brandybuck. I think you have lost something.”

Merry swallowed hard. His arms were full of Pippin’s clothes, but he rather awkwardly took Pippin from the older hobbit, his face burning with shame.

Pippin on the other hand, gave Merry a toothy grin. “Good game, Mer! He cats’d me!” and planted a smacky wet kiss on his favorite cousin’s cheek.
___________________________________
*From my story “A Conspiracy of Hobbits”, Chapter 19 http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterview.asp?sid=1707&cid=7340

Title: A Long And Weary Night
Author: dreamflower02
For:writerj
Rating: G
Summary: Pippin spends a restless night in Minas Tirith before the siege…

Pippin tossed fitfully in the cot they had placed for him in the chambers assigned to Gandalf. His mind was running in circles over the events of the last few days, and the things he had seen and heard.

That's what he'd always been told he was; a Took's Took, they called him, and as impulsive as they come.

Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and the Lord and Steward of the realm, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or in plenty, in peace or in war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me or the world end. So say I, Peregrin son of Paladin of the Shire of the Halflings…

It had seemed a good idea at the time--to offer his service as a way to pay his debt to Boromir. And he did not regret offering his life to the City Boromir loved.

But Lord Denethor was another matter altogether. Pippin had to admit it, he'd been stung by the dismissive look, almost of scorn-- "--a Halfling still, and little love do I bear the name--" "how did you escape and he did not?" The words and the tone were obvious: Why did my son spend his life for something of as little value as you?

But he had accepted Pippin's oath, and Pippin had for a moment thought him also accepting of Pippin's value.

"…fealty with love, valor with honor, oath-breaking with vengeance…
oath-breaking with vengeance…oath-breaking with vengeance…

For he quickly realized he had simply been used as a pawn, to annoy Gandalf, and to lull Pippin into revealing more of the Quest than he should. He hoped he had kept a guard upon his tongue for once, but Gandalf told him he had revealed more than he meant to. Still, as stern as Denethor was, Pippin had pulled his courage together to try and serve him as best he could, in the face of the horrible odds that were against them. "Just a fool's hope." Gandalf had said to him.

And then there had been Faramir. Faramir, who reminded him so of Boromir, Faramir, whom Boromir had spoken of, so often and so fondly--"my little brother," Faramir who had brought him both hope and despair.

For he had seen Frodo and Sam. He had seen them, alive and well, though in company with that horrid little monster, Gollum. And Pippin had felt his heart lift at the news, and wished there were some way to tell Merry that Frodo and Sam were all right. But then Faramir had uttered those mysterious words "Cirith Ungol" which seemed to strike dread even into Gandalf's countenance, and Pippin had felt the chill of despair once more, though he'd no idea of the import of the name. Anything that could frighten Gandalf the White, who had slain a Balrog and returned from the abyss, had to be something horrid indeed.

Pippin felt a sob threatening, and swallowed it down painfully. "Frodo! Oh, Frodo! What use have I been to you at all? Merry should have kept me from coming after all--I've been nothing but a walking obstacle to you since we left the Shire."

Yet it had all seemed so simple when he‘d insisted on coming along. He remembered the afternoon at Bag End, when he and Merry had been left there alone. How angry Merry had been when he discovered Pippin had known about Frodo leaving all along, and that Pippin had every intention of coming as well! Their quarrel had been bitter, sharp, and soon over, as Merry finally admitted to being relieved. They'd decided to bake some scones for tea, to surprise Frodo when he returned from his errands…

"Merry?" said Pippin quietly, as he took the two large blue nesting bowls from the cupboard. They'd not said a lot since they made up their quarrel, such a rare thing for them that it still felt a bit sore.

Merry looked up from the basket of eggs. "I know you didn't Pip. I'm sorry I was so angry with you. It frightened me, rather, to think you wanted to come into such danger when I‘d been to such pains to keep you out. But you've not done anything to me that I'm not doing to Frodo. I'm glad there are no more secrets between you and me, anyway."

Pippin glanced over at him startled. "But still between us and Frodo." He'd not thought of it that way before. "Merry, is Frodo going to be as angry with us as you were with me?"

"I hope so, for it won't last long or hurt so much as what I really fear--which is that he is going to be hurt and disappointed in us for spying on him."

Merry nodded. "A time or two. Not often. But this is going to be different, I'm afraid. You and I, Pip, we don't keep secrets, really--it's why this was so hard. But Frodo's always kept secrets."

Merry was quiet for a moment, as he measured out butter and buttermilk into the smaller bowl. Pippin measured the honey for him, and poured it in. "Currants," Merry muttered, "I wonder does Frodo have--oh, thanks, Pip." He put a couple of handfuls in and began to whisk the mixture.

"I can almost always tell you what Frodo's *feeling* about something. I've known him long enough, after all. But I can hardly ever tell you what he's *thinking* about something. He's close about himself, Pippin, you know that."

Pippin took down the flour box, and began to measure the flour, baking soda, salt and cinnamon, which he stirred up with a large fork. He kept the flour box out--they'd have use of it again when it came time to knead the dough. "He is." Pippin was a bit surprised to realize that he did know this. He'd never thought about Frodo being close before--yet really, he was.

"I don't see how he can refuse, really," Merry replied. "Not when he knows we would follow by ourselves it he doesn't. He'd much rather have us ‘infants' under his eye than bumbling along behind him." Merry pulled such a droll face when he said it that Pippin grinned, and flicked some flour at him, and soon they had been laughing and having a flour fight…

And what good had he done Frodo after all? What use had he been to Frodo and Sam? Oh yes, he'd been told that he and Merry were to help keep Frodo's spirits up--but even that had ceased to be possible, especially after they had left Lothlórien. Poor Frodo, weighed down with that blasted Ring, and the cares of all the world on his shoulders!

Whatever had possessed him to run off the way he did? To leave his Merry and his Pippin behind? Of course, trying to protect them again. Pippin didn't know for certain, but he was quite sure Frodo had probably tried to leave Sam as well, only Sam had been too clever to be left.

He'd probably never know--no! No, he mustn't think that way! Frodo had been fine a couple of days ago--Faramir had said so! They *would* be all right! They had to be!

He thought once more of Faramir, how it had seemed just on seeing him, that this was someone he had known for a long time. Of course, Boromir had told them a lot about his brother…

"You are doing very well, my friends," Boromir had said, after practice one day. "I think that you are enjoying yourselves now."

Merry had grinned up at the Man. "It's fun, like rather a rough game, really. I never thought I would like it--I just thought it was something we needed to know."

Boromir had smiled down at them. "That's much like something my younger brother Faramir said, after I had begun to train him. He had never thought he would like weapons training until he began it." A wistful look came on his amiable face. "Of course, he still preferred to spend his time with his books; and I am afraid he only ever enjoyed sparring with me. But he was good. And he has been able to defend himself for a number of years now…"

And now poor old Boromir was gone. Tears welled up, and Pippin turned into his pillow, as he recalled the arrows--thunk! thunk! thunk!--he stuffed an edge of the pillow into his mouth to stifle his sobs. No point in waking Gandalf. Boromir's look of agonized apology, as he realized he could not save Merry and Pippin from capture--that was Pippin's last memory of his friend. He wept bitterly for a while, and then found himself tossing on the cot once more.

Why could they not have defended themselves better? Why couldn't help have been closer?

And another guilty thought--why had they allowed themselves to be captured alive? Surely if he and Merry had been slain, then Aragorn and the others would have followed Frodo, perhaps helped him, so that he would not be trotting around with that Gollum…

And then he felt even worse, for thinking it would have been better to be slain with Merry! How could he wish for his Merry to be slain? But he couldn't silence the tiny voice in the back of his head, that said--"At least you'd be together. Now you'll probably both die, hundreds of leagues apart--no comfort there."

Merry was with the Rohirrim and with good old Strider and Legolas and Gimli. They wouldn't let *anything* happen to his Merry! He was sure of that, if he was sure of anything at all. They'd take good care of Merry.

Though his heart gave a flutter at the thought of how Merry would fare if he should perish here in this horrible stone City. He knew, none better, the kind of grief that would claim his Brandybuck cousin.

And they hadn't even been able to talk after his folly. Merry had been angry. He'd turned away, wouldn't even meet Pippin's eye. He'd quickly forgiven him, Pippin knew, for though they'd not spoken, Merry's comforting hand had been on his brow, before Gandalf snatched him away on Shadowfax.

Pippin tossed a bit more, throwing off the light coverlet, which had begun to seem too heavy. He glanced over to where Gandalf was lying, and wished he could dare crawl in with the old wizard for comfort the way he had with his cousins when he was small. But he wouldn't dare now, not after what he'd done with the palantír.

"…anyway my dear hobbit, don't put a lump of rock under my elbow again!" "you knew you were behaving foolishly and wrongly…" "the burned hand teaches best…"

Today--today had not been so bad, standing at Denethor's side, waiting to run what errand he might be given, though the occasion had not arisen. Did Denethor even trust him to run an errand? Yet it had given Pippin hope he might yet prove useful.

But to listen to the way Denethor spoke so scornfully to Faramir, that had appalled him. The contempt, the derision, it made Pippin's heart ache. How did Faramir stand it?

His own father now, Paladin could be scornful enough, yet never, even when his father was angriest, even when Pippin was most frustrated, did he doubt Paladin's love for him.

"Peregrin, this essay on Bandobras is dreadful. Did you even *look* at any of the records? All you have here is what any hobbit knows from listening to tales! Where are the dates? Where are the facts? Why did Bandobras end up in the Northfarthing?"

"Peregrin Took!" his father roared, quickly gaining Pippin's full attention. "You had better show more respect! Perhaps I should cancel this year's visit to Bag End?"

"Father!" Pippin's agonized cry came from the heart. He'd not seen Merry or Frodo since Yule.

Paladin looked at him in grim silence. "No, I've a better idea. When Frodo and Merry arrive tomorrow, I will give Frodo a complete list of studies for you to complete while you are away. I know that he will see to it that you do not slack." His father breathed hard, for a moment, and then his shoulders had slumped in weary defeat. In a far gentler tone, he said "I don't know why, Pippin, but for some reason you care far more for the good opinion of your cousins than you do of mine. I would be foolish indeed to deprive you of the ones who can motivate you to do your best. Clearly it is not I."

His father's look of dejection had pierced Pippin far more deeply than his scorn and anger. With a wordless cry, he had hurled himself into his father's arms.

To wish Boromir alive was one thing. Pippin fervently wished it himself. But to wish his brother had died instead--that was more than Pippin's heart could fathom. How cruel, how cold…

He swallowed, and turned onto his other side, and then sat up briefly to turn his pillow over. He flopped back against it. He had to get some sleep somehow. Tomorrow, tomorrow, he would talk to Faramir. He would say *something* to him, to cheer him, to let him know how much Boromir had loved him, to let him know how brave he had been to let Frodo and Sam go…

He finally drifted into a fitful doze, broken by dreams of flame and shadow. When he awakened to the sounds of Gandalf moving about, the room was still dark and dim.

"It is morning, Peregrin. You must rouse yourself if you wish breakfast before you take up your duties."

With a sigh and a nod, he got wearily to his feet, washed from the cold water in the basin, and dressed in his livery. Truly, he'd not much appetite, but he went to the buttery, and availed himself of a small cup of thin ale and the bit of bread and cheese that he was allotted.

He still had a bit of time before he had to report to his lord. Perhaps he could speak to Faramir first. He saw Beregond hurrying down a corridor, and ran to catch him up.

"Beregond! Do you know where I might find the Lord Faramir?" he asked breathlessly.

The Guardsman stopped for a moment. "He is not in the City any longer, Pippin. He rode out just a short while ago. He has been sent to see to the outer defenses…" With a nod, Beregond hurried on. He was already on duty himself.

Would he ever see him again? Would he ever be able to repay the debt he owed him for his kind treatment of Frodo and Sam?

Perhaps. But right now he owed a duty to Faramir's father. He turned and made his way to report to the Steward.

Merry felt the familiar hands of his nursemaid take hold of him, and, startled let go of the doorknob.

“Master Merry!” Dahlia exclaimed reproachfully to the determined little faunt in her charge…..

He turned stormy eyes upon her. “I want Fro!” he said angrily. He wasn’t sure how many a “thousand” was, but he must have told her that at least that many times today.

Dahlia sighed. “Master Merry, you can’t go in there. Master Frodo has a cold, and you might catch it.” She thought they must have repeated this conversation a dozen times this morning.

“I won’t!” he said, digging in his little heels a bit as she tried to lead him away. It didn’t help, and he found himself trotting beside her willy-nilly as she led him back to the nursery.

She picked up his favorite toy, a stuffed pony from his Granda Rory on the Master’s last birthday. It was made of leather, and stuffed firm and hard, unlike the other rather squishy stuffed animals he had. It had realistic glass eyes and a mane and tail made of real pony-hair. She tried to hand it to him, but he turned his back on her, and clambered up to the window seat sullenly.

Shaking her head, Dahlia put the pony down, and leaving the door to the nursery open, she went back to Frodo’s room. She should have known there would be trouble with Master Merry. Frodo had wakened that morning with a stuffy head, sneezing and coughing, and running a low fever. The Hall’s healer had been in, and she’d said it was just a slight cold, and a day or so in bed with plenty to drink and a bit of willow-bark tea for the aches and fever, and he’d soon be fine. But of course, Merry was to be kept away from his cousin lest he get the cold as well--and there lay all the trouble.

For most of the time Master Merry was an easy child to care for, with a sunny nature, biddable, clever, and quick to learn. Dahlia was the first to admit that her job was far easier than most nursemaids--she’d only the one little lad to care for, and him so sweet-natured most of the time. And she had to admit as well, that much of the burden of her job was willingly taken off her hands by his older cousin--for Master Frodo doted on the little one, and it seemed to make him feel better to help care for the child. Dahlia couldn’t grudge him that, poor motherless orphan, who was so often sorrowful. She often missed her own parents, away at Whitfurrows, but she knew that she could visit them whenever she had the chance--at least they were still alive. Everyone knew that when Master Frodo was grieving, only Master Merry could cheer him up. But being as Frodo spoiled the child outrageously, when there was reason for them to be separated, it quite put Master Merry’s little back up. Few things made him upset, but being kept apart from his beloved older cousin was one thing that could be counted on to do so.

Usually his mum could distract him when he was in such a mood, but the Hall was very busy this week, and Mistress Esmeralda was in the kitchens, helping her mother-in-law supervise the putting up of the harvest.

Dahlia cracked the door to Frodo’s room, not knocking, in case he was asleep. He sat propped against his pillows, reading a book by lamplight, for there was no window in his room, which was an inner one.

“No, thank you, Dahlia! There is still some juice in the pitcher here.” His voice was still a bit thick, though not so raspy as it had been earlier in the morn.

He gave her a sweet smile, and shook his head. She backed out, and closed the door, and nearly tripped when she turned and found Merry underfoot.

He turned stormy grey eyes upon her. “If Frodo is cold, he needs me to make him warm.”

She took his hand a bit more firmly than she usually did. Really, he was making her quite cross this morning. “Back to the nursery, Master Merry!” she said sharply. “Master Frodo is *not* cold, he *has* a cold--that means he is a little bit sick, and if you go in there with him, then he could make you sick as well.”

Dahlia rolled her eyes. “He wouldn’t be able to help it Master Merry.” She pulled him back to the nursery once more.

Merry jerked away from her when they returned to the nursery, and sat down hard in the middle of the floor, and folded his arms, pouting. Why was Dahlia being so *stupid*? Frodo *needed* him. What was the matter with her? Frodo would not do anything bad to him, like make him sick! Anyone should *know* that! He bit his lip and glared up at her.

Dahlia tut-tutted and sat down in the rocking chair, with one of Merry’s little shirts to mend. He had somehow lost most of the buttons from it, and so she began to sew new ones on.

He watched her for a while, but though she was busy, she clearly would know in an instant if he tried to leave the nursery again. After a little while he tired of staring at her, and lay down upon the rug with his arms pillowing his chin. He kicked his feet for a while, until she looked up and shook her head at him. He closed his eyes to think. There *had* to be some way to get into Frodo’s room.

Dahlia finished with the little shirt, and then glanced over at him. Ah, he’d fallen asleep. Good, at least he would not be bothering her for a little while about going into Frodo’s room

She had begun to let down the hems on a pair of his breeches, when there was a knock on the outer door to the apartment. With a glance at the lad, who lay with his head pillowed on his arm, she put down the mending, and went to answer the door.

It was one of the maidservants, with the basket of laundry belonging to the family of the Son of the Hall.

Dahlia took the basket. “Hullo, Yarrow,” she said, “how are things going?”

Yarrow giggled. “The kitchens are *that* busy, that for once I am glad to be helping in the laundry! The Mistress has all the kitchen hobbits on the hop, I can tell you! In the main kitchen they are making apple butter--I took some clean dish towels in there, and the smell was wonderful!”

Merry had opened his eyes a slit when Dahlia had gone out of the room. But she had left the door open, and she would easily see if he tried to creep out. This was a real problem. He needed to see Frodo. If Frodo was sick that meant he felt bad. And when Frodo felt bad it was Merry’s job to cheer him up. Why was Dahlia being so silly about all this?

“Do you have time to come in for a bit, Yarrow?” Dahlia asked. She would not mind a bit of grown-up conversation right now.

“This was my last load to bring up,” her friend replied. “I’m in no hurry to get back down there right now. If there is not more laundry to be done, I might be sent to the kitchens.” She grinned. Most of the time she would not mind that at all, but this time of year it was far too much work.

Dahlia chuckled, and took the basket. She’d put it in the nursery for now--most of it was Master Merry’s clothes anyway. Yarrow followed her, and stood in the doorway as Dahlia put the basket on a table.

“Aw,” said Yarrow, looking at Merry, as he lay upon the rug. “He’s such a sweet picture.”

Dahlia gave a soft snort. But she looked at her charge fondly, and took a coverlet from his bed to spread over him. The two went out, and once again Dahlia left the door wide open.

They went to the small kitchen, and Dahlia put the teakettle on, and took out a tin of biscuits. Her master and mistress never grudged her aught when it came to food and drink, and she knew they’d not mind if she had her friend to join her for a bit of elevenses. They would go sit in the other room to have their tea, so she’d have a view of the nursery door, and would hear if Merry or Frodo should need her.

Merry heard the sounds in the kitchen, and raised his head up. Now would be his chance. Dahlia could not see the nursery door from the kitchen. But if she saw he wasn’t there, she’d come and check for certain. He sat up quickly. His eye lit on the bolster at the head of his little bed. It was the work of only a few seconds to pull it down to the floor and put the coverlet over it.

He heard the teakettle whistle, and scurried out, across the short passage and through his parents’ room. He turned the knob on Frodo’s door quietly, and slipped in. The lamp was burning low, and Frodo was snuggled down in his bed, making funny snorts and whistles as he breathed. But he was asleep, a little crease in his brow making Merry to know he must be having a sad dream. Merry closed the door, and quietly crept into the bed with his cousin, and patted him with a gentle hand, before snuggling up to him carefully. The crease smoothed out, and Frodo murmured something softly.
Merry smiled. “Love you, too, Fro,” he whispered.

Dahlia and Yarrow were enjoying a nice gossip in the sitting room. Dahlia kept glancing in the nursery door, but it did not appear that Master Merry had stirred even a little bit. Poor little lad, he was probably all wore out from trying to sneak into his cousin’s room.

Finally Yarrow put her teacup down with a sigh. “Well, this has been nice, but I’d better get back down to the laundry before they start wondering where I am. Does the family have any soiled laundry for me to take back with me today?”

Dahlia shook her head. “I don’t think so. Mistress usually gathers all that up on Sunday.”

As Yarrow left she bobbed a curtsy, for Esmeralda was coming in as she went out.

“I just thought I would pop in for a moment to check on my lads, Dahlia. How are they faring this morning?”

“Well, Master Frodo seemed to be breathing a little easier when I checked on him. And Master Merry was not happy with me for keeping him away from his cousin, but he’s fallen asleep now,” and the nursemaid nodded at the nursery door.

Dahlia came over to her mistress apprehensively. What could be wrong? Then she got a close up look at the “napping” figure on the floor.

Esmeralda shook her head, and marched to Frodo’s room, Dahlia trailing behind her. Opening the door, she was unsurprised at the sight which greeted her.

Frodo was sound asleep, but Merry was not. He lay next to his cousin, softly combing his little fingers through the dark curls. When he saw his mother, his eyes widened and he sat up.

Merry looked at her sternly. “Sshh, Mummy,” he whispered. “He’s sleeping.”

His mother stared at the sight, crossly at first, and then her expression softened. She chuckled and backed out, closing the door quietly.

Dahlia was apologetic. “I’m ever so sorry, Mistress! I don’t know how he slipped past me!”

Esmeralda shook her head ruefully. “I don’t know why we ever thought we’d be able to keep Merry out of there. At any rate, the damage is done, and if Merry’s to get a cold as well, it’s too late to prevent it.”

The first day of the journey from Cormallen to Osgiliath had passed pleasantly enough, thought Sam. They were taking it slow-like. The worst of the injured was being floated down in ships and barges, but he and Mr. Frodo and Mr. Pippin had been judged well enough to ride the nearly fifty mile journey in the wains. Sam was relieved. He knew that soon enough they’d have to take boats to get back across the Great River, but he was glad enough to make that as short a time as possible.

Their driver was a pleasant young soldier from Rohan, who had lost his horse in the big battle near the City, and then received a minor leg wound before the Black Gate. He had been full of questions about the hobbits and their homeland--a welcome change from questions about the last part of their journey.

Anwald, as was the driver’s name, had been especially interested in tales of Mr. Frodo and Mr. Merry as lads in Brandy Hall, and a few tales as had Mr. Pippin in them, too. He seemed right curious about the Shire, and Mr. Frodo was only too happy to speak of those happier days, afore anyone knew of such a thing as the Ring.

From time to time Legolas, with Gimli perched behind, would ride alongside and have a pleasant word or two, and once even Gandalf rode with them for a while, laughing and telling his own tales of hobbits.

But they saw neither hide nor hair of Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin, who were riding with their Kings, and busy with their duties. Sam had thought at first that the part about them being Knights was just one of Mr. Pippin’s jests, but it had soon become clear that the two of them really had been made Knights, and that they really had important tasks to do. He’d managed to get most of Mr. Pippin’s story out of Mr. Merry, who was so proud of his younger cousin Sam thought he might bust. And Mr. Pippin was always ready to brag on Mr. Merry, but now he just shone with pride when he spoke of him. Mr. Frodo was right proud of them both, but Sam could tell the stories bothered him no end, realizing what danger they’d been in, and blaming himself for putting them there. As if he would’ve had much choice in their coming along once they’d made their minds up.

No more choice than he’d had in Sam’s coming with him. And Sam was fairly certain that if Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin had not been caught by old Saruman’s Orcs, they’d’ve followed Mr. Frodo to the Black Land as well. Still, from what he could gather, it was as well that they had not. If they had not been able to do what they’d done, the Dark Lord might not have been so distracted that he had missed Frodo and Sam creeping across his land.

But now the army had come over a third of the distance to Osgiliath, and the wain had stopped for the night, and here they came, the two of them, taller than they’d any right to be.

“Hullo, Frodo, Sam,” called Pippin cheerily. “Our Kings sent us to invite you to join them--and us--for supper.”

“And they’ve said we may stay with you both tonight,” added Merry. For Frodo and Sam were to bed down in the back of the waggon.

Well, that was pleasant news. It was a nice little walk to the front of the line, where a great pavilion was set up for the Captains of the West and their guests. It was no fancy feast, such as they had been honored with in Cormallen, but a pleasant meal with good company. Still, Sam watched in amusement as Merry and Pippin saw to serving Aragorn and King Éomer, and then Frodo and Sam, and Gandalf and Legolas and Gimli, before they ever sat down to a plate themselves. There were a couple of other squires who were serving the rest--Elrond’s sons, and that Prince Imrahil and his sons, and a couple of other important people whose names Sam didn’t rightly yet know.

And after they had eaten, and the hobbits, and Gandalf and Gimli and Strider had lit their pipes, they’d had a nice talk, all of them. The conversation had somehow turned to how some of the Fellowship had known one another before they had all set out from Rivendell.

Legolas had mentioned that he had known Aragorn--”I had of course met him when he brought Gollum to my father’s halls; but our paths had crossed at least once before that, for I came to Rivendell on an errand for my father when he was a mere child. And Mithrandir was often a visitor to our realm.”

And Gimli had known Gandalf, and had met old Mr. Bilbo before, when Mr. Bilbo had gone back to the Lonely Mountain before he settled in Rivendell. “And though I met none of you rascals” and he had winked at the hobbits, “I felt as though I must have known you already, for Master Baggins was full of tales about his kinfolk and told us many a story about your younger days.”

And then Strider had let something drop that none of the hobbits had realized before. He was mentioning the message that had been sent to him from Gandalf, that his hobbit friends would be abroad and perhaps in need of assistance, and then the message brought to him from that Elf, Gildor--”I was a bit confused, for Gildor’s message mentioned three hobbits, yet Gandalf’s message was unclear as to whether I was to expect two or four--”

The hobbits exchanged quick looks, and Frodo had interrupted. “Two or *four*? Do you mean to say that Gandalf knew Merry and Pippin were coming?” He turned an accusing look on the wizard. “Gandalf? What made you think there might be *four* hobbits? I did not know myself that Merry and Pippin were planning to come until the night before we left the Shire!”

But Gandalf returned Frodo’s glare with a mild one of his own. “Let us say that I am observant. It was clear to me before I left you in early summer, that your cousins had tumbled to your plan to leave, and knowing them, I was fairly sure they would not allow you to slip away without them.”*

Now Merry and Pippin looked at one another in shock. “But Gandalf!” Merry started to protest, “How? How did you know?”

He looked down his long nose and chuckled. “Meriadoc, I *do* know hobbits. And when I see two hobbits who normally tell one another everything tiptoeing about and bursting with secrets, I can put two and two together to make four. I was, of course, uncertain whether Frodo would *allow* you to accompany him, but there was no doubt in my mind that both of you meant to try.”

Frodo glared at Gandalf. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you warn me they knew?”

“My dear Frodo! It was not mine to tell. And I felt in my heart that Meriadoc and Peregrin might have some part to play before all was over.”

Well, that had been a shock, and no mistake. But it had made Sam feel better anyway, about something that had bothered him all along--which was having told Mr. Merry about the Ring, after Gandalf had made him promise to keep everything secret. He looked up at the wizard and met his eye, and with a slow smile, Gandalf tipped him a wink.

The conversation had turned to other topics for a while. Sam could tell Mr. Frodo was getting weary, and Sam was stifling yawns himself.

Merry rose, and bowed to Éomer. “My liege, if you will excuse me, I believe it is time that we hobbits seek our rest.”

Belatedly recalled to his manners--for he had been sitting there with a distant expression making little balls out of bits of leftover bread before absently popping them into his mouth--Pippin rose to bow also. But his movements were a bit awkward.

Merry and Frodo, at the same instant, and with identical looks of concern said “Pippin!” But Aragorn had already put his hand out to the youngest hobbit. “Pippin, is your knee bothering you?”

“Well, my young knight, I think that I had better rub some ointment on it, and give you a mild draught, so that your sleep will be pain-free.”

The young hobbit rolled his eyes, but did not protest. He looked over at the other three. “You lot go on back and get settled in. I’ll be along in a few minutes.”

Rather reluctantly, the others did as Pippin urged them, and walked back to the waggon in which Frodo and Sam had ridden during the day. Anwald was already bedded down beneath it, and Sam clambered into the back, and began unrolling the blankets and bedrolls, and ignoring the quiet and earnest conversation Mr. Merry and Mr. Frodo were having a few feet away. Sam knew right well how that conversation was going--Mr. Frodo was apologizing again for dragging his cousins through “all this”, and Mr. Merry was doing his best to reassure him that he’d not “dragged” them anywhere. He was pleased to hear Mr. Frodo give a little chuckle, and to see Mr. Merry grab him in a quick embrace.

Then the two joined in helping Sam to arrange their little nest. They all divested themselves of their mail--Mr. Merry was wearing his as a matter of course, but Strider had insisted that Sam and Mr. Frodo continue to wear theirs until after they arrived in the City, just in case any stray enemies with arrows were lurking about. Sam nestled down next to Mr. Frodo, and Mr. Merry was on his cousin’s other side. Sam noticed that Mr. Merry kept his sword where he could reach it right off. He supposed that Mr. Merry’d move over to let Mr. Pippin in between when he got there.

They lay silently for a while, and soon Sam heard their breathing even out. But he wasn’t real sleepy himself, and he lay there thinking how good it would be to have them all four together once more.

When they had set out, and all the way up to the time they had been separated on the other side of the River, the hobbits had slept the same way--the old way. Mr. Merry on one end, next to Mr. Pippin, and then Mr. Frodo, and Sam on the other end. That’s how it was with hobbits. Mr. Frodo, he had to be protected ‘cause of the Ring, and Mr. Pippin, he was the youngest. So Sam and Mr. Merry, they took care of the other two.

He had missed that, when they’d gone off on their own. It would have been good to have extra eyes and ears, to know that someone else was sharing the burden of watching Mr. Frodo’s other side. But, Sam reminded himself yet again, the others had their parts to play.

Just then he heard a little clink, and felt the waggon move as Mr. Pippin climbed in. He carefully removed his mail as quietly as he could, and then began to lay down next to Sam.

“Mr. Pippin,” Sam hissed, “hadn’t you ought to be between your cousins?”

“Shh. Sam, this is fine. This is where I belong now.” He turned, so that he was facing outwards, and Sam was quite aware that, like Mr. Merry, Mr. Pippin had placed his sword in easy reach. Soon Mr. Pippin, too, was breathing quietly.

Sam felt an unexpected sting of tears, and blinked. It was the hobbit way, in strange places, to put the ones in need of protection in the middle. Mr. Pippin was right: he was a warrior now, a knight.

No, Mr. Pippin might still be a tween, but he was no longer a lad in need of cosseting or protection. And while Sam was sure he could still take care of himself just fine, thank you, it was rather heart-warming to think that Mr. Pippin could do that, too.

(This was written as part of Lindelea's "To Tell a Tale", in which various people tell stories to Pippin, in order to keep him a-bed, during a bout of illness in Minas Tirith, post-Quest.)

Pippin was now being encouraged to sit up for a little while, which was nice enough after lying in bed. But it came at a price: he had to let the healers rub his back and force him to cough. Of course, it was better than what they had done in the Shire when he‘d been sick--pound him on the back to make him cough. He had asked Strider about that and he had told Pippin that they were using gentler methods due to the recent injuries to his ribs. Then he had rubbed just so in a certain spot on Pippin’s back, and he had coughed so hard he saw stars.

Today it was one of the other healers. Strider was busy being King Elessar this morning. He had been told that Frodo was not having a very good day, either, and that Sam was with him. Pippin was worried about Frodo, and this being stuck in bed was no help in cheering his cousin up. And Merry was on duty standing watch over King Théoden’s bier. That meant that either Legolas or Gimli or perhaps both of them would come to sit with him. Not likely Gandalf, though he did come sit with him from time to time. Frodo had made it quite clear to the healers that he did not hold with the customs of Men when it came to leaving the sick alone and unattended by family or friends (although that was only in regards to Pippin--Frodo would just deny he was sick if he wanted to be alone. And he was stubborn enough for it to work on anyone but Sam.)

The healer gave his back one final gentle rub, and when the cough it produced was not very hard, she nodded. “I think we have most of the fluids out, at least for today. Now you need to sit up for at least an hour.”

Pippin nodded wearily. Coughing was hard work, and his ribs hurt anyway, but it was pleasant to be allowed out of the bed, to go and sit by the window in the small chair that had been found for him. He suspected it had come from some child’s nursery.

She helped him into his dressing gown, and watched him sit down, and then turned to leave and allow his visitor to come in.

Legolas gave an answering smile, and instead of pulling the larger chair over, he sat down on the floor next to Pippin and drew his long legs up tailor-fashion.

“It’s good to be out of the bed. I could do without all that infernal coughing though.”

Legolas nodded sympathetically. “Do you wish me to sing to you this morning?”

Pippin thought for a moment. “Perhaps before you leave. But I think I am more in the mood for a tale--nearly everyone has told me one save you.”

Legolas laughed, and Pippin’s heart lifted, as it always did to the sound of Elven laughter. “What sort of tale would you have of me then?”

“I was curious about something. Did you ever meet Bilbo when he came through your father’s kingdom on his Adventure?”

The Elf’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I was not introduced to Master Bilbo Baggins until sometime had passed after the Battle of Five Armies. But as to whether I met him before then…well, I shall tell you a tale, and let you be the judge…

“My father was furious at the interruption to one of our feasts--not just once, but repeatedly in one night. Perhaps if he had not been so angry, he would not have left the Dwarves asleep in the dark after their last attempt to, as he thought it, waylay, our people at their merriment. For I assure you it was not his habit to leave people to the mercy of the spiders--still he was very angry.

He had taken old Thorin captive, and as the answers he was receiving, or should I say, not receiving, did not suit him, he sent orders for the remainder of the intruders to be captured. He was determined to find out what was going on, and also, as I said, he was not accustomed to leaving travelers in danger however unwelcome they might be.

Well, of course as Bilbo has often told, soon they were all captive, and most surly and uncooperative captives they were.

Once we had taken them, though, I thought about them little. I was often away leading patrols, and protecting my father’s kingdom.

I came home after about three days, at one point, and found the whole court abuzz about mysterious happenings. Food and wine seemed to vanish inexplicably. If we had any children there, it would have seemed to be merely childish pranks, but I was the youngest Elf in Mirkwood. It had been long since my father’s people had brought children into the world…”

“Why is that?” asked Pippin sadly, remembering Treebeard’s sad tale of the Entwives.

Legolas shrugged. “Most felt that the Wood was too dangerous for children, and were waiting, I suppose for better times. It is different for Elves than for mortals, you know. We do not need a child to carry our memory forward, and only have children when we are certain that they will be loved and safe.”

“But how could you ever be certain?” asked Pippin. “I mean, even Elves should know that there is always some kind of danger around. It’s a wonder you have children at all.”

The Elf gave the hobbit a bemused look. The young Took was often wiser than expected from one of his youth, and frequently showed flashes of insight that were surprising. “You are right, of course, but in those years it seemed wisdom to many.”

“Not having been there when these things had happened, I tended to dismiss it as silly talk. I thought perhaps that some had absent mindedly mislaid things, and then, as folk of all kinds will often do, sought to lay blame on others.

Of course, sometimes others are to blame, yet this seemed highly unlikely.

The second time I came home, I heard more of these tales. I began to think that some of the court had simply lost their wits. Talk of ghosts is not taken seriously by most Elves, and my father was getting peeved at some of these rumors and tales.

That evening, I decided that I wanted to have a late night snack. I came down to one of the kitchens. I poured myself a goblet of wine, and then went to the pantry to see what I could find. I came out with some bread, some ham, a hard sausage, and some fruit. I picked up my goblet, and noticed that it was only half-full. I was puzzled, but decided I had not poured it full after all. I sliced some of the ham and sausage, and tore off an end of the bread, and put on my plate. Then I bethought me that some cheese would be good, so I went back into the pantry to get one. When I returned, I noticed that there were not so many slices of meat as I had thought. I felt a disturbance in the air.

‘Who’s there?’ I said, and then laughed as I saw the kitchen cat, dashing under the table. It stopped, turned, and hissed at nothing, before shooting out the door. Well, of course, I thought then that I had found the thief, and was much relieved at this prosaic explanation. Obviously the cat had made off with some of the meat I had sliced. And so I thought for a good long time.

But after I learned of Master Baggins, and his ring of invisibility, I have quite changed my mind over what happened, and absolved the poor cat of all blame.

Pippin laughed. “I’m quite sure that you did, Legolas! I should have liked to see your face!”

Pippin sighed then, and looked a bit serious. “Legolas, why couldn’t the Ring have been what Bilbo thought it was, just a useful trinket? Why did it have to be the Ring? And how was it that Bilbo used it so much and so long without it claiming him?”

Legolas shook his head. “I am sure that Bilbo took so little harm from the Ring because It was mostly asleep when he possessed it, and too, he had no idea that it was more than he thought it. It never occurred to him to gain power through it. He simply used it to help his friends and to hide. There was no greed or ambition there to wake the Ring up.”

“I suppose,” Pippin said thoughtfully. “A ring of invisibility would be rather useful at times, but I certainly would not want one now.” He sighed and then smiled. “So, would you sing me that song now?”

(This is for Gryffinjack, who asked me for a "gap-filler for a gap-filler", in my story "A Conspiracy of Hobbits". She wanted to know what Merry would have told Pippin, after they came to Bag End, and found Frodo in a deep depression over having to leave Bag End with the Sackville-Bagginses.)

When the two looked into the study from the doorway, they saw complete disarray. Papers and books were piled on every surface; but Frodo was sitting in the middle of the floor, his face as bleak as winter.

“Pip, go on back out, and see if Sam can find something for you to do,” he whispered.*

Pippin stepped outside Bag End’s front door and pulled it closed behind him. Taking a deep breath, he tried to calm himself. He had *never* seen such a look on Frodo’s face before. He stood there, stricken and sick at heart. If he had Lotho Sackville-Baggins there in front of him at that moment, he did not think he would be able to answer for what he would do to him.

Pippin gave a start, and glanced down to his right, where Sam knelt in the flower bed. “Sam? Merry said to ask you if I could help you with something?” The tweenager’s voice was forlorn.

Sam’s father would no doubt have sent Pippin off saying that it wouldn’t be proper for him to be helping in the garden, but Sam looked at the lad’s confused face, and nodded. He handed Pippin a pair of snippers. “Aye, Mr. Pippin. Them asters under the windows need dead-heading.”

Pippin took the snippers gratefully, and began clipping off the spent blooms. The two worked quietly for a while; Pippin was uncharacteristically silent, speaking only enough to ask Sam what to do next. And Sam was even more worried about his master than he had been, to see the stricken look on the Took lad’s face. His own face grew stormy as he mentally began to apply some of his Gaffer’s most choice hard words to Lotho Sackville-Baggins.

They were preparing to lay down a barrow-load of mulch when the door opened and Merry stepped out. Sam and Pippin turned sharply, and looked hopefully over at him.

Merry bit his lower lip, and then answered their unspoken questions. “I persuaded him to have a bit of a lie-down. Sam, will you come in and take tea with Pippin and me? We need to have a talk about the Sackville-Bagginses.

Sam nodded. He and Pippin left the spades in the barrow, and followed Merry into the kitchen.

After scrubbing up, Pippin put the kettle on, while Merry and Sam cut some sandwiches, and then they sat down to the kitchen table for a council of war. “For,” said Merry, “as far as I am concerned, that’s what it is. They’ve no right to keep coming round and giving Frodo grief.”

The three of them talked a bit, and then finally Merry said, “So, then, it’s agreed. Sam, the next time those pestiferous S.-B.s show up, you fetch *me* instead of Frodo, and I shall sort them out.”

“Aye, Mr. Merry.” Sam nodded. Perhaps that wasn’t proper, but he was fed up with them coming round and bothering Mr. Frodo. Bad enough they were getting Bag End anyway, in a few days. No need at all of them pestering his master this way. He stood up. “Well, Mr. Merry, Mr. Pippin--I need to be getting myself back down to Number Three. Marigold’s making a shepherd’s pie for our supper tonight.”

“Of course, Sam!” replied Merry. “We’ll see you tomorrow.” Merry averted his eyes. He did not want Sam reading too much into his statement. He had agreed not to pump Sam for any more information, and he did not want the gardener to think he was trying to do that, even by implication. And he didn’t want to raise any questions from Pippin either. He had wondered once or twice if Pippin didn’t suspect something, but he put it down to his own nerves. He *hated* keeping secrets from Pippin. But he couldn’t risk dragging his young cousin into the same danger.

After Sam left the two of them took out their pipes, for a smoke before they did the washing up. They still were not talking much.

“*Is* Frodo going to be all right?” Tears sprang to the green eyes. “I’ve never seen a look like that on Frodo’s face before. It was like his whole world had ended.”

“I think it has, Pip,” said Merry softly. “I’ve seen that look on his face before, though not for a long time. I guess the last time was when he came to visit in Buckland, that first fall after he had moved here.” Merry blew out a stream of smoke, and looked thoughtful.

Pippin twitched a rueful smile. “Well, I can scarcely help not having been born yet,” he said, with a feeble attempt at lightness.

Merry nodded, his own tiny smile acknowledging Pippin’s effort. “That’s true. The thing is, Pippin, Frodo could fall into a black melancholy then. He sorely missed his parents--he still does, as a matter of fact--and then, well, he was still grieving. Everywhere in Buckland there were reminders to him of them. One day that fall, just before he had to leave and return to Bilbo, we went for a little stroll. We were just enjoying ourselves, and not paying much attention to where we were. We came out of a copse of trees--you know the one, about a half mile south of the Ferry, near a sharp bend in the River--”

“Well, Frodo took one look at where we were, and he made this little noise like someone had struck him. And his face looked just like it did this afternoon.”

“I didn’t know why then, just that it had something to do with the River and that place, though I knew enough to guess it had something to do with his parents’ drowning. I didn’t find out, actually until I had come of age and was supervising the work on the Ferry that spring. That was the spot where they had raised Primula’s and Drogo’s bodies from the water, and Frodo had seen it happen.”

“Oh.” Pippin’s voice was soft and filled with sorrow, thinking of how dreadful such a thing must have been for poor Frodo.

“But I think he mostly managed to get away from the dreadful memories once he came here to Bag End, and once he had Bilbo. Bilbo really seemed to understand Frodo, in ways I don’t think my parents could, though they love him very much.” Now there was a hint of tears in Merry’s own eyes. He stopped talking for a moment.

Pippin swallowed, and put a sympathetic hand on Merry’s arm. This was something that Pippin knew about Merry--Frodo’s leaving Buckland had been one of the most painful events of his cousin’s childhood.

Merry couldn’t help but think--he was about to put Pippin through a far more painful separation--he and Frodo both would be leaving. Leaving without even a proper farewell.

“That’s right,” replied Merry, “not only leave it” (maybe forever, he thought) “but he’s leaving it in the hands of the very hobbits that he *knows* Bilbo would never have wanted to have it. He feels as though he is betraying Bilbo and Bag End,” (and us, he thought, by leaving us behind) “and he knows, too, that they will make all sorts of unwelcome changes, just for the sake of spiting him.”

“Lobelia and Lotho.” Pippin’s voice was very flat. Those two were probably the only hobbits in the Shire that Pippin had no use for.

“Yes, and Lotho knows it, and he’s just twisting the knife in the wound with all these petty little calls on Frodo to ‘check on his property’.” Merry’s face looked grim. “But I won’t have it. He doesn’t own Bag End until the day the contract calls for him to take possession, and he has no business coming over here all the time and pestering Frodo!”

Pippin nodded. “I’m with you all the way, cousin!” How he wished that he could tell Merry that he meant that for more than just stopping the S.-B.s from bothering Frodo: that he meant to be in the party that left the Shire; that he knew all about that evil Ring and would be coming along on the journey to take it to Rivendell.

Merry studied Pippin’s determined face. His younger cousin looked determined, and older than his years. For a moment, Merry was tempted to confide in him, to let him know this secret that had been weighing on his heart since spring. But no, he couldn’t. He couldn’t take the chance on Pippin following them into danger.

Instead, he gave a pat to the hand that still lay on his arm, and said briskly “Well, we should see to the washing up now. Frodo won’t thank us if we leave dirty dishes laying about.”

Legolas entered the courtyard of the guesthouse and went to look at the tree in growing there. He had been spending the morning at the gates with Gimli, who was supervising some of the work there, but the Dwarf was far too busy for conversation, and Legolas had little interest in watching the work. So he had returned to the guesthouse. He and Sam had been trying to coax a bit of life into this small garden, and the olive tree which grew in the center was looking a good deal better. But some of the other potted plants which grew here and there were still not as healthy as he would like to have seen. And he had to admit, with small plants rather than trees, Sam had a far surer hand.

He wondered if Sam was inside. He found it very enjoyable to assist the gardener as he pottered around with growing things. The hobbit’s sensibilities about them were fair different than Elven ones, and yet in some ways similar.

There was no response at all; the house was seemingly empty, and Legolas felt disappointed. He turned, and as he did, he heard a soft moan.

It was coming from the little chamber that Frodo used as a study. Originally, it had appeared to be a sort of waiting room for guests located to the right of the front hall, but it had been outfitted with a table and chair of hobbit size, as well as low shelves, filled with books. The benches that ran round the perimeter of the room were filled with cushions. A set of wide arched windows faced the courtyard and allowed plenty of sun and light to enter.

Frodo was sitting at the table, his head pillowed on his arms. A stack of used parchment had been pushed to one side, as had a bottle of ink. His quill was neither in the quill-stand nor the ink bottle, but lay flat upon the table, something Legolas knew that Frodo was not in the habit of doing.

Frodo sat up abruptly, and then, elbows on the table, he pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Legolas? I did not know you were here.” he said quietly.

In two short strides the Elf was stooping at Frodo’s side. He placed a cool hand to Frodo’s brow. “What is wrong?” he repeated. “Should I go and find Aragorn? Or Sam?”

Frodo started to shake his head, and then stopped. “No. No, don’t do that. Aragorn and Arwen should not be disturbed so soon after the wedding--it‘s only been a couple of days. And Menelcar came by and asked us to walk about the City with him. I told Sam to go ahead without me, for I wanted to do some writing.”

“Merry and Pippin are both on duty. And I’ve not a clue where Gandalf is-- you know how that is.” He took his hands down from his eyes and winced at the light. “Don’t bother about me. It’s only a headache.”

“Do not be foolish, Frodo. If no one else is here, then of course I will ‘bother’ with you! A headache that pains you so is not to be taken lightly.” He put his hand to the back of Frodo’s neck, where he could feel the muscles hard and tensed. “Here, let me make you more comfortable.”

Without another word, he lifted Frodo, who made a half-hearted sound of protest, and carried him over to one of the cushioned benches. “I shall return in a moment.”

Legolas was worried. Perhaps he should override Frodo’s wishes and send for Aragorn, or at least for a healer. But he knew the hobbit would be terribly embarrassed at that amount of attention. He went into the kitchen. Somewhere? Yes--there in the cupboard--there was the willow-bark powder they kept on hand. He found the teakettle. He had never brewed tea before, but he had been observing the hobbits do so for weeks. While the kettle was heating, he found some clean cloths, which he wet with cold water, and he found some fruit, which he cut into small pieces and put upon a plate. Soon he had all on a tray, which he carried back into the little chamber.

Frodo was leaning back against the cushions, his right forearm covering his eyes. He moved it away as he heard Legolas return.

Legolas put the tray on the table, and carried the cup of tea over to Frodo, who sipped it gratefully, and ate a few slices of peach, a couple of strawberries, and a segment of the orange fruit of which the hobbits had become so fond.

“I think not.” Legolas smiled and kept his voice mild, although it bothered him to hear Frodo speaking that way. “Are you finished with the fruit?”

At Frodo’s tiny nod, Legolas took the plate, and moved it back to the table, and took up one of the cloths. He sat down on the bench next to Frodo. “Here, place your head in my lap.” As Frodo did so, Legolas put the cloth over his eyes. “Is that better?” he asked.

Legolas looked down at Frodo affectionately. He had grown so fond of the hobbits over the months they had been together, but thinking of all this one had endured made his eyes sting with tears. Anything he could do to help Frodo, however great or small, he would.

Remembering what he had seen of the hobbits together, and what they did to comfort one another when troubled, hurt or ill, he placed his slender fingers on Frodo’s brow, and began to gently smooth the dark curls. He could feel him relaxing at the motion, and began to sing to him softly--a translation Bilbo had done of an Elven song of the West:

“East of the Moon, west of the Sun
There stands a lonely hill;
It feet are in the pale green sea,
It’s towers are white and still
Beyond Taniquetil
In Valinor.
Comes never there but one lone star
That fled before the moon;
And there the Two Trees naked are
That bore Night’s silver bloom,
That bore the globéd fruit of Noon
In Valinor.
There are the shores of Faëry
With their moonlight pebbled strand
Whose foam is silver music
On the opalescent floor
Beyond the great sea-shadows
On the marches of the sand
That stretches on forever
To the dragonheaded door,
The gateway of the Moon,
In Valinor.
West of the Sun, east of the Moon
Lies the haven of the star
The white town of the Wanderer
And the rocks of Eglamar.
The Wingelot is harbored,
While Eärendil looks afar
O’er the darkened waters
Between here and Eglamar--
Out, out, beyond Taniquetil
In Valinor afar.” *

When he had finished the song in Westron, he began it once more, this time in Sindarin.

As Frodo lay, feeling the long cool fingers drifting through his curls, he could feel the pain and tension draining away. The song seemed to enter his mind, taking away the dark thoughts brought on, as he had been writing of that dreadful passage through Moria and the encounter with the Balrog. Instead, he seemed to hear the surge of the surf, and feel the pull of waves. He could see, as though he were a bird in flight, the green shores of the Blessed Isle, and he felt borne aloft, as though by comforting arms. There was such piercing joy and such beautiful pain in the song…

As Legolas sang, he could feel his own tears running down his cheeks--it was the longing for the Sea, yet this time, it felt sorrowful, but not distressing, giving him instead a melancholy solace. It was painful, but yet, one day he would be able to assuage his longing. And right now, he had his mortal friends who yet needed him…

It was not long after, that Gandalf entered the house. He heard the singing, and stopped at the door to the chamber. Frodo was sleeping peacefully, his head in Legolas’ lap, the long fingers still combing his curls.

Legolas met Gandalf’s eyes briefly, and the Wizard smiled gently at him, before turning away.

* From The Book of Lost Tales, Part Two , Chapter V, “The Tale of Eärendil”, “The Shores of Faëry”

Frodo put the new strongbox on the bed, and unlocked it. There would be plenty of room in it for the things he meant to leave. Perhaps no one would ever come across them, or perhaps Sam might find them. He’d not mind if Sam *did* look through them, for though the papers he was going to put in there were both very special and intensely personal, they held nothing embarrassing. It was just that he could not bring himself, after all these years, to discard them. There was only so much he could take with him on this journey after all.

He went to the bureau, and removed the bottom drawer. It was filled with old letters and papers, neatly sorted into bundles, tied with ribbons of different colors. He began to transfer them into the strongbox, when he looked down at the childish handwriting on the first one. Tears stung his eyes, but he smiled, and untying the blue ribbon, he opened the top letter. It was written in a childish scrawl, and there were blots on ink, and the signs of tearstains:

Your room is very ~~emtey~~ empty. It makes loud noises now when I am in there. Mum says we must find some things to put in there for when you visit.

~~I hate Cousin Bilbo.~~ No. I’m sorry. I don’t really. Don’t be mad. I miss you.

Frodo shook his head sadly, and opened the next one. With a full heart, he began to read through the stack:

I miss you lots. Mum says it won’t be long until Lithe, and I will see you at Great ~~Smiles~~ Smials. She gave me a calendar to strike off the days. She says it won’t be long but there are many, many days until then. I counted them. It is 48 whole more days until Lithe.

I really liked your letter. I am glad you miss me. I liked the picture you drew for me.

Da says I can have a pony of my own, now I am tall enough to ride by myself. I am almost as tall as Berilac now.

Da agrees that ‘Brandy’ is a fine name for a Buckland pony. That was a good idea. I wish that you could see him. He is ~~butifal bueteful beuatifl~~ very nice looking. I want to show him to you now. I asked Da if I could ride him to Bag End to show you and Cousin Bilbo and Sam. But he says not. It is too far for me by myself. Do you know it is 29 days until Lithe? I wish it was quicker. Will you be glad to see me?

Did you know that three weeks is 21 days? That is how long until I can see you. Maybe sooner. We are going to ride on our ponies instead of the ~~caridge~~ carriage so we can go on the ~~fary~~ ferry instead of the bridge so we will get to Tookland faster and he said that you and Cousin Bilbo might get there sooner too since Bag End is closer so maybe it will only be 20 days till I see you and then you can see Brandy!!!! That was such a good idea for a name. Grandda Rory says so. I think he misses you too.

P.S. Mum says I should write slower and ask her about spelling things because then I would not send messy letters. Do you think my letter is messy?”

It is only two more weeks until we go there! That is 14 days. I packed my things this morning, but Mum made me unpack them. She says a little planning ahead is good but I am carried away. She said it was too soon to pack. I don’t think so, because if I wait too long I might have to hurry and forget things. She thought it was funny. I do not think it was funny.

I am sorry that Sam cannot come. But I guess it is all right if he goes to the fair with his da instead. Sometimes it is not fun being little.

I was very glad that you were so proud of me about not messing up any words. I will try not to mess any up in this letter too.

Mum said I can pack some of my things now, but not all of them since I might need some of them. But it is only one week. That is 7 days. But we are going to leave in 4 days. That is exciting. And then when we get to the Great Smials, you will be there. And Cousin Bilbo. And we will see Uncle Paladin and Aunt Tina too and Pearl and Pimmie and Vinca because they are coming from Whitwell. And Auntie Primrose and Auntie Peridot. And a lot of other people too. But those are the ones l like most.

PS. Really I did mess up a couple of words, but Mum let me copy it over so it wouldn’t be messed up.”

Frodo smiled to himself at the memory. He and Bilbo had walked cross-country, and arrived two days before the holiday, “So that,” Bilbo had said, “we can get paying our respects to Old Lalia out of the way, and have time for our more congenial relations.”

Frodo had found himself the object of much attention, much more as Bilbo’s adopted heir than he had received as Saradoc’s orphaned ward. He soon grew weary of having his cheeks pinched--he was too old for that. And he grew equally weary of the mothers of daughters seeking him out--he was too young for that!

So the next morning he had gone down to the lane, and sat atop the fence, and was there for the arrival of his Brandybuck relations. Merry was mounted atop a lovely little chestnut pony, and he had scarcely waited for his little steed to come to a stop before he tried to fly from its back. Frodo had managed to catch him, and found himself gripped by a nearly strangling hug.

Finally his armful of hobbit-lad wriggled out of his arms, only to grab hold of him once more, holding so tightly Frodo thought he’d never let go.

Frodo had bent down and taken him once more in his embrace, and breathed in the scent of this precious little one. “I missed you, too, sprout. It’s good to see you.”

It was only now, Frodo realized, that he understood how deeply Merry had been hurt by his leaving, how abandoned his little cousin had felt, how bereft.

And in only a few more days, he thought ruefully, I’ll be doing it to him again.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Frodo is 26, Merry 13, Pippin 5, Pearl 20, Pimpernel 16 and Pervinca 10. ( 16 ½, 8, 3, 13, 10 and 6 ½ in Man-Years.)

Eglantine put a firm hand on her squirming son, as she wielded the brush across his feet. The soft down of babyhood had given way now to a fine thick covering of furry chestnut curls, every bit as riotous as the ones on his head.

“When will Merry be here?” he asked for the fourth time in the last quarter hour.

She sighed. “I am not sure, but it will be sometime between second breakfast and luncheon if they got away from Bag End on time.”

“Yes, Cousin Frodo and Cousin Bilbo will be riding with them in their carriage.”

He bounced up and down. Eglantine reached for the other brush, for the curls on his head. He looked at her apprehensively, squinted his eyes shut, and hunched his shoulders up, going rigid. He hated having the hair on his head brushed. When she brushed up his toes, it only tickled, but he *hated* having the hair on his head brushed.

He started saying “Ow,” as soon as the brush touched his head, and continued with a constant stream of “ouches!” and “oohs!” and “don’t pull so hard, Mama!” as he flinched and wriggled.

“Mother,” she corrected automatically. Took children said “mother” and “father” by long tradition, and he was old enough now to begin it. “Sit still, Peregrin.”

“Mother.” He repeated it dutifully, followed by another emphatic howl, as she tried to work the brush through a particularly recalcitrant snarl. However, there was no perceptible increase in the “sitting still” part.

Finally she pronounced him finished. He stood up on the bed, and gave her a hug and a kiss.

“When can I see the presents?” he asked. He was anxious to see what he was giving to people at his party this afternoon.

He nodded solemnly, green eyes huge. He was going to be a big lad after today, no longer a faunt. He would be giving out proper gifts to everyone.

He rushed through first breakfast, scarcely eating as much as usual--he only had one serving of porridge, and two scones with butter--though his mother would allow him no jam--and three small links of sausage, and a whole cup of milk, which he very nearly spilled. He gulped down the last of it, and turned to his mother. “Can I see now?” he asked.

A few moments later he sat on the bed in his parents’ room, and saw his mother take out a box, which she placed next to him. He rose up on his knees to peer in.

He reached in and took them out. “White for Vinca, and blue for Pimmie, and pink for Pearl.”

Eglantine raised a brow. She had thought of the pink for Vinca, and the white for Pearl, but now she would abide by his choice.

“This is for your father.” She showed him a coin purse of green leather. “And this is for Uncle Saradoc.” This was a pouch for pipe-weed, in a light brown leather. Pippin touched each one, and nodded, as if to give his approval. “Father likes green,” he said.

“Yes, he does,” answered his mother. “I think Aunt Esme will like this--” a white handkerchief, edged in lace, with a spray of tiny yellow flowers embroidered in one corner.

“These are for Cousin Bilbo and Cousin Frodo,” She took out a glass stylus, which could be used for writing rather than a quill. It was of red and clear glass, swirled together. “I thought the red one for Cousin Bilbo,” she said, “And this one--” the other was of shades of blue “for Frodo?”

“Those are splendid!” exclaimed Pippin. “The blue is like Frodo’s eyes! And,” he leaned over confidingly, “they like to write things.”

“I know, my chick,” said his mother, chuckling. “Now for Merry’s gift.”

She reached in, and took out the last offering, a box with a picture on the front, of a river or stream, with woods behind it, and a hobbit lad sitting on the bank with a fishing pole. She opened the box, and Pippin peered in.

He drew back in dismay. “M--Mother! It’s all broken!” His green eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, no, my dear! It isn’t broken--this is a picture puzzle. Merry must put the pieces together, to make the picture on the front of the box. It is a game of sorts.”

Pippin scowled for a moment. “It seems like a lot of work.” He peered in again. “But I think my Merry will like it--he likes to fix things.”

She shook her head with an amused smile. “Trust me Pippin, it is not broken. But I do think he will like putting it together.”

She grinned at him. “Well, it would hardly be a surprise if I knew what it was. Your Pa--Father will show it to you after elevenses, when he comes in from supervising the sowing. Would you like to help me wrap these?”

At Pippin’s enthusiastic nod, she went to a drawer, and drew out some scraps of fabric in various sizes, and Pippin helped choose which ones were to wrap which gifts. He used his chubby little finger to hold the ribbon in place, as his mother tied the bows, and watched her fasten the little labels on each one. “Why do all of them have those words on them?” He pointed to the same words, printed at the bottom of each tag.

“Peregrin Took! That’s me!” he began to bounce where he sat upon the bed. “ ‘with love’! I like that, because I do love everyone!” He grinned.

Suddenly he stopped, and a look of alarm came over his small face. “What if they don’t like the presents?”

His mother caught him up in a tight hug. “Oh, I am quite sure they will, dear.”

But he couldn’t help but feel a little bit nervous. He had never given presents before, after all, except for flowers.

Pippin bolted his eggs, toast, bacon and mushrooms at second breakfast, and didn’t even ask for seconds, before he darted from his chair to the window, so eager was he for the guests’ arrival.

Eglantine shook her head. He’d had no jam or honey at all with his breakfast, yet he was as full of energy as if he had been into the sugar bowl. He was scarcely able to contain his impatience. She glanced at her younger two daughters, who had taken advantage of Pippin eating less than usual to fill up on extra helping of everything.

“Pimmie, Vinca, when you have finished eating, take Pippin down to the lane to watch for the carriage.”

“But Mother--” Pimpernel started. She had wanted to spend some time sewing on a new dress she was making for herself.

“No ‘buts’, Pimpernel Took.” She quailed her daughter with a stern glance. She had to help Tulip prepare the luncheon, and Pippin was far too excited to have underfoot today. “Take him down to the lane. I’ll send some elevenses out to you in a little while.”

So Pippin ran down the path to the lane full speed, while his sisters followed at a more leisurely pace.

Pervinca shook her head. “We’re never going to be able to keep up with him,” she said darkly.

Pimpernel nodded. “He’s as wound up as that top Mother and Father gave him yesterday,” for of course Pippin had received his own birthday gifts the day before, as was proper. She glanced ahead--he was heading directly for the apple tree that stood at the spot where the path intersected with the lane that came up from the postal road. “Peregrin Took!” she called out. “Don’t even think about it! If you get stuck we are neither one climbing up after you!”

“But Pimmie, I can’t not think about it!” He looked up at the branches longingly. Pervinca sighed; she would not have minded climbing up with her little brother, but Pimmie took after their mother’s side of the family, and was far too timid about heights for climbing trees or allowing them to do so with her present.

He screwed his face up tightly. “It doesn’t work,” he said, after a moment.

Vinca said quickly “Look Pip, what I can do.” She took a running start, and turned a cartwheel. Her Brandybuck cousin Melilot had taught her how to do that. Her older brother had taught Melly how.

Pippin was instantly distracted from the tree. “How do you do that, Vinca?” he asked, round-eyed.

When Pearl came down later with a basket of sweet buns and fruit for their elevenses, she was horrified to see all three of them tumbling on the verge, doing cartwheels and handstands.

“Well,” said Pearl, “that’s all well and good, but the carriage could come any moment. Do you want the relatives to see your skirts down around your heads and your knickers up in the air?”

Pimmie’s face flamed. She had not thought of that. Vinca’s hand flew to her mouth.

“If you are going to do such things, for goodness’ sake, do it out behind the barn and not down by the lane for everyone to see.”

Pippin darted up to Pearl and stuck his face in the basket. “Mm… cinnamon!” He grinned up at her. “I don’t have any skirts,” he said, as he grabbed one of the buns. “Do you wmtf ee mduit?

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Pippin. Yes, I suppose you can show me--after you have finished.”

The four young Tooks made short work of the basket, and then to Pearl’s amusement, Pippin began to display his newfound skill, tumbling and spinning and wheeling until it made her dizzy.

“Doesn’t he ever get tired?” she asked, not really expecting an answer. It was a question various members of Pippin’s family asked themselves two or three times every day.

He was in the middle of a somersault, when he suddenly stopped, landing flat on his back, before springing to his feet and running into the lane, yelling “Merry! Merry! Merry!”

The lasses glanced at one another in brief surprise, yet an instant later the Brandybuck carriage came into view, and they jumped up as well, brushing themselves off and trying to straighten their hair.

The carriage slowed, as Pippin jumped up and down in the lane, screaming “Merry! Merry! Merry! Frodo! Frodo! Frodo! ” at the top of his lungs.

It had scarcely rolled to a stop as the door flung open, and Merry sprang out, grabbing Pippin up and swinging him around, before hugging him tightly. “Pip!”

Frodo exited a bit more slowly. “Easy, Merry,” he said, amused. “You are going to crush the byrding and then we shall have no presents!”

“Hello, lasses,” said Frodo politely. Merry and Pippin ignored them completely, both of them chattering like magpies, neither seemingly listening nor needing to draw breath.

Saradoc stuck his head through the window. “Would you lasses like to ride with us up to the barn? We shall leave the lads to hoof it back up to the smial.”

Cousin Bilbo and Aunt Esme scooted over, and then Frodo helped hand the lasses into the carriage as if they were young ladies. He closed the door, and old Finch whipped up the ponies.

Frodo looked at his two younger cousins who were still greeting one another enthusiastically--after all, here it was the first of Astron*, and they’d not seen one another since Yule. “Well, Pippin,” he said, “don’t you have a hug for me?”

Pippin pulled away from Merry and barreled into Frodo’s knees, clasping them so firmly Frodo thought for an instant he would lose his balance. Then the child drew back, and looked up at him seriously. “Was that a good enough hug, Frodo?”

With a laugh, Frodo scooped him up and settled him atop his shoulders. “That was a most splendid, very excellent hug, Peregrin Took! I think you must give the best hugs of any five year old in the Shire!”

Merry looked briefly disgruntled at having Pippin taken from him, but he looked up at them, Pippin’s chin resting on top of Frodo’s dark curls, and laughed. There were his two best cousins in all the world.

The three lads ambled up the path, calmer now that the first flurry of excitement was past. By the time they arrived at the smial, Saradoc, Esmeralda and Bilbo were already inside, seated in the sitting room with Eglantine. Pippin’s sisters had gone to tidy up.

Frodo swung Pippin down to the floor, and he immediately gravitated to Merry’s side.

Eglantine studied her small son. He was sweaty and disheveled and there were grass stains on his shirt. But he looked far calmer and more content, now that his favorite cousins had arrived. She noticed with amusement that Merry began to dust him off and tuck his little shirt in, while Frodo ran his fingers through the unruly curls. Pippin squirmed a little, but offered no protest, unlike when she groomed him.

Just then, Paladin came in, and greeted the guests heartily, before going to the back of the smial to tidy up himself.

Luncheon was a splendid affair--there was roasted chicken and stuffed mushrooms and potatoes mashed with cream and butter, and new made loaves of bread and carrots cooked with honey glaze and cabbage and apple slaw and a wheel of yellow cheese to help with filling up the corners.

Finally, when no one could eat another bite, not even Pippin who was no longer eating his cheese, but making little round balls, which he was arranging in designs on his plate, they all got up and went back into the sitting room.

Paladin brought out the box, which Pippin had seen that morning. Pippin suddenly realized with alarm, that he had never seen his gift for his mother. He went over and tugged on his father’s sleeve. Paladin bent down, and Pippin whispered in his ear.

“Don’t worry, son,” was the whispered answer, “it’s the one wrapped in brown paper and string.”

Pippin nodded solemnly. Suddenly he felt very timid. He had, for a while, forgotten his fear that the presents would not be liked--now it came back, full force. Taking a deep breath, he began to take the gifts from the box and hand them to his guests, his face red. Finally, he handed the last one to his mother, and giving a panicked look at all the expectant faces, he sat down on the floor and hid his face. If they didn’t like them, he couldn’t bear to watch.

But soon he began to hear exclamations of surprise and pleasure, and he glanced up. Everyone was admiring their presents. He looked at his mother, who was still opening hers, and so he got up and tiptoed to her side to watch. He looked sideways at his father, who was grinning, and who winked at him.

“Oh! This is lovely!” Eglantine put one arm around Pippin in a hug, as over his head, she mouthed “Thank you,” to her husband.

“I like it!” said Pippin in surprise. It was a small framed watercolor painting of an eglantine rose. “Did I get you a good present?” he asked, still a little puzzled as to how he had given her something he had never seen before.

Merry was delighted with his puzzle, and soon he and Frodo had begun to assemble it in an out of the way corner of the room. Pippin lay on the floor next to them, his chin on his hands, watching as they sorted through the pieces to put it together.

Pippin’s head was pillowed on his arm, and soft little snores were to be heard.

Eglantine walked over, and looked down at her youngest. “I do think,” she smiled, “that this byrding has worn himself out for a change.”
_____________________
* The Shire equivalent of April

MARIGOLD CHALLENGE #26
AUTHOR: Dreamflower
RATING: G
CATEGORY: General
SUMMARY: Merry and Pippin have to give advice to a travelling tinker.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Marigold’s elements were a hot bath and a tinker. The challenge was to include an original idiom.
DISCLAIMER: Middle-earth and all its peoples belong to the Tolkien Estate. I own none of them. Some of them, however, seem to own me.

“Mr. Took! Mr. Brandybuck!” Nob called to them pleasantly from The Prancing Pony’s stable yard.

“Hullo, Nob!” said Pippin. Merry gave a greeting as well, as they dismounted and allowed him to take the ponies’ reins.

“Yes, well, it’s the first week of the month,” Pippin responded, removing his gloves and wiping his brow with the back of his hand. His livery was uncomfortably warm in the Wedmath* afternoon. Yet he was on official duty, so he would just have to put up with it. The first week of the month was when he met the King’s Messenger in Bree, to find out if there were any messages from the King, and to send any messages South from the Shire.

Merry had pulled out a handkerchief and done the same. “Nob, has the King’s Messenger arrived yet?”

“No, sir, Mr. Brandybuck. But he should be here any time now.” Nob looked at the ponies admiringly. “Come now, you handsome lads, let’s get you into a nice cool stall, and get that tack off you.”

He led them away, clucking and chatting to them. Merry and Pippin watched after him, amused. “He certainly approves of Stybba and Sable,” said Merry.

Merry drew his handkerchief across his face once more. “Well, let’s go and let old Butterbur know we’ve arrived. Perhaps he can be persuaded to draw us baths before teatime.” For both hobbits felt very grimy and uncomfortable after their ride.

“Ah,” said Pippin with a happy sigh of anticipation. “A hot bath would be just the thing.”

A short while later, the grime of their ride washed away, and fresh and clean livery having been donned--though they left off the mail and armor, due to the heat, the two hobbits made their way down to the common room. Both of them thought a couple of beers sounded far more refreshing than a pot of tea.

“It’s good to see you once more, little masters,” said old Barliman amiably, as he brought a pitcher of beer and two tankards to their table. “Knowing hobbits as I do, I am sure you would like somewhat to eat. I have stew simmering, or I can bring you a cold platter if you prefer.”

Merry and Pippin glanced at each other, and then Merry said, “The platter if you please, Mr. Butterbur. I think it far too hot for stew, although it is pleasant enough in here.” The large room had doors open at both ends to allow a cross-draft, and the thick stone walls and high ceilings helped keep it cooler as well.

A few moments later, Barliman’s son brought a large platter to the table, piled high with sliced cheese and sliced meat: ham, roast beef and hard sausage--and young vegetables: carrots, green onions, stalks of celery, sliced cucumbers, mushrooms. There was also half a loaf of sweet brown bread, and in the center of the platter was a small bowl of savory dipping sauce. Merry and Pippin grinned and tucked in with pleasure.

The platter was very nearly empty. Merry was thoughtfully nibbling at a bit of ham, and Pippin, as was his habit when they reached the filling up of corners stage, had begun to roll the cheese into little balls before popping it into his mouth.

“Excuse me, small sirs? Might I beg a word of you?” The hobbits glanced up; it was one of the Big Folk. He spoke in an unfamiliar accent, and clearly was not a Breelander. But he appeared friendly enough.

“Certainly,” said Merry easily. “Please sit down with us, and I will ask for another tankard.” He gestured, and one of the potboys brought over another Man-sized tankard. Pippin filled it with beer from the pitcher.

“My name,” said the stranger, “is Tibalt Tinkerson. My people originally came from the lands east of Erebor, but many of them settled there when the Evil One began to once more hold sway in those lands. But my father was a tinker before me, and we wandered much in other lands in pursuit of our trade until things began to grow dangerous.”

Merry and Pippin nodded. They had begun to understand that many Men who had foregone travel in the years leading up to the War of the Ring were now once more feeling it safe to journey in the pursuit of their trade.

“I could not but help noticing that you both bear the devices of far kingdoms, of the new King in Gondor, and of Rohan. Yet the innkeeper tells me you are hobbits of the Shire.”

Merry looked at the tinker astutely. “What is it that you wish of us?” His manner was polite but neutral.

“I am hoping that you can give me a bit of information. Up until about ten years ago, I often travelled the Great East-West Road in pursuit of my trade. But at that time things began to grow more and more dangerous for lone travellers. Rumors of war, and of foul creatures abroad, roving bands of ruffians and even orcs began to be encountered. I attached myself to a large party of Dwarves who were returning to Dale, and rejoined the rest of my family. But now the War is over, and the Evil One is gone--I would like to return to my trade. Yet I found to my dismay that I was turned away at the Brandywine Bridge, and told that no Men may enter the Shire without special permission, by order of the new King!”

Merry and Pippin exchanged glances. Then Pippin said, “I’m sorry to bring a gift to the wedding, but that is absolutely the truth. You must have signed permission from the Thain, the Master of Buckland, and the Mayor in order to go into the Shire now. This edict was made by King Elessar, and ratified by a convocation of the heads of all the major families of the Shire. The King himself has said he will abide by it. It is only in a trial period right now, but in seven years it may either be made permanent or be rescinded, depending on how well it works. So far the only Men to have received permission have been the Men who brought the edicts for ratification, who were representatives of the High King himself, and of the King of Rohan.”

The tinker sighed. “I was very much afraid that it might be something of the sort.” He shook his head. “This is not going to be especially good for trade.” He looked at Pippin quizzically. “What did you mean, ‘sorry to bring a gift to the wedding’?” he asked.

The two hobbits glanced at one another and chuckled. Merry gestured for more beer at the table, and Pippin leaned back and put his hands behind his head. “Well, that’s a saying we have in the Shire. To ‘bring a gift to the wedding’ is to be the bringer of bad news. We say that because it widely believed in the Shire that to bring the gift to the wedding, rather than giving it properly ahead of time, is bad luck.”

“Well,” said the tinker, “it is bad luck for me. I do not suppose I stand much chance of getting such permission.”

Merry shook his head doubtfully. “I do not know. We can convey your request to the Thain and the Master, but how they would respond is up to them. And the current atmosphere in the Shire is unlikely to be welcoming to most Men, especially as you are not one of the King’s Men.”

“There is that,” said Pippin, “and Aragorn--that is to say--King Elessar--would not wish the edict to be cast aside for any light excuse. He would want the trial period to be a fair one.”

Tibalt looked startled. “You know of the King’s intent? But, yes! You must be two of the hobbits who travelled into Mordor and cast down the Evil One! The story was brought to Dale and the Lonely Mountain on the wings of Eagles!”

“We are two who travelled South; but it was not we who went into the Black Land,” said Pippin.

“That was our cousin, Frodo Baggins, and his dear friend Samwise Gamgee. We were unfortunately separated from one another during the journey.” Merry’s eyes clouded briefly, as he thought of that horrid time when they had been apart from one another, and the even worse time when he had been alone…

Now the tinker was truly fascinated, and soon Merry and Pippin found themselves telling the tale of the Quest, from their meeting, right there at The Prancing Pony to Rivendell and beyond. When one of them faltered, hesitant to tell of his own deeds, the other was quick to fill in. But it was clear that their greatest admiration was for their cousin and his friend.

It was a long tale, and a hungry and thirsty one, and old Barliman brought a meal to the table of sliced pork and fresh bread and a soup of beans. Those at the table were so engrossed at the tale, that they scarcely realized they had attracted a crowd of listeners. There was no scoffing now, as once there would have been, when the two spoke of foul monsters, and of the coming of the King, and the great battles of the South, and the casting down of the Dark Lord. For the Bree folk had seen enough in the past year or more to no longer doubt the travellers’ tales as they had at first. (Though some occasionally muttered doubtfully to themselves about “Strider” being King.)

The tale wore down, as Merry and Pippin explained what they had found when they arrived home in the Shire.

“So now, Master Tibalt, you can see why King Elessar thinks it a good idea to keep Men out of the Shire, at least for the time being,” said Pippin.

“We had a delegation of King’s Men in the Spring, but even they found some trouble among the hobbits,” Merry added. “Our folk know now that a King’s Man can be more or less trusted, but I am afraid that any others that are unknown will be suspected of being ruffians.”

Merry looked thoughtful. “Perhaps you could go into partnership with some of the Dwarves. I know that they can be clannish, but they also know a good business opportunity when it presents itself.”

The Man brightened, “That is an excellent idea! I do have a few friends among the Dwarves who make that journey--I will approach some of them, and see what they may say. I thank you for your time, sirs, and as I have had a long day, I shall retire now.” He rose, and bowed courteously as he took his leave, and headed for his own chamber in the Inn.

Merry and Pippin looked at one another. “You know,” said Pippin sadly, “I am wondering if this edict is not going to be more trouble than it is worth.”

Merry shrugged. “Time will tell, cousin. We’ve had a long day. Why don’t we retire? If the Messenger arrives tonight, he can wait until morning.” He stood up and place some coins on the table, for the beer and the meal, and the two of them trudged down the passageway to the room Barliman Butterbur kept for them--the self-same room they had been unable to sleep in for fear of Black Riders long ago.

“Unca Pip!” Perry ducked behind Pippin’s legs, and peeked out at his older sister, who was advancing on him. The three-year-old was clearly terrified of her, and judging by the ferocious expression on her four-year-old face, with ample justification.

Wyn looked up at Pippin, who stood there grinning. “What did he do to you?” he asked.

For answer, she held out the doll in one hand and its arm in the other. It was the “Éowyn” doll her father had carved for her, and the arms were jointed and attached with cord. It was not the first time this particular doll had lost an arm. Pippin shook his head. “I think I can fix her for you, Wyn. I’m sure Perry didn’t mean to hurt her.” He turned an eye on Perry who stared up with tear-filled grey eyes, his chubby fingers in his mouth, and shook his head.

Wyn was scarcely placated. She stood with her feet firmly planted and her hands on her hips. “He’s always breaking things.”

Pippin rolled his eyes. Just then he spied Estella, coming around the corner of the cottage. He heaved a sigh of relief. Two faunts underfoot could be a bit much to take sometimes.

She spotted her children. “All right, my chicks! Bluebell has a treat for you in the kitchen, and then it’s time for your nap!” They looked about to protest, but she waved them on. “Shoo! Or perhaps I should just tell Uncle Pippin to go and eat up all those lovely custard tarts?”

The children looked horrified at this thought, and, the quarrel forgotten, scrambled for Crickhollow’s kitchen. Bluebell, the matron who had “done for” Merry and Pippin before they wed, still came in four mornings a week, and was quite a help to Estella, and now Diamond.

Estella shook her head. “And where are my husband, and *your* bride?” she asked.

She glanced over at the garden, at the two figures there, and shook her head. “The herb beds. Again. You know Pippin, it is a good thing the two of us are not the jealous sorts.”

Pippin laughed. “It most certainly is, my dear cousin! How in the world are we to compete with valerian and sage and pennyroyal and--”

For Merry and Estella and the children had returned to Crickhollow a month after Pippin’s and Diamond’s wedding, and Merry had discovered an abundance of mint in the garden.

In the last month since then, Pippin began to think that his wife was seeing more of Merry during the day than she was of him. Diamond was itching to get her healer hands on some of the rarer ones that Merry had been cultivating--she had been at some pains to set up a stillroom during the honeymoon. And Merry, well, Merry never could resist a chance to show off his herbs, or to talk about them to someone who was actually *interested* in them. This unfortunately did not include his own wife or Pippin, and though both of them made a polite effort, he was well aware of that.

Pippin shook his head ruefully, and offered his arm to Estella, as though he were her escort at a ball. “Shall we go and see if we can pry our respective spouses out of the garden, then.”

“Well, we already have a goodly store of dried mint,” Diamond was saying as they approached. Merry was kneeling down at the edge of the bed, inspecting the plants. He neither turned nor looked up, but said “Hullo, Pip, Estella, my dear. Where are the fauntlings ?” he asked.

Diamond turned with a start, as Pippin’s arm came around her waist. “Someday I am going to have to find out how the two of you *do* that!” Although of course she knew. She had noticed it from her earliest acquaintance with them, shortly after they had returned from their travels. Merry always knew where Pippin was, and Pippin always knew where Merry was.

Estella said, “They’ve gone in to have an early elevenses with Bluebell. They were getting a bit quarrelsome.”

Merry stood up and brushed the knees of his breeches free of mulch and soil. He had a sprig of mint in his fingers, and nibbled at it absently, before turning to give a brief kiss to his wife.

Merry nodded. “I think I am going to have root it up and transplant it. It is far too aggressive a plant. Sam warned me that it might take over the bed if the roots were not confined.” He shook his head. “I was too eager to get this new bed planted before we went to the wedding. But I think the mint will need a bed all to itself. And I can replace it with the starts of athelas he gave me.”

“But what are you going to do with the rest of the mint?” Pippin asked. “The neighbors are hiding when they see you coming, and Aunt Esme told you when we went to dinner at the Hall last night, not to bring any more over there.” He was not looking at Merry as he spoke, but had bent to bury his face in his bride’s dark curls.

Diamond leaned back against him, and pursed her lips in thought. “I know of something that might be done with it. There is a very refreshing drink, healers often keep it on hand, as it is tasty, yet refreshing. It is very useful for patients who are needing to drink a lot of fluids.” She nodded, “It will be very welcome as the weather gets warmer.”

“And,” said Estella, “there is always mint jelly, as well. Some mint jelly would be very nice, now that lamb season is here.” This earned her a broad grin from her husband, who dearly loved lamb chops and mint jelly. Estella cast a sidelong glance at Pippin and Diamond. Pippin had pulled his wife back to him, and had his long arms clasped firmly about her waist. Diamond grinned at Estella, and winked.

Merry had filled a large basket with mint, and had started to take up his spade to begin the job of moving the plants. Estella took the spade herself, and held it behind her back. “Oh, no, Merry Brandybuck! It’s time for elevenses! If we don’t get to the kitchen soon, the children will have eaten all the custard tarts, and there will be none for us!”

Merry looked nearly as alarmed at this threat as his children had, and allowed his wife to draw him away. “Pip? Diamond? Are you coming with us?”

Merry rolled his eyes, but refrained from teasing the newlyweds, and he and Estella walked back towards the little cottage. However, as they neared the back door, Estella stopped and turned, elbowing Merry to watch.

Diamond had drawn Pippin down to whisper in his ear. Pippin straightened up with an exclamation of surprise. “Are you *sure*, Diamond?” he cried sharply. At her nod, he picked her up, swung her around and gave her a resounding kiss.

Merry stared for a moment, until Estella elbowed him. He turned to give his own wife a quizzical look. She was wearing a very happy smirk. “I take it, Estella, my heart, that you know what that’s all about?”

She glanced up at Merry, her eyes dancing. “Diamond has quickened,” she said happily. “We’re to have another babe in the house.”

“No--just--well, they’ve been wed a bit less than two months. How can she be sure?”

His wife giggled. “My dear husband, she is a trained Healer and Midwife. Of course she is sure. And how long do you think it takes?” And she gave him another sly look. Then she jerked his arm. “Come on, husband, if you want any custard tart.” She took the basket of mint from him as they turned to the cottage. “And I suppose we will be doing something with all this mint this afternoon.”
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Mint Infusion: Make the mint infusion prior to starting the jelly, so it will have plenty of time to steep. Use about a cup of fresh mint leaves, bruised, and in a bowl pour a cup of boiling water over them. The longer it steeps, the stronger the mint flavor. While the mint is steeping, prepare your jelly jars. I usually do this by putting clean jars into boiling water for a few minutes, and then upending them on a clean dish towel that has been placed on a tray. I put my lids and rims in the boiling water, and turn it down to simmer while I make the jelly. Strain the leaves out of the infusion.

1 cup mint infusion
½ cup of apple-cider vinegar
3 ½ cups of sugar
1 package (3 oz.) of liquid pectin

In a large pot, bring the mint infusion, vinegar and sugar to a full rolling boil over high heat, stirring until all sugar is dissolved. Add liquid pectin. Boil for exactly one minute, stirring constantly to avoid boilover. Remove from heat; skim the foam. Ladle into the jars, leaving at least ¼ “ headspace, and seal. Jelly does not usually need further processing to seal, but if any lids do not “pop”, you could try putting the jars into a boiling water bath for about five minutes.

[AUTHOR’S NOTES: Of course, Estella would not have used pectin, but if she’d had any, she would have, LOL! This recipe can be used to make other herbal jellies as well. A wonderful one can be made by substituting rosemary for the mint, and using lemon juice instead of vinegar--add a tiny bit of grated lemon peel as well. Basil can be used with regular vinegar or with pineapple juice substituted. Herbal jellies make wonderful gifts.]

Dissolve 4 cups sugar in 2 1/2 cups of water; when it comes to a boil add 1 cup wine vinegar. Simmer 1/2 hour. Add a handful of mint, remove from fire, let cool. Drain out the mint leaves. Dilute the resulting syrup to taste with ice water (5 to 10 parts water to 1 part syrup). The syrup stores without refrigeration.

[AUTHOR’S NOTE: This recipe is actually an ancient Middle-Eastern drink called “Sekanjabin”. This recipe comes from Cariadoc's Miscellany. I've seen several other recipes for it as well, but they are all mostly the same. There are a good many great recipes on this page:
http://www.pbm.com/~lindahl/cariadoc/drinks.html#2

And I know it might sound funny to make a drink out of vinegar and mint, but it really is a very good thirst quencher, and no more tart than lemonade. It‘s also very pretty; depending on which kind of vinegar you use--red wine vinegar makes a lovely pale pink, while white vinegar looks a bit like pale limeade.]
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Dreamflower's Mathoms I by Dreamflower