With thanks to RiverOtter for the Beta

The King’s Commission

Revelations

            It was long since, as Thorongil, a Captain of Gondor under the Lord Steward Ecthelion, he had last visited the home of the Prince of Dol Amroth.  Of course, then the Prince had been Adrahil, and Imrahil had been simply his father’s heir and brother to the beautiful Finduilas--and a trainee in his father’s own forces.  In the stress of the Battle of the Pelennor Fields Prince Imrahil had not appeared to recognize in the Heir of Elendil and Isildur the Captain who long ago had devised, with his father, the strategy by which the Corsairs of Umbar had been destroyed in their berths.  Now as he rode south with Imrahil’s troupes back to Dol Amroth, the King Elessar Telcontar was watching with amusement the Prince’s confusion as he found himself dealing with a liege who appeared to know the road very well, and who did not feel it necessary to take two days longer in order to avoid the fording of the Gilrain at Casistir.

            “But, my Lord, for those who are unacquainted with the Ford the way can be treacherous.”

            “And why do you assume I am unacquainted with the Ford, my Prince?  Is it not yet maintained by the Lord’s Corps of Engineers as it has been for the past three hundred seventy years?”

            “Why, yes, of course, Sire.”

            “Have they changed the design of the Ford treads significantly in the past four decades?”

            Imrahil stopped his mount.  Aragorn could almost see the unspoken questions forming in the man’s mind.  “No, the design is much as it has been for the past three centuries.”

            “If it has not significantly changed, then there is no need for us to avoid it.  All of my personal guard accompanying us were chosen because they are familiar with this road, having served alongside your own companies in the past.”

            “That I realize, Sire.  However, it is for your own safety I am concerned.”

            “Roheryn has experience with far worse crossings in Eriador, and trusts me implicitly.  He certainly will not balk at the Ford at Casistir as long as I ride or lead him across it.  The Ford has certainly never been as dangerous as the Sarn Ford outside the Shire, or even the Ford of Bruinen in my experience.  And, after we have crossed we can break at the Ford’s Inn in Casistir, or whatever it might be called now.  Is their ale still as good as it ever was?  And do they still serve the best roast lamb in the Southlands?”

            At the expression on his host’s face Aragorn had to stifle his mirth.  He decided to add to the man’s bewilderment just a bit more.  “Certainly the last time I went this way with you we enjoyed a fine meal there, or didn’t you remember?  I remember how Endeth hovered over our table, uncertain whether to seek to entice your father’s heir or the dashing Captain from the North....”

            Ah--there the pieces were starting to come together at last!  Aragorn watched as the Prince’s face reddened slightly and his jaw started to drop--and then closed with a start of new respect and self-deprecatory humor.  Shaking his head, Imrahil searched his King’s face closely, his mind finally superimposing a long-suppressed memory of a once-familiar visage over that of the man facing him now.

            Confused by his master’s change in attitude, the Prince’s gelding shifted uneasily, and unconsciously its rider reached forward to scratch its ears to calm it as his expression cleared.  “But that was--how long ago?  Almost fifty years?”  He shifted slightly, then started to laugh.  “I had forgotten Endeth--and had not thought of the significance of you being one of the Dúnedain until this moment, my Lord.

            “And this is how you choose to unveil yourself to me, my Lord Eagle?  Do you realize just how much endless speculation was directed your way while you served the Lord Ecthelion, and how many were wagering my sister would find herself your bride one day?  Not to mention the rumors that surrounded your sudden removal from the service of Gondor after the triumph in Umbar.”

            “I indicated that I would return when Gondor needed me and was willing to accept my service again, did I not?  And I did receive an urgent summons to the North, where my primary responsibilities lay at the time.  My uncle, who had stood as Steward in my name among the Dúnedain of the North as I learned about my people and future allies and enemies in the South, had just been slain alongside several of his closest lieutenants in a battle with orcs which had been coming down the passes toward Imladris and our strongholds to the north of Eriador.  Gondor was well served by the stewardship of the Lord Ecthelion, and I knew that if I remained longer I should inevitably come into conflict with the Lord Denethor once he became Steward.  As my own folk were now endangered, and as we needed to establish a new chain of command for our Rangers, I had to leave at once.”

            The Prince of Dol Amroth nodded, many questions being now answered.

            “What confrontation did you foresee with Denethor?”

            The King sighed.  “Denethor felt his father cared more for the advice of the Captain Thorongil than for his own, that Ecthelion wished that I were his son instead of himself.  Certainly he saw me as a competitor for his father’s love, and for the love of our people--and for the love of your sister.  Do you think he was unaware of the wagers over your sister becoming my wife?

            “As for the speculations focused on your sister and myself--I very much fear they were unfounded.  I will not deny I found Finduilas highly attractive and reminiscent of my beloved bride--but the very fact she favored Arwen so much made it more unlikely I should ever actively pursue her, for each time I saw a detail in Finduilas’s visage or stance or actions that brought my beloved to mind--well, it brought Arwen to mind, and it was her person I would see more clearly.”

            “I see,” said Imrahil.  “You impressed her mightily, Lord; but I doubt she would have found you an acceptable match, for at the time your lineage was much in question; and as our father’s daughter it was necessary she marry well to strengthen the ties of policy and lineage among our own people.”  To which the King nodded agreement.

            With no more questions about their route, they turned to the shorter road south.

 *******

            Casistir was one of the settlements of Men which cause one to wish that such terms as village and town and city were better defined.  It had long been a market town, but at the same time was sufficiently removed from the main trade routes to dictate that its market would be limited in scope and merchandise.  There were too many who lived in it for it to be considered just a hamlet; but neither were there enough for it to be considered a city.  Even town seemed a pretentious description at the same time village seemed woefully inadequate.  But it was now beginning to grow.

            Aragorn found it both remarkably familiar and yet markedly changed since he last visited it.  There was a new structure where the Ford’s Inn had once stood--the old post-and-beam building had been replaced with a new stone inn of three stories with a sign proclaiming it to be The Crossed Keys.  It looked to be at one and the same time more structurally sound and less comfortable than its predecessor.  He examined it closely and the surrounding buildings, then asked if an investigation had been done of the fire that had destroyed the original building.  The prince smiled to see the astuteness of his liege’s observations, and explained that it had been found the brother-in-law of the previous owner had been attempting to avenge himself on a slight to his sister by setting fire to the kitchens area, a fire that spread remarkably rapidly.  Many of his own troupes who had not been close enough to overhear the earlier conversation between their prince and their king found themselves wondering how their new ruler could have known about the event, while the king’s own guard, who’d had the chance to learn about some of his more unusual sources of intelligence as well as his tendency to see details most others would ignore, found themselves spotting the tell-tale traces of scoured soot and cracked stone and new plaster work on adjacent structures while the stones of the new inn were pristine. 

            Part of the old grazing common was covered with stacks of huge stone blocks.  As the king contemplated this supply of both rough and dressed stone, the prince explained:  “A new quarry for fine marble has been opened to the north of here, Sire, making Casistir one of the primary sources for the stone in the region.  We are finding stone cutters, masons, and sculptors are being drawn here from all around to obtain stone for building and decoration, and right now there are at least five different parties focused on civic improvements in search of stone to assist in repairs of damage imposed by the Corsairs four years past.  Casistir is beginning to grow rather suddenly as a result.”

            Aragorn nodded, acknowledging the need for dressed stone for the area and how that need would fuel unprecedented growth here as a result.  He’d held his throne now for four years, and that it would take so long for sufficient prosperity to grow in the region to allow the repairs for the damage inflicted by the war against Sauron to begin in earnest galled him, although he accepted that this was the way of the world.  Even in Minas Anor there was serious reconstruction going on still, and it would continue thus for at least the next decade.  In Eriador and the Shire the reconstruction was continuing to unfold, he knew, although the latest word from the Thain was that the major part of the rebuilding of homes and civic structures within the Shire, at least, appeared to be mostly finished.  But throughout the rest of the Northlands the rebuilding would be the work of several generations.

            “How is the major portion of the stone being moved?  There isn’t sufficient depth of the Gilrain here to support barges.  And the Fords would impede its movement eastward.”  As they moved toward the new inn the discussion of roads and a needed bridge to replace the ancient Fords went on apace.

            There was no barracks complex or lesser fortress in Casistir, and always the troupes of Dol Amroth as they passed through when taking the shorter way north or south had taken rooms at the two inns, officers usually at the Fords Inn and common soldiers at the Troll’s Foot.  The latter inn still stood, large and sprawling, on the far side of the market district.  As the major part of their troupes were directed there, the King and Prince and their immediate officers and three guards each headed for the Crossed Keys.

            One of the King’s habits that had impressed Prince Imrahil was that his Officer of the Privy Purse who accompanied the King’s party was the one who entered the inns at times like this to obtain rooms, and he not only obtained a fair rate, but paid fees up front in the King’s coin rather than with promissory notes, a practice which stimulated the economy while improving the relationship between the Crown and the people of Gondor.  This Imrahil found a marked improvement over his late brother-in-law’s policies.  As the forces of Dol Amroth and emissaries of the Stewards had regularly used the inns in Casistir for generations, a certain number of secure rooms had been built into the facilities and were always available, although this would be a first time for the King himself to take advantage of them.  If the growth continued here, he knew, a garrison would undoubtedly be built with quarters for such notables, and he recognized that would mark the end of an era in which nobles and troupes mixed with commoners in such places as this, a development Imrahil of Dol Amroth looked forward to with regret.

            As the King entered the inn in the wake of his officers, he wore no more of his royal paraphernalia than the Ring of Barahir and the Elessar stone holding closed his mantle, Anduril hidden beneath folds of cloth, so he entered unrecognized, only one more of the officers of the new order as far as the worthies of Casistir were concerned.  But the Prince was amused to note that the response to the tall form was mixed--at the same time the King went barely noticed people still unconsciously made way for him.  And from his experiences in youth with this very man, Imrahil knew that when he wished to go unremarked, Captain Thorongil had shown a unique facility to walk both unnoted and yet physically untouched through throngs that would press in on all others.  He now wondered if this was part of the legacy of being the heir of Isildur.

            The rooms proved more comfortable than had been anticipated, and both the King and his chief bodyguard approved of the security arrangements, at which time a guard for his chamber was assigned and the King repaired to the common room for the evening meal.  Aragorn had insisted that at no time would he allow his position as King of Gondor and Arnor to be used to gain advantage over his people, which led to their party remaining standing for some minutes until a suitable table was made ready for them.  But as was his custom, the King used the time, the Prince noted, to study the place and its inhabitants. 

            The Prince’s attention was drawn to a party sitting at a table toward the far side of the room, where a number of men who obviously worked in stone sat together, animatedly discussing the activities of the day.  At the center of the crowd, the Prince saw seated a form that drew the attention of all as had not been true of the form of their monarch.  Even the attention of the King Elessar himself was drawn there with surprise--the King Elessar who traveled with and accounted himself friend to so many strange folk--Elves, Dwarves, and Halflings.  And at first glance it appeared that a Halfling sat at this table--but a second, closer look showed that to be wrong--no Pherian this, but one of those Men born at times in a body which failed to grow normally, the trunk and limbs stunted, head and hands seeming almost grotesquely large in comparison, commonly referred to in Gondor as a mannikin.  He wore a short but carefully shaped dark beard, and his dark hair was stylishly dressed; his eyes alert and laughing as he drank from his mug and then set it down.  And he was obviously accepted as a leader among his company, for the bulk of the attention at his table was focused on him when he spoke, gesticulating eloquently the whiles.

            The innkeeper came to tell them a table was now ready, and led them through the room to the next table beyond that of the artisans, between their table and the far wall.  Seeing the focus of their attention, he commented, “The sculptors who work on the new Hall for Casistir, my Lords.  The mannikin is Ruvemir son of Mardil of Lebennin, Master Sculptor.  And Master he is for all he is but a Halfling in height.” 

            The Prince looked to his liege to see his response to such a pronouncement, and noted the King’s face was carefully expressionless.  It was said that the Pherian Frodo who had himself braved the darkness of Mordor to destroy the Ring of the Enemy had left Middle Earth (although none said how his end had come), and that the King still mourned him.  Imrahil had indeed seen the Lord Aragorn’s concern in the wake of the battle before the Black Gates regarding the fate of the Ringbearer and his esquire, and the pain in his new liege’s face each day as he left the side of the still-sleeping pair during their recovery when their lives were still in question.  The grave and startlingly beautiful Pherian had drawn a great deal of attention and honor in both Ithilien and the capital, and certainly what Imrahil himself had seen of him indicated this was one of the unique of the world who deserved all honor at the same time he sought to defer it to others. 

            But as he took his place at the table and requested a cup of the inn’s finest ale and the house specialty of roast lamb, the King of Gondor’s expression was remote and introspective, although his attention was increasingly drawn to the intent face at the next table, the barely contained energy of the dark eyes, the excitement as he described the image he now worked on and where it would stand on the facade of the new Hall.  Yes, Imrahil noted, the reports of the King’s grief were accurate, and this one had brought it all back to the forefront of his awareness.  The rest of the King’s party noted his mood and respected it.

            The party at the next table was now considering their next projects, once their current joint commission was completed, which appeared to be imminent.  “I have a mind to go to the Pelargir myself,” said one of the younger sculptors.  “It is said that they wish to have done a statue of the King as he released the Army of the Dead, and I think it would be worthy of my talents.” 

            Laughter followed this announcement, and Ruvemir son of Mardil commented, “Then will you depict him on horseback, Bergemon?  You have yet to do a successful depiction of a standing figure.”  And the rest of the party concurred. 

            Bergemon reddened, but refused to back down.  “And what makes you think it would not be appropriate, for it is said he rode there in haste from the Stone of Erech.  Do you know he was unhorsed when he freed them?”

            One of the others responded, “My brother was one of those who followed after and went up the River in the Black Ships, and he says the release was done from the deck of the largest of them.  One does not sit astride a horse on the deck of a ship, no matter how large.”

            Another commented, “Sounds like a fitting commission for you, Ruvemir.”

            He shook his head.  “No, not challenging enough.  I’m tired of sculpting Men--I’d like to do studies of another race for a change.”

            “Three of the Elfkind are said to have accompanied him, and a Dwarf.  Scope for your talents, I think.”

            “No,” Bergemon said, “I think Ruvemir should try for a commission to do a sculpture of one of the mysterious Halflings, seeing he is almost one himself.  Could use himself as the model.”

            Ruvemir’s face darkened.  “And how do you know I even resemble the Halflings, Bergemon?  Have you ever seen a Pherian?”

            “They won’t look to us in the capital, though,” commented one of the others darkly.  “Dwarves are doing the reconstruction of Minas Tirith, not Men.”

            Imrahil noted the look on the King’s face at this.  Yes, this response to an apparent preference for Dwarf craftsmanship would be important to consider.

            Another of the party commented, “One good thing if you were to focus on the Pheriannath, Ruvemir--you could do all your work standing on the ground for a change.”  All laughed, including Ruvemir.

            After the meal the King indicated he wished to walk through Casistir to see what changes had been made, and the party all set out to do a walking survey.  The Master of Casistir, having learned Prince Imrahil was staying at the Keys, found them near the Ford and approached to do his Lord honors.  He did not recognize the King’s presence, and at a sign from the Lord Elessar Imrahil did not bring attention to him.  The Master was plainly eager to describe the growth of his small domain, and answered all questions with excruciating detail.  The Lord’s Engineers were considering the need for a bridge, and had been considering different designs for the past three years, but as yet had failed to make a determination on what would be most appropriate.  After an extended period of pointing out how each alternative would be best anchored, at last the Prince interrupted and asked Aragorn, “Would the Lord Gimli’s advice be of use here, do you think?”

            “I’m not certain his input would be welcomed, considering what was said within.”

            “Still, the advice of a Dwarf could be useful to break the deadlock.”

            “The advice of the Lord King’s friend?  Oh, I would welcome such, my Lords.  I know many are certain the King prefers the work of other races and feel such slights the work of Men, but it is said that Aulë’s folk know best how to set stone.  I, for one, would welcome at least a Dwarf’s assessment.”  All nodded in agreement.

            Aragorn himself commented, “I understand a new Hall is almost completed.”

            “Oh, yes, sir.  The old one had been added onto thrice, and its foundations would not accept any more weight.  When the north wall started to sag we had to admit it was time to rebuild completely.  And we have been lucky to engage the services of some of the best sculptors in the realm in decorating it.  Would you like to see it?”  And he led the way, talking as they walked.

            Patronage for the sculptures to decorate the front of the new Hall was being funded by the Lady Endeth, he told them.  Her late husband had opened the marble quarry to the north of Casistir, which had brought them their current prosperity.  She had requested a sculpture be done of the triumphant assault on Umbar by Lord Adrahil’s fleet, led by the Captain Thorongil.  “She used to favor Captain Thorongil, I believe,” the Master added, oblivious of the amused glance his Lord was throwing the way of the tall man he thought of as the King’s officer.  “Of course, in the days he still served Gondor she was no lady as yet, but served in the Ford’s Inn.”

            “She is yet alive, then?”

            “Oh, yes, sir.  And still a fine figure of a woman for all her years, sir.”

            The new hall was surprisingly modest, the Prince thought, but certainly adequate.  And the sculptures were excellent.  He quickly and easily recognized his father’s likeness, and smiled in approval.  But it was to the form of Captain Thorongil he and his companions turned their attention.  And all stopped, amazed.  “Remarkable likeness, my Lord,” he commented.  The King nodded.

            The Master looked to his Prince.  “That is right--you knew him, did you not, my Lord Prince?”  And at the Prince’s nod he looked to the one he thought of as the King’s officer, then stopped, wonder and confusion filling his features.  “But, sir, he looks just like you!”  To which he was given a bemused nod.  “Are you of his kin?”

            He was shocked to hear his Lord Prince begin to laugh uncontrollably, a laughter in which the King’s officer joined, while their guards looked on as puzzled as himself, save one who smiled knowingly.

            At last Prince Imrahil reined in his mirth, and looked at his companion with an unspoken question that was answered with a helpless nod.

            “My Lord Master, I feel I need to introduce you to our Lord King, the Lord Elessar, who many years ago served our land in different guise.”

            “Our Lord King?  Here in Casistir, my Lord Prince?”  His face paled.  “Sire! But I did not know!”  Then the rest of what his Prince had said penetrated.  “Wait--”  He looked in shock into the King’s features. “You were Captain Thorongil, my Lord?  You?”  He went paler, and his Prince and his King, both suddenly worried for him, each took an arm and supported him back to a bench and helped him sit down.  At a quick order from the King one of the guards went in search of water, and the King knelt down before the Master and felt his brow, then the side of his neck.

            “Careful, my Lord Master--we do not need a brain storm from you.  Take a slow, deep breath and calm yourself.”

            Once the guard returned with the water from the fountain in the center of the square, the Master finally calmed enough to speak comprehensibly.  “But, my Lord--I must not sit before my King!” 

            “When your heart is beating as rapidly as yours is now, Master, you must sit before anyone or you will fall.  Do not worry--it was on my order that my identity was not given, and it was very long ago that I served Gondor as Captain Thorongil.”

            “But--how--how is this possible?”

            The Prince explained gently, “He is of the pure lineage from Númenor, Lord Master.  He is older than he appears.”

            “But--!”  Slowly amusement rose in the Master’s eyes, and suddenly he chuckled.  “I’d wanted to have your visage on the Hall, but the Lady Endeth, who is paying the commission and supplying the stone, insisted on the Captain Thorongil!  And, to find we have both, one and the same....”  He began to laugh, and the rest began to laugh with him.  He looked to the guards and officers who had accompanied King and Prince.  “They did not know you once served as the Lord Captain Thorongil?”

            “Only Lord Hardorn, my Officer of the Privy Purse here,” his King told him.  “But now all do know.  After looking on this statue, how can they not?”

            “Who did this sculpture?” asked the Prince.

            “Master Ruvemir of Lebennin, my Lord.”

            The King asked, “But how did he know what to sculpt?”

            “He spent days questioning the Lady Endeth, and then others who had known the Captain when he was among us.  Even went to Dol Amroth to question some of the oldest servitors from the castle, my Lords, and drew pictures as he got the descriptions he sought.  When all agreed he had caught the image of Captain Thorongil he finally began to do models, and then when his models were acknowledged he finally began to plan the full sculpture.  It is his special gift, my Lords, to be able to reconstruct those he has no access to.”

            Prince Imrahil nodded.  “I see that indeed he has managed to do this.  It is an amazing gift.”  He looked to his King, who nodded.

 *******

            When they finally returned to the Keys, the King asked the Prince to join him for a final glass of wine in his room.  When the two faced each other across the table, Imrahil gave his liege a searching look.

            “What is it, my Lord?”

            “I think I will be able at last to do something I’d thought not possible.”

            “To do a sculpture of the Pherian Frodo, Sire?”

            “Yes.  I had wanted to do a sculpture of the four Hobbits together, but none of the studies provided by the artists of Minas Tirith were adequate, particularly those done of Frodo.  Only one sketch of him came close to being lifelike, and that I ended up giving to Sam.  I am not certain if it was lack of talent in those I approached, or simply due to lack of familiarity with Halflings in general.  I greatly desire to make a fitting memorial to Frodo that truly captures him, but that is several times more difficult now as he is no longer with us.”

            “How did he die, Sire?”

            The King was silent for a time, looked off and shook his head.

            “I do not believe he is dead, but he is certainly not with us at this time.  Nor will he return.”

            “Where did he go, Lord?”

            “To the Undying Lands.  To Tol Eressëa.”

            Prince Imrahil felt a shock run through him.  “The Valar allowed a mortal to come to the Undying Lands?”

            “They have permitted two to go--the Ringbearer and his kinsman Bilbo who carried the Ring before him.”

            “But, why?”

            It took a few moments for Aragorn to answer him.  “It was in part in response to the plea made to them by my beloved Arwen--and confirmed by her father.  And I am certain that Mithrandir had a hand in it, as well.  You cannot believe what bearing the Enemy’s Ring did to him, Imrahil.  He was so hurt by it, so--emptied.”  He took a drink of his wine to give himself time to steady himself, then set the goblet precisely on the table, focused on its stem.

            “Frodo Baggins, son of Drogo and kinsman to Bilbo, was one of the most unusual beings I have ever dealt with in my ninety years in Middle Earth.  As I once told Sam, he drew honor and loyalty to him as a lodestone draws fragments of iron.  He brought out the best in almost everyone he ever met.”  Again he paused.  “Including me.”

            Carefully turning the goblet, he finally continued.  “I first heard of him in Imladris from his elderly cousin Bilbo, who found the Ring in a cavern in the Misty Mountains, saving it from discovery from goblins there which assuredly would have sped it on its way to the Enemy had they found it first.  Bilbo was devoted to Frodo, and often told me his young adopted heir was the best Hobbit in the Shire.  His love for Frodo was deep and pure, and then I learned that Mithrandir felt the same for him.  Gandalf told me Frodo inspired loyalty to an amazing degree, that those who came to know him well loved him intensely, and bound themselves to him.  And then I actually saw him, saw the Light burning within Frodo Baggins on the road to Bree, outside the Old Forest and the Barrowdowns.  And I found myself binding myself to him as well.

            “You saw the loyalty shown him by his cousins and by Sam.  You saw how anyone seeking to approach him had to get past Legolas and Gimli--and me.  You saw how Mithrandir kept watch over him constantly.  You saw the constant concern we all felt for him as he was recovering.” 

            The Prince of Dol Amroth nodded.

            “I would not be the person I am today if it hadn’t been for his Light burning away my habit of disguising myself.  Of course, the only way I survived for most of my life was by remaining hidden--first as Estel of Imladris, then as Thorongil of Rohan and Gondor, then as Strider in Eriador.  But I couldn’t accept the Winged Crown by being any less than what I am--the heir of Elendil and Isildur of the Line of Elros, the Dúnadan, bearer of the Star of Elendil and his sword as well as the Elessar stone.  And it was in traveling with Frodo, who always called me by my rightful name, Aragorn, that I began to put aside all the disguises, to proclaim myself as I am.

            “I would have gone with him into the fires of Orodruin, but he left us to spare the rest of us the temptation to which Boromir had come so close to succumbing.  Always he tried to give himself for others.  Always.”  He took another sip of his wine, and then sat, looking down into the goblet, once again turning it between his fingers.

            He finally looked up into his companion’s eyes.  “Healing someone ties you to him in a unique way.  And--I helped heal him in Eriador, in Imladris, between Moria and Lothlorien, and finally after the battle.  Except in none of those healings was I--were we--totally successful.  For we could not fully counter the effects of the Enemy’s weapons.  Only the Valar can fully heal him, I fear.  He was willing to cast himself into the Cracks of Doom for us all, but we could not relieve him of his pain.”

            He paused again, looked off.  “It’s so foolish--he was stabbed by a Morgul blade and came within a hair’s breadth of becoming a wraith himself; he was poisoned by the great spider in Cirith Ungol; he was beaten by orcs; he was taken by the Ring itself; he lost Ring and finger; he was overcome on the slopes of Mount Doom by starvation, lack of drink, weakness, and the poison of the air--and he says he cannot imagine what the rest survived!”  He closed his eyes and shook his head.

            Imrahil looked on his liege with compassion.  “I did not know just how deeply he was hurt.”

            “Merry wrote me that they’ve learned his heart had begun to fail him, and each anniversary of his woundings he grew steadily worse.  He should have been on the ship to Elvenhome during the last anniversary, and Sam was not certain he’d survive even accompanied as he was by the Lord Elrond, the Lady Galadriel, and Mithrandir.”

            “So, Mithrandir has left Middle Earth indeed?”

            “Yes.  I begged him to stay and rule us all, but he said to do so would only serve to make him Middle Earth’s next tyrant.”  He looked again into his companion’s eyes.  “I want to do a proper memorial for Frodo son of Drogo.”

            “And you think to get it from the mannikin?”

            “Those who tried to picture Frodo from life failed.  Perhaps by studying Frodo as seen by others as he did with my portrait this Ruvemir can find a way to do a sculpture that feels more real than the portraits so inadequately done by the artists of Minas Tirith.”

            The Prince considered.  “It is at least worth the trying, don’t you agree?”

The Sculptor

            Ruvemir son of Mardil of Lebennin watched the group at the next table leave with mixed feelings.  He was very glad Damrod had spoken aloud the dissatisfaction all felt regarding the Crown’s prejudice against the artisans of Men, its preference for the work of Dwarves and Elves.  He’d seen the Prince flinch at that, the quick look he’d given the chief officer from the capital.  And there had been no real response from the officer, although he was certain the officer had to have heard as well.

            He’d not been in a position to have a good view of the officer’s face--it had  been much shadowed; but he’d sensed good bones, a pleasing shape, deep-set eyes that probably missed little.  He’d felt those eyes on him at their arrival and several times during the meal, felt the surprise and the fascination of them, and had in return felt the familiar anger those who cannot help being different experience at being seen as a freak of nature.  But when he’d turned his eyes upon that one with defiance, the other hadn’t been looking at him, had been looking down at his plate, although he’d been pushing his lamb about it more than he’d been eating it, and the set of his shoulders had spoken of a deep sadness.  And that sadness had sparked Ruvemir’s curiosity.

            He was an artist, and an accomplished one at that.  He’d put all the disgust he felt for the shape of his own body and all his love of beauty into his pursuit of his art, and he’d become perhaps the greatest sculptor of his age.  And the figure in the black mantle of the service of Minas Anor had, he’d sensed, all the physical perfection he wished for himself--height, shoulders that were even, slender waist and hips....  He sensed the sword the man carried so easily beneath his mantle, a part of him now through long association, as his own mallet and chisels were an extension of himself at this point.  Ruvemir appreciated physical perfection and human symmetry, and his heart ached after the tall man as he walked away, a brief flutter of those muscular shoulders putting the thoughts of his sadness decidedly into its proper place so that he might be as alert as he must be to adequately serve Crown and the People of Gondor.  And, for all he deferred to the Prince, Ruvemir noted that the Prince equally deferred to the officer, which indicated this one was undoubtedly one high in the service of the new King.

            After his meal, Ruvemir paid for the lamb and turnips, greens and wine, and said good night to his companions, and then made his way steadily to the stairs.  This was one part of being a mannikin he hated, the lurching walk brought about by his poorly designed hips.  But he managed to exaggerate that lurch just enough to make it appear deliberate and somehow attractive.  But then, once he was quit of the common room and nearing the passage he sought, he was glad no one was there to see him with the ordeal he truly hated most of all--climbing the stairs.  Such stairs were easy even for children to negotiate; but although he was as tall as most children of ten summers, never had he been comfortable with stairs.  His poorly proportioned legs and hips made climbing stairs a physical labor worse than spending all day rough cutting a solid block of granite.  Tonight his left hip particularly was paining him as he made the last step, and he took out his kerchief from the inner pocket of his cloak and wiped the sweat off his face.  Down the hall, in front of the rooms reserved for the officers of Dol Amroth and the capital, two men stood at guard, and both looked his way, both the one in the blue and white of the Prince’s livery and the one in the black and silver of Minas Tirith.  He hated that they saw him at that moment, hated that they were so tall and agile, openly envied their strength and flexibility and endurance, and resented their stare, even though he knew they but did their duty, and were only seeing that he was a fellow lodger in the inn and not an enemy.  They were, after all, soldiers, soldiers who must think in terms of friends and enemies.  He sent them a glare and turned away from them, to his own rooms.

 *******

            Early in the morning he obtained a portion of fruit and cheese and a cup of milk in the common room, then headed for the building site.  He was putting the final touches on the last figure he was to do in the tableau, that of a child watching the assault on the Corsair’s ships with awe.  He was busy with thoughts of how he would render her curls when he came in sight of the shed where he worked on his figures, and realized with frustration someone was there before him.  It was a Man, a tall figure seated on a block of stone, which the rest of his comrades used as a bench during the moments they gave themselves of rest during the day.  He was cloaked and hooded in a stained green cloak over green riding leathers, dark trousers, and well-fitting boots, which were relatively new.  He wore a black leather sheath, which Ruvemir sensed more than saw was rich and far newer than the man’s clothing.  He had a metal tankard by him, and in his hand he held a strange device from which smoke arose from a fine, small bowl from which rose a stem.  A hunting bow rose above his shoulder, the hint of finely fletched arrows in a well-worn quiver.  He had turned his gaze from the figure of the girl Ruvemir had been working on at the sound of his approach, and was watching him intently from beneath his hood.  And behind him, Ruvemir suddenly realized, was a second figure, this one also cloaked and hooded, this time in silver-grey, with a silver star holding his cloak closed at his left shoulder, a bow with arrow already nocked but loosely held in his hands as if he were on guard.  The seated fellow lifted the stem of his device to his mouth, and breathed deeply of the smoke as he evaluated Ruvemir.  Ruvemir contemplated back, not that he could see all that much of the man’s face for his hood--only a bearded chin that appeared, somehow, familiar.  Finally, deeply disturbed and annoyed, he moved forward to check those of his tools he left out at the site.  No, none had been disturbed, he was glad to say.  The eyes of the intruders followed him, dispassionately interested in him.  No, he amended, as he looked to the one standing guard, that one’s attention was moving methodically over the terrain--well, he was only doing his job, Ruvemir supposed.

            The situation was becoming ridiculous, Ruvemir thought, and he felt he should confront it.  He turned decidedly to the seated man, who was again drawing on his strange device as he watched, and asked, “Did you have business with me?”

            The other looked him over a moment before responding, “Perhaps, Sir Artist.”

            Hmm.  Recognition, at least, for his skill.  Ruvemir tried again to look beyond the shadows of the hood, saw a well-shaped, straight nose, thin but mobile lips.  He found himself wishing he had his sketch booklet handy, for he wished to capture this figure on it, perhaps incorporate it into a sculpture one day.  He could not see the brooch that held the stranger’s cloak closed, for it was mostly hidden below the folds of the hood; but he caught a glow of dark, shining green.  Not a poor man, then--but then, no poor man would carry that sheath nor wear boots of that quality.  No, this man dressed like this because he must--a woodsman, but a woodsman who fought. 

            His curiosity now fully aroused, the sculptor finally asked, “May this artist ask your name?”

            Again a pause, and finally the rich, deeply inflected voice responded, with a hint of humor, “You may think of me, for the moment at least, as Strider.”  Another pause.  “And I am told you are Ruvemir son of Mardil of Lebennin, Master Sculptor.”

            “You have the advantage of me, sir--in several ways, apparently.”  The seated man shrugged and returned to his stillness.  “Well, if you will state your business, Sir Strider, perhaps I can then continue with my work.”

            “We do not hinder you.”  The man struck the bowl of his device against the stone on which he sat to empty out what appeared to be ashes of smoldering leaves, stowed it familiarly behind his belt.

            Annoyance flared again.  “No, you do not hinder, but you do distract.  Now, can we be done with the acting so I can feel free to give my whole attention to my figure?”

            Strider stood up with the smooth grace that seems so natural with many tall, slender men, that grace Ruvemir admired so and so envied for himself.  “I may have a commission for you, once you are finished here.  I had a friend, one I deeply admired and cared for, a companion for much of a year, and he has gone.  I wish a memorial made for him, and those I have dealt with before have failed to do him justice.”

            “I do not wish to sculpt Men at this time.”

            “He is not a Man.”

            Two things struck the artist--the use of is rather than was, and the deep sadness in the tall Man’s voice.  Strider reached into a purse he carried tied to his belt, drew out an object and held it out to him.  “I will be back in the capital in two months’ time.  If you are interested in this commission, come to Minas Anor after that, and present this token to the Captain of the Guard at the main gate--he will be alerted to watch for it.  He will then bring you to me, and we will continue our negotiations from there.”  He started to look toward the square.

            “Wait!  You have not told me what race this fellow is of, Sir Strider.”

            “I did not?  Well, he is a Hobbit.”  He paused, looked at the object in his hand then the artist’s face.  “Will you take it, Ruvemir son of Mardil?”

            It was an enameled brooch, a silver leaf colored green, a beautiful thing, carefully molded and tinted.  Ruvemir looked at it in wonder, for he’d not seen such workmanship before.  He looked up into the face of the standing man, saw his eyes were deep set and somehow familiar.  He took the brooch and looked up in confusion, but the man had scooped up the tankard, was turning away and nodding to the one who’d stood guard. 

            “Another thing,” Strider said as he paused in his leave-taking, “on the stone is a purse containing sufficient funds to bring you to Minas Anor, if you choose to come.  I hope you will, and that you will bring me back my brooch, for it has many pleasant as well as sad memories tied to it.”  A final nod between the two Men, and they melted away into the growing day as if they were taking shelter behind trees in the forest of whatever land from which they’d come.  Ruvemir was left to look after them, the leaf brooch in his hand.  Finally he looked at the place beside where Strider had sat, saw there a small satchel of new black leather, a silver cord serving as handle and tie.  He stowed the brooch in his inner pocket, took the bag, unfastened the cord, and found it contained seven gold coins, King’s coin, he noted.  No, this one was not poor--not poor at all.  He was still holding the coins as Damrod appeared.

            “And where did you get that?” demanded the dour, taller sculptor.

            “It is in earnest of a new commission,” said Ruvemir, stowing the coins back into their purse, tightening the silver cord. 

            Damrod was impressed.  “Not done here and already more work?  Some folk have all the luck!”  He looked at the bag with interest.  “Hmm--the King’s colors.  Interesting.  Where are you to do this work?”

            A smile lifted one side of Ruvemir’s face.  “Minas Tirith--or Minas Anor as it now is--seems they may have room for the artistry of Men after all.”  He tied the purse to the thong he had sewn into the inner pocket of his cloak for such things, and then carefully rolled it as he always did and prepared to stow it in the locked box in which he kept his finer tools as he prepared for the day’s work.

Meeting with the Patron

            Ruvemir of Lebennin carefully stepped off the gangway of the ship that had carried him upriver onto the wharves of the Harlond, beneath the fields of the Pelennor on which the great battle had been fought.  He’d thought to find the ship more comfortable than riding the distance from Lebennin, but had not.  He found the movement of the deck unsettling, and the bed in his cabin had been so high he’d needed a stool to climb into it.  And it had been so very narrow, and hard.  He was very glad to be off the ship at last, but now contemplated the Pelennor with frustration.  Others would be able to follow the road from the wharves quickly and easily; but his left hip was paining him, and he knew he would take far longer to make the journey to the gates than his fellow passengers.

            One of those coming off the boat, however, a young woman who’d been visiting with relatives in Dol Amroth, offered him a ride in her father’s carriage to the gates, an offer her father agreed to with a measure of reluctance, Ruvemir noted.  In spite of the man’s obvious displeasure Ruvemir accepted gladly, even accepted the Man’s assistance as he’d noted the pained grimace Ruvemir gave as he tried to mount the step, and they were off on their way. 

            There was a barrier across the still-open gateway, and nearby under a familiar open shed short, broad figures worked steadily on what must be the new gates.  Ruvemir had never seen Dwarves before, and saw that they resembled Men well enough, only being shorter and heavily bearded, broad in the chest.  They did not seem as poorly proportioned as he was himself, and he envied them the ease with which they moved about their work.  But he found himself itching to have his own tools in hand and to be beside them as they worked, for he saw there were figures being worked into the leaves of the gate.

            His own chests would follow after, for he’d paid to have them carted to the city to the inn advised of by the ship’s captain, a place in the second level known as The King’s Head.  The seven gold pieces had paid for all this, and he still had funds left over without touching his fees for the work he’d done in Casistir.

            The sheer magnificence of the capital of Gondor hit him as he alighted from the carriage and thanked the father and daughter for their courtesy to him, a stranger.  They smiled, the father glad he’d assisted the mannikin after all, and they wished him a good visit to Minas Anor, then turned their carriage about, for they lived in one of the small hamlets rebuilt on the Pelennor, just inside the Rammas Echor to the south and west.  He looked up at the height of the towering walls, much of it still heavily stained with the remains of smoke and soot, some of it shining with newness.  High up he saw the keel of the outthrust rock, which so marked the city reach its zenith, and over it hung the banner of the King.  He turned his dazzled gaze down, looked for the guards at the gate, approached one and asked to be taken to his captain.

            The captain looked at the token as it was presented with interest, and acknowledged he’d been told to look for it, and said he would lead him to its owner so he could return it in person, but that that individual was not now available.  “Where are you staying?” he asked.

            “I hope to take rooms in the King’s Head,” Ruvemir stated, and the soldier nodded. 

            “Then, when I hear the--the Lord Strider is available, I will send a guard to you to take you to him.  However, he is likely to be high up in the city, so I advise you to rest beforehand.  He has been laboring in the Houses of Healing for the past few days, and they are in the Sixth Circle.”  He then ordered a young recruit to lead the artist into the city and show him the way to the King’s Head, and as they walked away, Ruvemir noted a second was dispatched up toward the heart of the city.

            Hmm.  Well funded, a woodsman, a fighter, one apparently skilled with a bow as well as with a sword, and one who labored in the Houses of Healing as well?  And spoken of as “Lord”?  Strider was becoming even more of an enigma than ever.

            Before the Inn of the King’s Head he saw his first Elf, a tall, slender figure with hair the color of a raven’s wing, long hair straight to the waist but drawn back from the temples in careful braids, singing as he planted a tree in the midst of the inn’s welcoming garden.  Ruvemir watched with awe the single-minded attention of the figure fixed on the tree, noted the sheer grace of the being, the unearthly beauty of face and form.  The young soldier beside him smiled and bowed to the Elf, who showed himself to be more aware of his surroundings than he’d appeared, bowing his head gracefully in return as he tamped down the soil about the tree’s roots.  “The Elves of the great forest have proven true to their promise to bring new life and beauty into the City,” the young man commented quietly, the first words Ruvemir had heard him speak.  “Prince Legolas of the Woodland Realm has given this as his gift to his friend, our King Elessar.”  He nodded to the door and let the artist enter first.

            The counter behind which the innkeeper stood was higher than Ruvemir’s head, and the sculptor sighed with frustration.  However, the guard with him indicated the host should look to his companion for direction, and Ruvemir was treated with sufficient courtesy to make up for the lack of furniture fit to his stature.  After a moment’s thought, the innkeeper said, “I think one of the rooms fitted out for the King’s Friends will suit you well enough, sir, if you will follow me,” and with a nod of dismissal to the young soldier he led the way down a passage to the right of the desk.  “Our common room is the other direction, sir, down and to the right--you will recognize it.  The King has ordered all inns in the lower levels to be fitted with rooms appropriate to house those of the kinds of his Friends, as he intends all should feel welcome in the city of the King at any time.”  He led the way halfway down the passage, then opened the door to a room which was indeed fitted to the needs of Ruvemir such as he’d not seen except in his own house in Lebennin. Two low beds stood near the arched window at the far side, a low table and low chairs, a low chest, a wardrobe with full mirror that stood little taller than Ruvemir himself, a desk, a shelf of books, a fireplace and brass tender.  A second doorway opened into a private bathing room with a comfortable-looking bath and boiler with fire laid, and other fixtures that spoke of a mind that tended toward comfort and practicality.  Ruvemir was highly impressed.

            “So, this room was intended for the use of the Dwarves?” he asked.

            “Oh, no, sir--this was intended for the use of the Pheriannath.  The Ernil i Pheriannath himself gave us directions on how to best adapt rooms for their comfort.  Does it suit?”

            Laying his personal satchel on the low table, Ruvemir nodded.  “Oh, yes, it suits--it suits well.  Thank you.”  His host, with a few more comments on how if he needed anything he only had to ring, withdrew, leaving Ruvemir to enjoy the comforts of the room.

            And it was comfortable.  A thick carpet in colors of wine, gold, and green covered the center of the stone floor.  The chairs were cushioned in golds and greens, the beds covered with thick, soft-looking blankets over crisp white linens and a number of pillows on each.  On the walls were paintings of fields and trees, greens and golds predominating again.  The window was framed by lace curtains which, when drawn, would offer a modicum of privacy while allowing sunlight into the room.  He opened his satchel and took out the tube in which he kept his favorite drawing charcoal stick, his gum which he used for correcting stray lines, and the precious stick of graphite he’d been given by a friend who said he’d obtained it from one of the dwarf artisans working on the restoration of Minas Anor, pulled out his sketch booklet, then went to the window and looked out.  Stalks of flowers grew outside in reds and blues, beyond them a low parapet that looked out on the lowest level of the city and the Pelennor beyond.  He could see the Harlond in the distance, and, slightly to the right, a bare patch of blackened earth surrounded, apparently, with some kind of fence in the midst of what appeared to be otherwise a fertile field.  Near the black patch was what appeared from this distance to be a small hillock of green grass, long and rich, also set off by a small fence, with a white stone upon it.  Perhaps these were some type of memorial from the battle, he thought.  He looked at the two beds he stood between, and turned to the right one and reached down to touch the thick green blanket, which proved to be quite soft.  He sat down upon it and found it perhaps a bit softer than he preferred, but otherwise quite comfortable.  It felt so odd to be able to touch the floor while sitting on the side of the bed, he thought, after spending so long in inns which had rooms and furnishings intended for folk far larger than himself.  He found himself feeling beholden to this prince of the Pheriannath who appeared to prefer comfort to regality.

            Opening the booklet to his most recent sketch, he looked again at the study he’d been doing of the mysterious Strider as he’d remembered him.  For the most part he felt he’d been able to get things right, but he wasn’t happy with the rendition of the legs, which looked too stiff as he’d drawn them.  He still wondered about the strange small bowl in which he’d had smoldering leaves whose smoke he’d breathed.  Ruvemir had never heard tell of such a device before, and could not for the life of him understand why anyone would wish to do such an odd thing.  He sighed and took out his ball of gum, and began to remove the offending lines of the leg and tried once more to get them right and in proper proportion to fit the lean body of his subject.  He was deeply engrossed when a rap at the door announced the arrival of a young woman carrying fresh towels, an extra blanket, and a ewer of warm water.  She was very pleasant to look on, Ruvemir decided, smiling at the oval face, lips which indicated she smiled more than using any other expression, eyes of grey-blue on either side of a pleasantly turned nose, and thick mane of golden brown hair pulled back in a braid at the nape of her slender neck.  She was not tall as were most he’d seen so far in the city, although she of course stood taller than he.  He watched her place the ewer and towels on a stand near the doorway to the bathing room, then set the extra blanket on the top of the low chest. 

            When she turned to address him he found her voice pleasantly high without being shrill.  “My name is Elise, good sir, and if I can bring you anything to make your stay more pleasant, please ring the bell--” nodding toward the pull on the wall near the door, “--and I’ll be glad to serve as I am able.” 

            “Thank you, Elise,” he responded.  “I cannot think of anything I would need now--except perhaps for a pitcher of water to drink and a goblet or two.”

            She smiled and curtsied, and with an “Of course, sir,” she was off, gently closing the door behind her.  He looked back at the progress he’d made, and decided that for now he’d come as close as he was likely to do, so he closed the booklet, laid it on the stand that stood between the beds, and, slipping off the soft shoes he preferred to wear, he pulled himself onto the bed and lay back.  He was almost dozing when the second rap at the door indicated Elise’s return.  He sat up and bade her enter, and watched as she came in with a tray on which stood two pitchers, both with pewter lids, a couple of cups, a tankard, a dish of rolls with a small bowl of butter and a knife, and, he saw, a folded paper sealed with black wax.  “There is a message for you, sent down from the upper city, and orders to bring you this pitcher of ale, sir, for your refreshment,” she said as she set it all down upon the table.

            He thanked her as he rose and approached the table, and with a winning smile she left again.  He poured himself some of the ale and took a sip, and found it excellent, then reached out for the paper and examined the seal.  The device impressed into it was a star surmounted with a simple A glyph, which told him nothing.  He slipped the seal loose and opened the missive, finding a brief note written in a remarkably scholarly hand, certainly not what he’d expected from the individual he’d met in his work shed in Casistir.

Welcome, Master Ruvemir, it read.  I received word of your arrival, and am pleased you have taken rooms at the King’s Head, which has an excellent reputation.  I am otherwise engaged, but will come down to the inn about an hour before sunset to speak with you.  I will probably be accompanied by a friend who has been advised of the project I’ve proposed.  If at that time you will repair to the common room, we will meet with you there.

            Remembering how you appeared to like the ale at the Crossed Keys in Casistir, I have sent this, hoping it will relieve the strains of travel.

                                                                        Strider

            As signature and the rest of the missive were all in the same writing, he found himself growing even more intrigued with his mysterious patron.  He sat down in one of the low chairs and contemplated the note, then set it aside.  So, Strider had seen him in the Crossed Keys.  He certainly did not remember seeing him there, but then he had the distinct impression that this woodsman knew how to make himself unobtrusive.

            He sat back in the chair and thought for a while, sipped on his ale, then poured himself a cup of the water and took it back to the bed with him, drank half of it and set the cup on the stand by the bed, then laid himself back and allowed himself to drowse for a time.

 *******

            His chests arrived about two hours before sunset, and were brought to him by the innkeeper and a porter.  He thanked them and paid a small coin to the porter for his services, and began unpacking his clothing into the wardrobe and chest.  He then went into the bathing room and prepared himself for his meeting with his proposed patron, ending by changing his shirt, brushing his shoes, combing hair and beard neatly, and finally setting off in search of the common room, taking with him his sketch booklet.

            Strider had already arrived and sat, hood up over his head, at a table in the corner, a goblet of wine before him.  His long legs were stretched before him, and his attitude was one of exhaustion.  The cloak he wore was different, this one a silvery green in the low light of the room; and his legs were encased in grey trousers and a lower boot than before, although again of excellent workmanship.

            Beside him was a shorter individual with long russet hair drawn back in a braid and a thick beard and mustache, also neatly braided, and as he approached Ruvemir realized this was a Dwarf.  With mixed feelings he came closer, saw the Man raise his head in recognition and beckon him forward.  “Ah, Master Ruvemir,” he said, “welcome to Minas Anor.  May I present my friend, Gimli son of Gloin.”

            The Dwarf rose and made a formal bow.  “Gimli son of Gloin, at your service, Master Sculptor.”

            Ruvemir was startled, but imitated the gesture.  “Ruvemir son of Mardil at yours, sir,” to which the Dwarf replied with a grunt that appeared to indicate approval.

            At that moment the innkeeper arrived, indicating the private parlor had been prepared if they chose to follow him; and turning he started off back to the door.  Strider rose and caught up his goblet, and the Dwarf took up a large tankard, then reached down and casually lifted up a large axe from where it leaned against the wall, and with a look to Ruvemir to follow they went after their host.  Within a few moments they had been waved into a small parlor room with table, several chairs, a couple of settles and a low bench and a fireplace.  The Dwarf set his axe against the wall by the hearth, and looking disapproving at the chairs, settled himself on the bench with his tankard.  Strider moved the table closer to the bench, set his goblet upon it, drew up one of the chairs and sprawled in it, his head tipped back.  Ruvemir examined the laconic pair, sighed, and seeking an appropriate seat, decided on one of the settles.  In a moment the innkeeper was back with Elise, carrying between them a tray on which a supper was served, two more tankards, a pair of goblets, and three pitchers.  Ruvemir exchanged smiles with Elise as she helped to set the table. 

            The attitude of the innkeeper intrigued Ruvemir, for once he had his guests here it was as if he’d suddenly recognized them and was feeling unsettled in some way.  He was a bit short with the girl, and hustled her out of the room as swiftly as possible, tarrying long enough himself to say, most respectfully indeed, that if there were anything more they required to please ring, and hurried out himself. 

            The Dwarf gave a snort of amusement as he contemplated the now closed door, and looking at his companion he commented, “Well, since this room, at least, was not built to my specifications, you might refill my cup for me--and I suspect Master Ruvemir would appreciate something to drink, also.”  Strider sat up, sighing, and reached for the pitchers, identified the ale and filled the Dwarf’s cup, then gave a wordless look of inquiry to the sculptor. 

            “I’ll try the wine,” Ruvemir said, feeling contrary, and watched as the tall Man filled a goblet for him and passed it to him, then poured more into his own goblet.  He noted that the man wore a ring on his finger, although there wasn’t time to note anything more than it appeared to be set with an emerald in some kind of design.  Not a signet ring, he noted, but probably an heirloom, for it gave him an impression of age.

            Ruvemir set his sketch booklet on the edge of the table and took his goblet, and found the wine to be excellent.  He then watched his host to see whether anything was to be said about his reason for being here, and saw the Dwarf was also watching Strider with an attitude of indulgence and care. 

            Finally the Dwarf spoke.  “You’ve had the goblet in your hand for an age now.  You might feel better if you were to take a sip of it, you know.”  Strider grinned at him, and reaching up put back his hood.

            Ruvemir froze, for he himself was recognizing the man--twice recognizing him.  It was the King’s officer from the Crossed Keys, and as well it was....

            No, that was ridiculous!  Captain Thorongil had served Gondor how long ago? Yet this Man was still plainly in his early middle years, hale and strong, if tired.  Strider looked at him, noted his response, and smiled grimly, while the Dwarf looked one to the other and again gave a snort of amusement.  “So much for being unrecognized, my friend.”  The tall Man laughed.

            “Oh, he recognizes me, Gimli, but not as you suspect; and our good host recognized you, but I don’t think he is certain about me, although he has his suspicions.  Now, if our other companion were here, I think he’d have no question.”

            Gimli shrugged.  “Well, drink up.  You’ve had a hard day, and with your lady away for at least the next fortnight, you will have no other form of relaxation for a time.”

            Ruvemir considered.  “You are married, Lord Strider?”  The taller man nodded, and took a drink of his wine.  “What a pity--you return and she must away?”

            “There is an outbreak of pox in the city, the form that strikes children.  She was never exposed to it before, and she is with child.  I have sent her to Ithilien until the disease is contained.  I will not have her exposed at this time.”

            “You have had the disease?”

            “Yes, when I was quite young.”

            “And you work in the Houses of Healing?”

            “When I am needed.  With so many children ill, there is need for all with any skill at all to ease them.”

            “I do not understand, sir...you are an officer of the realm?”  Strider nodded with wry humor.  “What has an officer of the realm to do with the Houses of Healing?” 

            Strider sighed, shook his head, tilted it back again, his eyes closed.  “Very long story, Master Ruvemir.  Suffice it to say my background is...unusual, and my foster father saw to it I received training as a healer.  So, as my duty is to serve the combined realms of Gondor and Arnor in whatever capacity I can, when there is illness in the city I am often called to the Houses of Healing to aid.”

            “I see.”

            “Shall we eat, my friends?  I am sorry this room is not as accommodating to your sizes as the common room, but I felt this interview would be best carried out in privacy.”

            “If I might make a suggestion--my room was designed, I am told, for the comfort of the Pheriannath--perhaps if we were to ask to have the food and drink transferred there we could all be more comfortable.”  Gimli looked pleased with this idea, and with a nod Strider agreed.  Pulling his hood back up over his head, he indicated Gimli should do the honors, and he settled into the corner as Gimli moved to the bell.

            Elise returned, understood the request, and in a few moments had the food and dishes back on the tray and led them down to the other corridor, back to Ruvemir’s room.  At a suggestion from Ruvemir, she went off as Gimli set the dishes out on the table, returning with a full sized chair and small folding table at which the tall Man could be more comfortable, and in a few moments all had full plates before them.  After the Standing Silence, they sat down to eat at last.  With a look of request, Gimli indicated his desire to see the sketch booklet, and at Ruvemir’s nod of assent brought it beside him and began looking through it as he ate.  Suddenly he stopped at a study of Captain Thorongil, and his brows lifted with interest.  Wordlessly he turned it to his companion, who laughed. 

            “I met Master Ruvemir in Casistir, where he had been commissioned to work on a rendition of the assault on the Corsairs of Umbar by Captain Thorongil and Prince Adrahil.”

            “Oh, I see.  Thought there was a family resemblance there.”  Strider’s laughter filled the room.  Gimli continued on, looking at more of the studies of the Captain, then pausing to look at the one of the girl who watched in awe.  He nodded with approval.  Finally he came to the one of Strider sitting on the block of stone, and paused again.  “Here he has you indeed.  Strider the Ranger.  Might have accompanied you right through Hollin, you know.” 

            Strider nodded, and Ruvemir considered.  Oh, then that was it--this Man, as a Ranger, would have been trained in woodcraft as well as swordsmanship; and certainly in a situation where he and his troupe might be isolated for weeks at a time, if not longer, healing would be a useful addition to his skills.  Strider was looking less fatigued as they ate, and after he finished his goblet of wine he refilled it with water and sat back, then took the booklet as Gimli finished and began to leaf through it.  The Dwarf turned his gaze on the sculptor.

            “You are young to have ever met the Captain Thorongil.  How did you know what he looked like?  Or the Prince Adrahil, for that matter?  I understand he has been dead some years now.”

            Ruvemir explained his methods, and saw Gimli nod with understanding.  When he was done, the Dwarf looked at his friend and said, “I see why you think this might work.  But I must say, if I’d not seen it, I would not have believed it possible.  And the image of Prince Adrahil?”

            “We all recognized him, Gimli.  Lord Imrahil was very pleased.”

            “Why that subject?”

            Strider smiled.  “The Master of Casistir told us the Lady Endeth, who was patron for the work, asked particularly for the subject.  Before she married, she served at the Ford’s Inn.  When traveling between Minas Tirith and Dol Amroth Captain Thorongil often broke his travels there, and she at one time had visions of enticing him.”  Again the Dwarf’s snort of amusement.  “The Prince and I had a discussion of this shortly before we reached the Ford and the new inn.”

            “I see.  Not much hope for her, was there, this Lady Endeth?”

            Ruvemir looked between the two of them.

              Gimli stretched.  “I think I’m ready for a pipe.  Do you have any of the Hobbit’s leaf, or do I have to bring out that sent from Erebor?”

            Strider smiled.  “My Midsummer’s gift from Brandy Hall was a barrel of Old Toby, and from the Great Smials one of Longbottom Leaf.”

            “And what did you get from Bag End?”

            The Man’s face saddened briefly.  “Sam sent me seeds of the new strain of athelas he’s been growing on the Hill.  It is very potent.”

            “Bless him.  Always practical, Sam.”  Strider nodded.  “Which, of course, brings us to the purpose of this interview.  The memorial.”  Again Strider nodded, solemnly.  Gimli reached into a purse at his waist and brought out a device similar to that Strider had used in Casistir, while Strider brought out his own from his belt. 

            Strider suddenly paused, looking at Ruvemir.  “I am sorry--I had forgotten you probably have never smoked, and I know the smoke bothers many unaccustomed to it.  However, my friend and I here both learned the art in the Northlands.  Will it bother you if we have a pipe as we speak?  We will open the window, which will make it easier for you.”  At Ruvemir’s nod, Gimli went to the window and opened it as Strider drew from a wallet on his belt a flat leather purse and opened it.  “I brought the Old Toby with me, Gimli.”

            “Good.  Much better than Dwarf grown.  One thing Hobbits are useful for, you know.  Other than dropping stones down wells, of course.”  Both laughed briefly.

            The three of them moved away from the table, and Strider knelt to light the fire on the hearth, then Dwarf and tall Man each took crumbled leaf from the leather purse and filled the bowls of their pipes and lit them with a splinter Strider drew from the fire.  Ruvemir watched with fascination.  The Dwarf looked content and replete, the Man again thoughtful and sad.  At last the Man spoke.

            “A few years ago I was given the mission of aiding a Hobbit to find his way from his homeland of the Shire to Rivendell--to Imladris.  It was only the second Hobbit I’d had the chance to know personally, although I’d met many in Bree--not that the Hobbits of Bree would have much to do with me, a Ranger from the Wild.

            “He did not come alone--he was accompanied by his gardener and two cousins.  They were being pursued by...by dangerous enemies.  Hobbits don’t usually have enemies, and certainly not the likes of these.  They caught up with us at Weathertop, and managed to seriously wound my friend.  We reached Rivendell and the aid of Lord Elrond barely in time.

            “A few months later he was wounded again, at a time when he was in great privation.  He’d parted from us to spare us a grave danger, and accompanied only by his gardener and friend, went on, he thought, to his death.  That he survived is due to the grace of the Creator.”  The Dwarf nodded solemnly.  “He appeared well enough when he left to return to his home, but the nature of the wounds he bore was such he began to sicken.  He was offered a chance for full healing, but at the cost of his not being able to return to us.  He accepted it--finally.”

            For several moments all were still.  “He is the gentlest spirit I have ever met,” Strider finally said, “the gentlest and the most giving.  We wanted to have a statue made of him before, of all four of them, in fact.  But those artists in the city were unable to do him justice in their studies of him, and he was most uncomfortable with the idea of being immortalized in stone.  Now he is gone from us, I want to see the project carried out.  He must not be forgotten among us.”

            Ruvemir nodded.  He rose to retrieve his tube of drawing materials from the stand by his bedside, then picked up his sketch booklet as he returned to his chair by the fire.

            “All right, then,” he said.  “Describe him.”

First Study

            “Where do I begin?” Strider commented to himself.  “He is perhaps--just under four feet high--came to just below Gimli’s shoulders.  Slender--very, very slender for a Hobbit; thin, ascetic face with a distinct cleft to his chin.  Hair a cap of dark brown curls.  Ears gently leaf shaped, as is common of his kind.  Beardless--Hobbits do not raise beards.  Eyes large and startlingly blue beneath carefully arched brows, with dark lashes.  Nose straight and slightly aquiline, another unusual trait among Halflings.”  Ruvemir started.  So, this was indeed a commission to do a study of a Pherian after all?  The Man sprawled now in his chair near the fireplace noted the look.  “Yes, he is one of the Pheriannath.  Their own name for their race is Hobbit.  And I assure you that you will not be able to use yourself as a model as your fellow Bergemon suggested.”  The two Men, tall and short, shared a smile over that one.

            He took another drink of his goblet, then looked to his companion.  “Which shall it be, Gimli--as he was when we started, or as he was at the end?”

            The Dwarf gave an elaborate shrug, pursing his lips and shaking his head.  “Was there that much difference, Aragorn?  When I first saw him he’d only just recovered from his wound, and it was his first real meal in--how long?  He looked hale enough, but his skin was still transparent, color just coming back to his lips and cheeks.”  Strider nodded.  Ruvemir filed the new fact about his patron in the back of his mind--his real name was Aragorn?  Explained the A glyph on the seal, then. “He was seated by my father and looked quite lost in the chair.  All the cushions provided by Lord Elrond’s people seemed barely to lift him high enough to see over the table.  Sam and Merry and Pippin seemed far more substantial, compared to him.”

            Strider shrugged.  “I wasn’t at the feast--was receiving the news of the first scouts about what had been learned of the Riders and their whereabouts.  My first glimpse of him awakened was in the Hall of Fire, seated by Bilbo, his eyes once more present and clear.  And after the seventeen days of his wound that was very reassuring.  It was good to see him without pain at last.”  Both nodded.

            There was a rap at the door, and Strider once more hooded himself and faded into the corner.  Ruvemir, at his nod, called out the request to enter, and Elise entered with another tray.

            “It is one of the requirements for letting this room that was put on us by the Ernil i Pheriannath that at least once a day its inhabitants receive a plate of these seed cakes, whose recipe he provided us with, and a pot of tea, which he also gave us precise directions for.  He even left funds for this purpose.  Said it would not be appropriate for a Shireling without such, and that he had determined to spread his cousin Bilbo’s secret recipe for the seed cakes throughout the realm.”  She shook her head in wonder at the memory, and Ruvemir saw that the Dwarf was smiling broadly.  Strider’s response was not as easily seen, although he thought the Man’s shoulders were shaking with suppressed laughter.

            Quickly Elise placed the mugs, strange server, assorted other vessels, and a plate of large cakes on the table, gathered the used dishes and the remains of the meal onto her tray, and set it aside on the folding table while she moved about the room lighting the lamps.  “I see you lit the fire yourself.  I would have done so, had you wished to wait.”

            Ruvemir smiled at her.  “There was no need, my lady.  We are capable of such things as lighting the fire, after all.”  He noted she colored prettily at the title he’d given her, and decided he’d see if he could bring similar responses in the future.  When at last she was through she curtsied to the company and withdrew, smiling at them as she left.

            Gimli smiled after her as the door closed behind her.  “Pretty thing,” he commented, and gave Ruvemir a contemplative look.  “Not much taller than a Dwarf woman, or than you.  You could do worse, you know.”

            Strider, lowering his hood, pulling his chair once more before the fire and looking at the offerings on the table, was smiling, also.  “Dear Pippin.  Bilbo would skin the young scoundrel alive if he knew he’d been handing out the family recipe all over the realm.”

            The Dwarf snorted again with amusement.  “Nonsense.  Oh, he’d bluster, all right, but would be intensely flattered and pleased with himself, as you well know.”  The two shared a laugh over their friend.

            Strider demonstrated the proper manner to serve tea, and Ruvemir tasted it with reserve, finally deciding this must be an acquired taste.  Strider drank his mug with satisfaction while Gimli refused it, saying he’d stick to his ale.  The tall Man smiled.  “I suppose that if I expect you to do justice by a Hobbit, it is only right you get a taste for Hobbit culture and pleasures.  I’m a bit surprised Peregrin didn’t also direct them to serve mushrooms to the guests in these rooms, although I suppose it is possible he did, and they are only waiting to spring them on you.”

            “Is this one truly a Prince of the Halflings?” Ruvemir asked, having decided that while he wasn’t overly fond of tea, the seed cakes were well worth eating. 

            Strider thought for a moment.  “Not really, although he is possibly the closest to such a one as the Shire produces.  I learned during our travels that his father is the Thain of the Shire, whose office of old was to serve as liaison between the King of Arnor and the folk of the Shire.  Once Paladin Took resigns his office or dies, Peregrin will take his father’s place in that capacity.”

            “What are they like in their homes, these Pheriannath?”

            “I’ve ridden along the Road through the Shire only four times in my life, so I’ve seen little enough of it.  Gimli could perhaps tell you more, for he has been through it between the Blue Mountains and Erebor more than once, I think.”  The Dwarf shrugged, and the Man continued.  “Hobbits do not build cities, but dwell in villages and on farms.  Their preference is to live a farming life, and they love all that grows and delights in fertile soil.  They do have commerce, but until recently most was contained within the Shire itself or shared with the folk of Bree and with those Dwarves who frequent the Road.”

            “And what profession was that of your friend?”

            Gimli shrugged again as if not sure how to describe him, but Strider answered, “He was a scholar and a gentlehobbit.  His kinsman Bilbo was the head of the Baggins clan, the Baggins, you might say.  When Bilbo decided to remove to Rivendell he left that distinction to his adopted heir, who also inherited the family smial and business interests, which proved to be remarkably diverse and complicated.”

            Gimli looked interested.  “I had no idea, Aragorn.  Hobbits always appear so simple in nature.”

            Strider laughed.  “Simple?  Oh, do not be fooled by appearances, Gimli.  Remember what Gandalf used to say, that there was more to this Hobbit than met the eye; that is true of all Hobbits, but particularly, I think, the Bagginses.  You should have seen his will--even Sam, who always thought he knew what went on in his beloved Master’s life, has been amazed to find out just what Frodo has saddled him with as his heir.”

            The name hit Ruvemir with a jolt.  The Pherian Frodo, who’d gone to Mordor itself?  This was what he was being asked to memorialize?  He set down the remains of the seed cake he’d been eating with deliberate care, and looked more closely at his patron.

            Strider had noted the change in attitude, and was now examining him closely in return.  “Yes,” he finally said, quietly, “we are speaking of that Hobbit.”

            There was another period of quiet.  “He went into the land of the Enemy,” Ruvemir said at last.  Strider nodded.  “And he carried the Enemy’s Ring to Orodruin for destruction.”  Another nod.  “No wonder you wish to make a memorial for him.”  A single nod in response.

            At last the tall Man continued.  “To be a scholar in the Shire is a most unusual profession indeed.  Most Shirefolk have never been further than forty miles of their birthplace in their lives, and most are unlettered.  Those who don’t work on the farms still live close to them, often own shares in them; and most even of the gentry grow much of their own food.  Bag End, the Baggins family smial, has its own orchard and vegetable gardens and herb garden, although it is most noted as the site of the most beautiful flower garden in the entire Shire, perhaps in all of Eriador and Arnor.  That was the work of the Gamgees, who for three generations served as gardeners and caretakers for the property.”  He paused for a moment, finished his tea, set the mug down and looked at it thoughtfully.  “Samwise Gamgee, son of Hamfast, began working alongside his father as gardener of Bag End when he was yet a child.  He has an affinity for plants and growing things, and helped after the  victory over the Enemy in the replanting of gardens here in Minas Anor.  Frodo, once he was taken to Bag End as Bilbo’s ward and heir, befriended Sam, who responded to the friendship with a depth of love and devotion unprecedented, I think, in the history of the West.  When Frodo left the Fellowship to go to Mordor by himself, seeking to take the danger of the Ring away from us, Sam reasoned out his Master’s plans, followed him, would not let him go alone.  Together the two went through horrors we can little imagine, and they managed to win through it all, even survive--although I cannot begin to tell you at what cost.”

            “I see.”  All seemed to find a focus for their thoughts for a time.  “And you have chosen me to do this based on the work you saw in Casistir.”

            “Yes, I have.”

            “Captain Thorongil was related to you?”

            A suppressed laugh.  “Oh, yes, intimately.”

            “It was long thought by some that he was of the Dúnedain of the North.”

            “Yes.”

            “Will the King agree to this project?”

            “It is his will.”

            “I see.”  Ruvemir rose to his feet, went to his wardrobe, opened it, and reaching into the pocket of his cloak he unfastened the brooch he’d pinned there earlier, brought it out, and returned to the table.  “I did promise to return this to you, Lord Strider.”

            “Thank you.  It is good to have it back.”  He pinned it to his cloak, currently held closed by a loop of cord over an elaborate knot, and Ruvemir realized the brooch was the usual item used in securing the fastening.  “Are you willing to accept the commission, Master Ruvemir?”

            “It would definitely prove--interesting.”

            “Yes, I’m sure it will be.”

            “Let me think for a bit.”

            “Certainly.”

            And, as he thought, his hand was moving on the page of the sketch booklet, charcoal quickly outlining the image of the Pherian Frodo he’d begun to develop.

            As he thought and sketched, the Dwarf looked to the windows, then to his companion.  “It grows late.  They have certainly missed you by now.”

            “Hardorn knows where I am, and will send to fetch me if I am needed on the King’s business.”

            “Surprised he isn’t here beside us, his bow in hand.  Almost as ready with it as any Elf, if you ask me.”

            “He was schooled in its use, after all, by my brothers.”

            “I suppose that explains it, then.”

            “And the only reason he agreed to stay there was because you were with me.”

            “Hmmph.  As if you couldn’t take care of yourself.”

            “It’s good to have a comrade to watch one’s back, Gimli.”

            The Dwarf shrugged again.  “And where was the comrade to watch your back when you took off to Bree when the news came?”

            This time the Man shrugged.  “There was no time, and in the end I came too late.”

            Silence, save for the crackling of the fire and the sound of charcoal on paper, held for a time, until at last Ruvemir set down his stick, and after contemplating his work for some moments, turned it for the others to see.  It was the face only, but in spite of the fact it appeared a bit Mannish, there was in it something of the spirit of Frodo Baggins--he could tell by the way Gimli nodded and Strider took a slow, deep breath, then released it in a prolonged sigh.

            “Not truly Frodo,” commented the Dwarf.

            Strider nodded agreement.  “No, not truly Frodo, but closer to his nature than the work we had from those who tried to draw him from life.  It is a start.”  He looked deeply into the artist’s eyes as he rubbed his chin.  “I truly wish you to take this commission.”

            Ruvemir nodded his assent, and the two Men clasped hands on it.

Shaping the Face Unseen

            Ruvemir of Lebennin had always found the game of shaping a face he’d not seen to be a fascinating exercise.  To figure out the proper questions needed to identify the shape of head, face, eyes, nose, mouth, ears, and chin; to figure out more to understand what had motivated or frightened the individual, all of which added to the character of the face--this was as interesting to him as reproducing said face in markings on paper or through shaping it of wood, wax, clay, or stone.  He found that by seeking to know the subject’s personality, loves and hates, strengths and weaknesses, he could create an image that in the end spoke to the individual depicted even when features were not accurately reproduced.  And obviously Strider and the Dwarf Gimli were impressed with what they’d seen so far.  After the first study was done, he’d carefully cut it from his booklet and settled it between them and asked them to indicate where the shape of the actual face and features differed from what they had already.

            “The second study I do will not display the personality of your friend as well as this one, most like.  It is to teach me the proper shape of his face, so it will appear perhaps technically correct, but without the life of the individual,” he explained.  Gimli appeared impressed, Strider surprised. 

            They leaned over the work for at least an hour more and had made excellent progress on the shape of the face of Frodo Baggins before Strider indicated he must return to the upper city.  “I am not certain whether or not I can meet with you tomorrow, for I have several commitments, but I can arrange for you to meet with some of those who also knew Frodo who can give you their impressions of him if you wish.  I will meet with some of these in the morning and send a messenger down to bring you word of what individuals they are and when you may meet with them.  Unfortunately many who might be useful are out of the city while the pox runs through it, however.  And I fear that several will not be able to leave their places in the upper city, so that may necessitate a long climb.”

            “Young Pippin made the climb easily enough, often several times a day,” the Dwarf commented.

            “Young Pippin was a Hobbit, with proportional limbs and a Hobbit’s unusual endurance, Gimli.  He may have had to move his legs faster to keep up with his company, but his hips were better designed for walking and climbing than are those of Master Ruvemir.  I suspect he even envies you your greater ease of movement.”

            Ruvemir reddened, but at the Dwarf’s questioning look gave a reluctant nod of agreement.  “Steep ways are indeed difficult for me.”

            “I will try to spare you as much climbing as possible, but it is still likely you may have to come up to at least the sixth level on occasion during your stay.”  He looked around the room.  “Hobbits do not like heights particularly, but it is more due, I think, to having such a deep bond with the soil rather than a physical discomfort.  A discomfort of the spirit, I suppose.  That is why the Inns that have special accommodations for them are mostly in the lower levels of the city, for they feel uncomfortable if they are much above ground level.  Of the four of them, only Pippin appeared to have little discomfort in the upper levels, particularly at night.”  Ruvemir considered this new information, which he knew he would eventually bring into his finished design somehow.

            “One last question--you have indicated that the original desire was for a grouping of all four Pheriannath.  Is that still desired, or do you wish only Frodo depicted?”

            The tall Man and the Dwarf exchanged glances.  Finally the Dwarf commented, “It would not be natural to depict Frodo without Sam.” 

            After a moment’s consideration, Strider slowly nodded agreement.  “And once we introduce Sam, we must also consider the others as well.  Frodo needed all three to keep him grounded.”  He turned to the sculptor and suddenly gave an apologetic smile.  “We have not even negotiated a fee for depicting one Hobbit--and what would you desire to do four of them?”

            Ruvemir laughed.  “Shall we discuss that at our next meeting?”  All smiled, and after a time Ruvemir moved to the door to hold it open for his guests as they left.  Strider had again hooded himself and drawn himself within his cloak in a practiced manner that Ruvemir recognized succeeded in making him less notable in some indefinable fashion.  An effective way of making oneself inconspicuous in a forest, he supposed.  The Man and Dwarf, once into the passage, turned and bowed respectfully, a bow Ruvemir returned.  Then they turned and with remarkable swiftness disappeared down the passage.

            Ruvemir returned to the table and neatly gathered the remaining cups and vessels onto the higher table at which Strider had dined, and after a moment’s thought took the chair and settled it on the far side of the hearth against the wall in case he again found himself entertaining the tall Man.  Then after securing the door for the night he went into the bathing room and washed face and hands thoroughly, returned to the room and shed his clothing, neatly laid what he had over the empty bed, and disposed himself to sleep.  As he drifted toward his rest the information he’d collected about his patron circled through his mind, and almost he made some more connections--but before he completed them he was asleep and dreaming of sailing again up the Anduin--or was he sailing on the Sea?  He could not tell.

 *******

            He awoke not long after daybreak, rose, and taking the towels went in to bathe, quickly lighting the fire and figuring out how to work the spigots and drains.  Once the water was heated sufficiently and the tub partially filled, he climbed the short steps provided to assist the bather into the tub, and quickly immersed himself.  After bathing himself he dried himself quickly and was mostly dressed when there was a quiet rap at the door.  Fastening the ties for the placket of his shirt he hurried to open, allowing Elise to enter with a pitcher of milk and a second of juice, clean cups, and a plate of bread, cheese, fruit, and boiled eggs. 

            “Welcome, my lady,” he told her, and again she colored prettily.  “I thank you for your service, although I was going to come down to the common room for my dawn meal.”

            “We usually bring such as this to the rooms of a morning, sir; the boy has just arrived who cleans the common room for the day.  I hope you don’t mind.”

            Ruvemir was only mildly surprised--he’d seen the practice in one other inn he’d visited, after all.  “No, my lady, that is quite all right.  I was just going by the service in the last inn where I stayed.”  As she set out the meal, he had a thought and decided this was as good an opportunity as was likely to be found to learn more about his other possible subjects for the proposed grouping of four Hobbits.

            “You met the Ernil i Pheriannath personally?” he asked.

            She nodded, “Yes, good sir, several times.  He was quite personable, sir.”

            “Did you meet with any of the rest of the Pheriannath?” 

            “Only the Master Meriadoc, sir, but not to speak to.  Oh, we all saw the King’s Friend, particularly the day of the Coronation, of course--he and his esquire.  But although we often saw him walking with the Lord Elessar or his kinsmen and esquire, he did not stop to talk.”

            “Aloof?”

            She paused, having set plate and spoon and knife on the table.  “Aloof, the King’s Friend?  Oh, no, sir--not aloof.  Rather shy, I think.  He felt overwhelmed by the attention he received, or so he appeared.  As if he felt it wasn’t earned, that’s what it looked like.  But he noticed everything--you could see his eyes always watching, eager and interested.  Then there was the time when the cook at the Dragon’s Claw was berating their potboy and tried to box his ears--the King’s Friend and his esquire and kinsmen had been on their way back up to the Citadel from seeing off King Éomer of Rohan when they were passing and heard the noise, and he moved into the inn yard at the Dragon and demanded the cook leave off.  Was quite white and defiant, for all he barely raised his voice at all.  There he was, small but straight, and you’d have thought Evamir Cook was facing the ire of the King himself.  He not only stopped but apologized, and Evamir Cook has never apologized to anyone in the recollection of all in this circle.

            “Then the King’s Friend turned to the boy, and after he had the child soothed he had him tell him what he’d done to raise the cook’s ire, and when he realized the boy had deserved reprimand he made him apologize to the cook for his misdeeds, then sent him in to make it right.  When the boy was gone he then told Evamir Cook what he’d ought to have done instead of striking out at the lad.  He looked like a child himself, except he had this--” she stopped, trying to find the right word, “--this deep sense of dignity and authority--that’s what he had.  You couldn’t help but take him serious, sir.” 

            She paused, noting the picture that had been left on the far side of the table, and reached out unconsciously to take it up.  “Oh, you’ve been trying to draw him!  This isn’t him, but it’s much like him, much like the King’s Friend.”  She turned her gaze to search his face.  “Do you like to draw, sir?”

            He shrugged slightly.  “I’m a sculptor and an artist.  And I’m trying to get a feel for the King’s Friend and his companions.”

            “Oh, as a memorial for what they did to help defeat the Enemy?”  Her eyes were wide with pride.  “How wonderful!  The Pheriannath were so odd, but so worthy.  They’d be laughing and joking as if they had no care for the worries of the world, but there was an air of sadness and seriousness in all of them, and it was as if the laughter was in part only there to keep it at bay.”  Again she paused.  “The Ernil i Pheriannath--he had deep scars on his wrists.  Burned himself in the kitchen here showing Mardi Cook how to prepare his seed cakes, and I was bathing the burn with cold water, and saw them.  I asked about them, and his face turned rather grey--for a moment--and then he said he’d had a run-in with an Orc who had invited him, against his will, to tea in Isengard, and turned the talk to his burn was just to show us how not to check the heat of the oven.  Only later did we learn that, yes, he had been taken prisoner by orcs in the service of Curunír.  I am not sure how he escaped--the tales told are not all to be believed.  Some tell of the Eagles of the North saving them, others of the tree giants of Fangorn Forest.”  She shrugged, looked again at the picture, and then gently, almost reverently set it back on the table.

            “Please excuse me, sir--I must be about my duties.”  She looked back at the picture with respect.  “It would be very fitting to have a memorial statue done of those four.”  She smiled at him again, and there was a pleasing gravity in her smile, one that told him she admired his artistic gift as she gathered last night’s dishes.

            “Thank you again, my lady Elise,” he told her, and bowed her out of the room, reducing her to soft giggles of embarrassment and pleasure.

 *******

            After eating, Ruvemir left the inn with sketch booklet and several sticks of charcoal and his ball of gum.  He passed the same Elf he’d seen the day before, working in another area of the garden, paused to bow to him and received the graceful inclination of the head in return, then went on, heartened by the wordless encounter.  He walked the length of the building, and found a narrow walkway at its end that led to the wall of the Second Level.  There were beds of flowers below the windows all along the way, and between them and the wall lay a path graveled in fine white stone chips. 

            It had been after Midsummer when he’d first encountered Strider in his work shed in Casistir; now it was early September.  He had been able to stop at his home, visit briefly with his father and sister, before he’d taken the ship to Minas Anor, been able to leave a part of his earnings with them.  He loved his family fiercely, and perhaps more so as both he and Miriel were mannikins.  Together the two of them had endured taunts and slights common to those who are unavoidably different.  But where he’d forced himself to face the world and had been driven to develop his talent to the point the world took him seriously, the taunting had driven Miriel inwards, and she would rarely leave their farmstead.  However, she, too, as had been true of both their parents, had an artistic nature, and the figured tapestries, throws and clothing items which she embroidered were much sought after, although none were to know they were completed by a mannikin, for when their father took them to sell them for her she forbade him to mention that fact.  The edges of the kerchief he carried today she’d embroidered for him with tiny beasts, and as he walked he rubbed his fingers over it as it lay in the inner pocket of his cloak.  Unconsciously he smiled as he rubbed it.

            The wall was low here compared to that of the lowest circle--from the inside, at least.  He hitched himself up to settle one hip over it and looked out at the city and lands below and to the east. 

            And there they were--far off, the black mountains that for two ages of Middle Earth had walled the land of Mordor, the fabled and terrible land of the Enemy.  He stared with awe at them, and tried to imagine what it must have been like for those born here within the city, growing up always in sight of the Black Land, knowing those walls failed to contain the evil creatures controlled by the Enemy who had sought always for the destruction and domination of Man--Man, Elf, Dwarf--and Halflings, too, he supposed.  And two of those he would picture had entered into that place while the Enemy still inhabited it--and because they had done so that land was now bleak and empty--no longer the habitation of the greatest evil in Middle Earth.  He squinted his eyes against the morning sun, then raised his hand to shield them against it, and gazed his fill of it, trying to understand how the two who’d made that journey had managed to do so.

            Then he dropped his gaze to the ruins of Osgiliath, although he knew reconstruction was going on there as well as here.  The capital would not be moved from here, he knew--at least, not for many generations if at all; but once again a living city was taking shape on both sides of the River Anduin, and the bridges had been mostly rebuilt already.  There, he had been told, the Dwarves worked alongside Men and even some Elves to clear rubble and to repair the broken bridges and to give shape to the first of the rebuilt buildings and squares.  In time it would undoubtedly come to serve as the primary city of commerce for the realm once again, although he doubted the Dome of the Stars would ever undergo reconstruction.  But the majority of work being done was focused here.

            A window was opened behind him, and he glanced that way.  He was sitting near the center of the inn’s structure, near where the innkeeper’s own quarters must be.  From within he heard the voices of children, then that of a woman speaking to them, and he smiled, then looked out again, finally slipping from his perch so he could turn to see more to the south and west.  The blackened area intrigued him, as did the fenced green hillock.  He would perhaps walk out that way soon, he thought.  He set his booklet before him, leaned forward on the parapet, and drank in the sights, and then looked down.

            The widest circle of the City was the first, and much of that lay below him.  And there he could see evidence of much work already completed, but more still in progress.  The wall below him had been blackened by fire--it was said the catapults of the Enemy had fired great balls of some stuff that burst into flame when it struck, consuming, some insisted, the stone itself at times.  Well, certainly many structures below him had been destroyed.  In some places the buildings had been reduced to rubble and were fenced off to keep out curious children and scavengers who might be injured if they ventured into the ruins.  But many of the civic buildings had been rebuilt or were nearing completion, and many of the guildhalls and commercial centers that dominated much of the first circle.  Here and there he saw private homes that had also been refurbished, and in the walled yard of one such he saw children pursuing one another gaily.

            He thought of what Elise had told him of the one she’d called the King’s Friend, who must be Frodo--that he’d heard raised voices and the cries of a child and had intervened, reportedly a tiny and vulnerable figure himself before whom a Man apparently not given to excusing himself had quailed.  He found himself proud of that small person.

            A Man’s voice could now be heard from the room behind him, coming nearer the window.  “...It was the Lord Gimli himself here last night, here at the King’s Head, meeting with the mannikin.  And with him had to have been one of the King’s own kin from the north--who else would walk so cloaked through the city?”

            “One of the northern Dúnedain, Love?  An honor for us, surely.”

            “It is still a wonder to me, to think that there remained the descendants of Númenor in that empty place.”

            A child’s voice interrupted, “Ada, did one of the Dwarves really visit the inn last night?  Why weren’t we allowed to see?”

            Then the voices retreated to a more interior room.

            So, Strider was one of the King’s own kin?  Obviously he’d been from the north, with his talk of being in Imladris and of lands and places whose names were unknown within Gondor.  And as he was related to the fabled Captain Thorongil, that meant that the King was undoubtedly related to that legendary individual as well.  Ruvemir smiled.

            At last he turned and completed the circuit around the inn and came back out to the street, then set about exploring the environs nearby the hostelry.  He soon found the Dragon’s Claw was almost directly across from the King’s Head, toward the inner wall of the circle and slightly uphill of its competitor.  It was surrounded by a low wall, and he noted that those on the upper floor of the King’s Head in the inner rooms would have a clear view of whatever happened within its courtyard.  Well, that explained how Elise had come to know of the encounter between Evamir Cook and the King’s Friend.

            Many structures facing the outer walls showed the marks of damage and fire, and in many places he saw new trees growing, and gardens being tended preparatory to the coming winter.  He saw small shops here and there, and homes of ancient families.  Finally, fatigued, he turned back to his own lodgings--and was almost felled when a soldier not watching his way ran into him.  The man, clothed in the black and silver of the city, cried out in dismay and hurried to catch hold of him to stop his fall, then seemed startled to find he’d struck not a child but an adult. 

            “Please, good sir,” he apologized, “forgive me for not seeing you.  I was hurrying, bearing a message to the upper levels from the gate.  Did I cause you harm, sir?”

            Ruvemir checked himself over, assured himself he retained his sketch booklet and that his charcoal sticks were intact, then looked up.  “I am not sure, but other than a wrench to my hip I seem to be whole.”  Finally reassured the stranger to the city was not seriously hurt and was near his lodgings, the man gave him a formal salute and bow and hurried back along his way, and Ruvemir entered the King’s Head determined to fill the bath again and soak his hip, which was beginning to ache once more.

            But waiting inside the inn was the young recruit who’d brought him here yesterday, bearing a message for him.  Ruvemir took it and found it bore the same seal as the day before, and opened it to read it.

            I sorrow I cannot meet with you today--an embassy from Rhun has been seen approaching the City, and the Houses of Healing also demand my services.  However, the Captain of the Guard of the Citadel has agreed to come down to you in the early afternoon to speak of Peregrin Took, who swore himself to the service of this city and of Gondor.  And one of the pages who served the Pheriannath during their stay has also agreed to come down, and should arrive shortly before the noon meal.  I regret that this is all I can provide for the day, but hope you understand.

                                                            Strider

            So much for soaking his hip, he thought, and he thanked the young recruit for delivering the message.  The young man smiled shyly, but paused before he left.

            “It is said, sir, that you are a sculptor of some skill.”

            Ruvemir nodded, and admitted to the correctness of the report.

            “Are you to work on the memorial to the King’s Friend, then?”

            “Yes, I’ve been asked to accept the commission.”

            “That is wonderful, sir.  I mean, sir, he gave so much for all of Middle Earth, not just the people of Gondor.  My brother fought before the Black Gate itself and was grievously wounded, and he told me how the King Elessar himself and his kinsmen tended to him as he lay in the Healer’s tents, and how he worked with all the wounded, but how he especially devoted himself to the Pheriannath.  When the Eagles bore Mithrandir and the King’s Friend and his esquire out of the ruins of the Black Land all feared the two Pheriannath would be lost, for they were terribly hurt and desperately thin from privation.  The Ernil i Pheriannath was also badly hurt, for he fought among the Guard of the Citadel itself and with the Men of the City, and he struck down a troll who sought to kill Captain Beregond of Prince Faramir’s guard, and it fell upon him and crushed him.  Long all three lay in recovery on the Fields of the Cormallen in Ithilien.  The fourth Pherian came at the last from the city, for he’d been injured in the battle against the Lord of the Nazgul himself, and almost died of the Black Breath.  It was our Lord Elfstone’s own hand that brought him back from the gates of death, it is said.  He sat by the King’s own side as all waited to see whether or not the King’s Friend and his esquire would awaken.

            “All four took grievous wounds from their labors against the Enemy, sir.  And now the rumor runs through the city that the King’s Friend never fully recovered, and that he is now gone from Middle Earth, and all mourn for him.

            “It is not fitting these four should go without proper honor, sir.”  And with a salute and a bow he left to return to his duties.

 *******

            His room had been neatened while he was gone, the hearth cleaned and a new fire laid, the fuel beneath the boiler in the bathing room also renewed, the lamps refilled and set at the ready, his bed remade and a new pitcher of water with clean goblets set upon the table, a pitcher of still warm water on the stand with fresh towels.  And also on the table lay the legacy of the Ernil i Pheriannath, the tea and cakes, cream and sugar, mugs and spoons.  He smiled and took one of the cakes, and after consuming it and refreshing himself somewhat he sat with his sketchbook and began on a study of Strider, sprawled in his chair by the fire the night before, his face full of pride and sorrow as he spoke of Frodo Baggins.

 *******

            The rap at the door heralded the arrival of the innkeeper and the page, a youth of about eighteen with a proud bearing who looked good in the livery of the Citadel.  Ruvemir asked the innkeeper for a pitcher of mild ale and a light luncheon, and with a smile the man agreed and left.

            “Your name?”

            “Lasgon son of Efram, sir.”

            “You have served as a page for how long?”

            “Six years, sir, since I was a child yet.  But I will enter the Guard of the Citadel in the spring, for I am approaching manhood.”

            “You were assigned to the service of the Pheriannath, I am told?”

            “Yes, sir.  The Lord Mithrandir was given lodgings in a house on the sixth level, and after the battle more rooms were opened to him and the Pheriannath and their companions for their comfort.”

            “Do you know what I am to do?”

            “Yes, sir, I’m told you are a master sculptor and will hopefully do a memorial to the four Pheriannath.”

            “Good.  Well, since I’ve not seen them, I must find out what they were like as told me by those who did see them and who came to know them, so I hope you will bear with my questions as I seek to learn more of them through you.”

            “Yes, sir.  I’ve been directed to answer all you ask, sir.”

            And turning to a new page in his booklet Ruvemir began to ask questions about the Pherian Frodo and what young Lasgon remembered of him.

            “He was a quiet soul, sir, very quiet.  His eyes were often haunted, but of course they would be, for he saw much of terror, I think, in his journey.  But, when he smiled at you, it would light the room and fill your heart.  And when he laughed, it was very sweet laughter.  His kinsmen vied to see who could make him laugh more often, and each time they brought laughter to his lips they would exchange looks between them, looks of triumph.

            “But he was thin for a Pherian, who are usually plump, I’m told.  His face was pale, and when the dreams disturbed him he would awake with little color on his cheeks or lips, and they would cluster to his comfort.

            “It was usually Master Samwise who attended to him, his dearest friend who went with him the entire way to Orodruin itself.  And on those days when the shadow lay on Samwise, Frodo would do the same for him, bringing him soothing drinks, pressing him to eat, recalling memories of their youth, seeking to make him laugh.”

            And so it went.  The gentleness of Frodo Baggins was coming to the fore, the caring for his kin and companions, the retiring nature, the frequent dreams of terror survived.

            “How did he spend his days?”

            “Writing, sir, or reading, or occasionally drawing, when he was not with the Lord Elessar or Mithrandir or coaxed out to explore with Master Samwise or Master Meriadoc or Captain Peregrin.  Some days he would go to watch the weapons practice which Captain Peregrin must attend, and in which Master Meriadoc would also take part from time to time, for he was, after all, a knight of the Mark.  Some days he would go with Master Meriadoc when he stood with the honor guard for King Théoden of Rohan, to offer his respects for the fallen.  Often he would attend upon the King and advise him for the future of the realm’s dealings with the land of his people, or offer his insights on what he noted of the embassies to which he was introduced. 

            “But often he would withdraw from others, and would stand alone at the walls, looking out of the city, or walking alone or accompanied only by Master Samwise in the gardens of the Houses of Healing, for the green there seemed to offer him comfort.  Or he would be found with Master Samwise kneeling in one garden or another, assisting in the caring for the flowers.  For Master Samwise was drawn always to the gardens, and when the Elves began to come he was often among them, laboring among them to coax life again into patches of earth.”

            “You say he wrote, and drew?”

            “Yes, sir, although wielding quill or drawing stick was difficult for him at first.”

            “Why?”

            The youth looked surprised.  “For he’d lost his finger, sir, at the end.  He had to relearn how to hold things after that, for his ring finger was gone now.  Often it would pain him, and Master Samwise would hold it to comfort him, or the King would come to ease his pain.”  Pride lit the young man’s features.  “But he kept at it and mastered it, and his letters were fair when he wrote, and the pictures he drew were wonderful to see--except for those he drew when the pain was worst, or the memories dark upon him.  Many of those pictures were very dark, and he would seek always to burn them before his kin could see them.”

            “How did you come to see them, then?”

            “I was the one who tidied his room, sir.  Sometimes I’d come to tell him the King had come, or called him to come to the citadel, and I’d find him asleep at his desk, his head on his arms, the drawings or writings beside him.”  The boy took a jagged breath.  “He’d seen so much that was horrible, sir.  I kept one picture I found that he’d dropped before burning it.  It is of the creature Gollum, who first found the Enemy’s Ring in the River, and who took it to the Misty Mountains and held it there for five hundred years.  Captain Peregrin told me of it, for the story of how Master Frodo’s kinsman Bilbo found it after the creature lost it is well known among their people.”

            Ruvemir considered this.  It had never occurred to him to wonder how the Pherian Frodo had come into possession of the Enemy’s Ring, which had been lost so long.  “Would you show me this picture, Lasgon?”

            The youth was reluctant, but finally agreed he would bring it and a few others the Pherian Frodo had given him down to him during the breaks in his duties on the High Day.  And then the luncheon arrived, brought by the innkeeper and a boy.

            The youth sat straight in the chair in which Strider had sprawled the night before, using the same folding table provided then for his meal.  He explained that workers in wood had been employed to shorten the legs of the furniture in the house that the Pheriannath had been given for their use, done in such a manner that they could be restored afterwards.  He agreed that the Pheriannath were often uncomfortable in the dwelling, and had admitted that they never slept on an upper floor if it was available in their own lands.

            And when the meal was over, Lasgon began to describe Frodo as best he could physically, and Ruvemir made his third study.  He’d asked Lasgon to simply remember a situation that stood out among his memories, and how the Pherian Frodo had looked at that moment.  And the youth chose a moment when the Pheriannath were smoking their pipes after a meal, and the cousins were telling the most outrageous stories they could think of, and Frodo had been coaxed into laughter.  He paused to try to remember the shape of brow and nose, the angle of his chin and mouth, how his hair stood out from his face.

            And when he was done Lasgon nodded and said it was a fair start, although the tips of his slightly pointed ears showed here, and his mouth was not so broad, and his chin a bit softer....

            Finally, two seed cakes in his scrip for later, Lasgon took his leave, and Ruvemir felt he was at last coming to grips with Frodo Baggins.

            Shortly after Elise arrived to remove the dishes after the meal, and appeared delighted with the study done of the King’s Friend he showed her.  “Oh, yes,” she exclaimed, “so like this he looked.  On the day of the Coronation of our King Elessar his face shone so with gladness for his friend.”  She took her load and withdrew, smiling as he rose to bow her out the door again as she hurried to finish her duties.

 *******

            Half an hour later she knocked again and brought in a flagon of wine and goblets and a tray of small cakes, and almost behind her the innkeeper arrived with the Captain of the Guard.  Now a third sat in the tall chair and made use of the folding table, drinking from one of the goblets and eating politely of the cakes as he described the young Captain Peregrin.  Nor did he seem the least put out such a one should have been granted such rank, allowing how his sacrifice for a land not his own earned him as much honor as he’d accept and more so.  He spoke with pride of how he’d been found after the battle by the Lord Gimli of the Dwarves, who’d fought with Prince Legolas the Elf at the side of the Lord Elessar himself, and of what those who were found with him had said of his skill and valor.

            “He was young, and although years older than many of our younger recruits I understand that he was not yet considered a man among his own people.  He had a remarkable sense of the absurd and a tendency toward mischief; but once he got his sword in hand he would become totally serious.

            “The sword he bore was wrought by the Dúnedain of the Northern lands long ago in the time of their fights against the might of Angmar, and after the battle he called it Troll’s Bane.  It was truly a long knife, but in his hands it was an adequate sword, and he wielded it well, for he was taught along the way how to use it by our own Captain Boromir and by the Lord Elessar himself, I am told.  The Prince Legolas also taught him special moves with it, for when he fights with a blade Lord Legolas wields a white knife wrought by his people. Together they figured out strategies in how he could use his shorter stature and the shorter length of his blade to his advantage, and before he left to accompany the King’s Friend back to their homeland we were having him teach some of these strategies to our newer recruits, particularly those who are shorter.  Sometimes it is an advantage to use unusual techniques, we learned.  And certainly he could not use any of the swords intended for the use of our regular troupes, for they were almost longer than he was tall!”

            “What were his regular duties?”

            “To stand guard before the throne of the King, or before his quarters.  And when on duty he was at one with the other guards of the Citadel.  But, when off duty--then we would be reminded he was yet a young one among a merry folk, for his curiosity and his often outrageous tricks were beyond belief.  And his constant hunger was often a matter of amazement among our folk, for it seems Halflings eat a prodigious amount.”

            Then he offered a physical description of Peregrin Took, of the auburn curls close about his head, the wide eyes, straight nose with an unexpected upward tilt at the end, the mouth that tended to be slightly open, the slightly large incisors, the high cheekbones, the leaf-shaped ears, the slightly defensive stance, the bare feet with the curling hair upon them--

            Here Ruvemir took pause, for here, as with the ears, was sign these were not just short Men.  No one had mentioned the bare, hairy feet to him before, and he had the Captain describe them again and did a study just of one of them and had him indicate whether or not he had the right of it.  It would have been horrible if he’d started a sculpture of Pheriannath and put them into boots!

            By the end of the session Ruvemir felt he was well on his way to realizing Peregrin Took, the Ernil i Pheriannath.  And he wondered how he’d achieved the title of “Prince of Halflings.”  After he’d bowed the Captain out of the room, he went at last to light the boiler in the bathing room, finally free to soak his hip.

Rain and Distress

            The next day Ruvemir woke to the sound of rain pounding on his window, and he groaned, for he knew his hip would ache for the whole day.  Finally he rose and dressed, and a tap at the door indicated the arrival of his dawn meal.  Only this time the meal was not brought by Elise, but by another, older woman, tall and plump, with a brisk manner and an expression that indicated she honored efficiency.

            “Good day to you, Master,” she said as she set the tray on the table and, after carefully setting sketch booklet and charcoal sticks neatly aside with no sign of curiosity about them or their purposes, she began setting out plate, bowl, serving dishes, spoon, goblet, pitcher.  “My name is Evren, and I’ll be caring for this floor this day.  If I can do aught to add to the comfort of your stay, you’ve only to ring.”

            He felt disappointed, but smiled politely.  “Elise does not work today?” he asked.

            “It is her day with her family.  I understand her mother is poorly, so she is glad to have the day free, I suspect.”

            “I see.  Is there a shop nearby where I can find paper or supplies for drawing?  And perhaps a booksellers?”

            She looked as if she’d never considered the necessity for either class of goods.  “I am sorry, Master, but I’ve no idea.  You might ask Beneldil at the desk, and I’m certain he could direct you.”

            “Then you do not live on this level?”

            “No, Master, on the other side of the third gate I live.”  She straightened and took her tray.  “If there is aught else you desire?”

            He shook his head and thanked her, and she smiled and let herself out.

            He ate the dried fish, fruit in syrup, and roll provided, poured himself some of the thin milk, and sourly contemplated the view of rain outside his window.  He needed more paper for drawings, for the sketch booklet he’d been using was now almost full.  But he did not relish going out in the rain in search of the materials he needed, for he disliked rain intensely.  Finally finishing his drink, he set the empty dishes on the folding table that had remained by his doorway, went to his wardrobe and took out his cloak.  Carrying it over his arm, he headed for the entrance chamber to ask the innkeeper for directions to the nearest sellers of papers and books.

            It was easier than he’d thought, for such a shop specializing in both had just reopened on the first level, he learned, just on the other side of the gate to the second level.  He found it just opened as he arrived, and spent a pleasant hour going over qualities of papers, drawing sticks, and colored chalks with the proprietor, and having finally satisfied his needs and having chosen a book which looked to be interesting, he headed back for the King’s Head with a finely bound sketch booklet in a water-tight wrapping and the promise the rest of his purchases would be delivered at about sunset.  He paused as he reentered the Second Circle, and examined the goods shown in a shop’s window--fine threads and ribbands of many colors, and small figures of animals formed of carefully wrapped cords.  Thinking such clever, he entered in and examined them, and finally chose three such, a horse, a cat, and a dragon.  This second, smaller bundle in the pocket of his cloak, he completed his journey, then paused at the entrance to watch a cloaked figure headed down the street through the rain, which had lessened with the day.  He recognized the cloak, the silvery grey-green color, the leaf brooch; but the movement of the form inside it was markedly different, lighter, somehow; and the shoulders were narrower than Strider’s.  He wondered about this, and noted the individual was turning toward the inn, then stopping by him, thrusting back the hood.

            It was an Elf, tall and regal, hair golden, the hair at the temples carefully braided and pulled back, apparently fastened together there in some way.  His blue eyes examined Ruvemir in a manner that appeared dispassionate and yet inclined toward friendliness at the same time, and then he spoke.  “There cannot be two such.  Master Ruvemir?”

            “Yes, I am he.”

            “I was asked to bring you these on my way out of the city,” and so saying the Elf brought from beneath his cloak a packet contained in a finely woven cloth and presented it, then unfastened a small bag from his belt and handed it to him as well.

            “Strider sent these?” Ruvemir inquired.

            The Elf examined him for a moment, and a small smile of amusement played on his lips.  Finally he responded, “Yes, Strider did indeed send them.  And he asked that I carry his greetings.  The embassy from Rhun is approaching the city and will enter in within the hour, and he will be about the realm’s business most of this day.”

            “Yes, so I understand.  Thank you, Lord Elf, for your courtesy.”

            Smiling, the Elf returned his bow, then turned and headed down the hill.  As he went, Ruvemir could see his braids were held together with finely worked golden beads, and that he wore a quiver and carried a tall bow over his shoulder.  As the Elf disappeared through the gate, Ruvemir sighed with regret, and shifting his packages reached for the closed door and let himself into the building.  The younger man now on duty at the desk nodded to him, apparently forewarned a mannikin was in residence, and Ruvemir gave a distracted nod in return, and he headed back for his room.  It had been straightened while he was out, and the fire was already lit, which pleased him.  A small tray with a pitcher of water and two goblets stood on the table along with a second carrying the seed cakes and tea, and today he found he welcomed the idea of something warm to drink.  Ruvemir set down his packages and removed his cloak, draping it over the tall chair to dry, then sat down and drew the tray with the tea toward him.  Adding a fair amount of cream and sugar to the still hot tea, he found it palatable as he sipped at it, then he unfastened the cords that held closed the packet the Elf had handed him.

            Inside were a number of items, with another of the folded and sealed missives from his patron.  He recognized the now familiar black wax and seal, and opened it quickly.

            A good morning to you, Master Ruvemir.  I will be busy this day on the King’s business, I fear, for the embassy from Rhun will shortly enter the city, and the epidemic of the pox has spread to more of the children of the city.  I trust you have already had the condition, and hope you do not end up under our care from it.

            A maid who served the Hobbits during their stay will attempt to visit you this day, although the foul weather may delay her trip down from the sixth level.  Also the representative from Rohan who served alongside Meriadoc Brandybuck has agreed to visit you in your chambers in the late afternoon.  In the meantime, I thought you would appreciate these--the less than acceptable work of some of the city’s artists.  It is odd--they are, as you noted the other day, technically mostly good representations of their subjects; but they fail, as you continued, to capture the personalities.  And I send you also a letter recently received from Samwise Gamgee, now Master of Bag End in the Shire.  Hopefully it will assist you to know that worthy soul.

            I have heard word from my lady wife, who tells me the child grows active within her, and who assures me that it will strike out at me for sending it away, even if it was for its mother’s protection, once we are reunited.  I find I can barely wait for such an event.

            I hope you continue well, and that I might meet with you on the morrow’s morrow.

                                                                        Strider

            Ruvemir smiled at the letter, and looked at the rest of the packet’s contents.  Several folders held from one to four drawings each, and he examined them with interest.  Definitely inexperience with Pheriannath marked the flaws in most of the work, for they tended to try to force the build of Hobbits into the proportions generally seen in men.  And, as Strider had noted, poses were static and the faces were formally presented, with little of the character intact.  The work, he recognized, of the typical creator of monumental work--heroic in nature but not indicative of the souls of those pictured.  Well, he thought, at least he had a better idea of the physical characteristics of his subjects.

            Once he’d finished with the pictures he pulled out a folded envelope of paper which had been neatly slit open, and from it he pulled a letter.  The envelope had been addressed, The Lord Strider, the Citadel, Minas Anor, Gondor, Middle Earth, in a neat but unadorned hand; and the letter it contained was continued in the same writing.

My dearest Strider,

            I am glad the seeds of the kingsfoil plants reached you, and hope they will grow gladly for you.  Rosie and me are well, and the bairns fair thriving.  Little Elanor sings and talks the day through, while little Frodo-Lad lies solemnly playing with the toy horse you sent him, moving it from here to there and back again with great concentration.  And it appears another bairn is due before summer.  Rosie teases that if it keeps up I’ll have to dig new chambers into the Hill, but she is right pleased to know we will be filling up this old hole with Life.  Mr. Frodo would be most glad.

            I’m doing well enough.  The nightmares continue from time to time, but are mostly of no bother.  Thank you for asking. 

            Mr. Merry does well, and he and Missus Estella seem happy since their marriage last spring.  She will make a good Mistress of Brandy Hall when the time comes.  As for Mr. Pippin--he and his dad are doing right well, and he’s keeping company as well, but will allow him to tell you of it.  When I member how he was as a little lad, it’s sometimes hard to realize it’s the same person--until he pulls some prank like setting the children of the Row to putting turnip lanterns all along the hedge to startle me.  But that I need to tell you in person--now and then it is right obvious he is still NOT yet of age.

            The Shire schools are beginning to grow now.  Here in Hobbiton we’re using the old Underhill place, and don’t you laugh at the name--I know you will, remembering Bree.  Anyway, we’ve decided to use the old Underhill place, and we’ve redug some of the rooms to make them larger, and we’ve had an interesting time finding enough to teach the children.  Little Cyclamen Proudfoot is a prize pupil, and says she is glad to know her cousin Frodo would be proud of her if he knew how well she were doing.  She’s shown a right ear for learning Sindarin, and I think as Lord Elrond would have had no problem in understanding what she says.  I think she makes fair to be a good teacher one day, in fact.

            The trees do very well, and the Mallorn in the Party Field is so beautiful it would bring tears to your eyes.  I wish you were here to see.  That so much is coming back is still a marvel to me, and I give thanks for the Lady’s Gift each time I pass through the Shire.  And I look out the front door where HE died and I grieve for HIM, to think that HE would change so from what he begun as.  The Valar must weep for HIM.  I know Mr. Frodo had hoped HE would find HISSELF, but then Mr. Frodo always wished to think the best of all.  But there’s no accounting for choices, I guess.

            Yes, I miss him very much still, but am sure it was for the best.  Had he stayed for the sixth, it’d have killed him for sure.  He were fading so fast.

            I think I may have found where old Wormtongue buried Mr. Lotho.  It was in the orchard.  I talked to Will Whitfoot and the Thain and the Master and Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin, and we all agreed to leave him there, but we laid the bones out proper and asked the Valar to forgive him as we have.  If his mum were still here she’d be relieved, I think.

            We thank you for the books and the wine and the toys for the bairns.

            Oh, I have a bone to pick with Mr. Frodo when I meet up with him--one of those he chose to help and has left me saddled with is about to drive me to distraction.  I’ve found myself running my hands through my hair, just the way hisself and his uncle always did.  First he makes me Master of Bag End, and it looks like he’s turning me into a Baggins as well.  Well, old Gollum did call him Tricksy, and at times I agrees with him, I does, Precious.

            Give my love to your Lady, please.  And I hope that I’ll talk Rosie into agreeing to come to visit you.  And let old Gimli know that I thank him for his gift when you see him.  Tell him it works perfect.  He’ll know what I’m talking about.

                                                                        Your Sam

            Well, that did give him an idea of what Master Samwise Gamgee was like, he supposed, although much of what had been written meant nothing to him.  Interesting person.

*******

            The maid from the sixth level arrived shortly thereafter, and she proved to be tall, slender, and well proportioned.  It turned out she had been most drawn to Sir Meriadoc, the esquire to the King of Rohan, who often served as honor guard while Théoden King’s body remained in Gondor.  Once his body had been moved to the Hallows two guards stood on duty at all times outside the building where his remains lay, and Sir Meriadoc had often chosen that duty.  She found him personable, caring, full of laughter much of the time, and quite devoted to the others.  He was very protective of Sir Peregrin, respectful toward Master Samwise, and obviously watchful toward Master Frodo.

            She’d found Master Frodo pleasant but withdrawn and apparently shy; Master Samwise responsible and with a tendency to be solemn; Sir Peregrin to be full of mischief and jokes when off duty and with his friends, but quiet and introspective when found alone, and definitely a Soldier of Gondor when in his uniform and on his way to the service of his King.

            She’d been appalled at the way they literally turned the house given to their usage upside down.  Master Frodo had made the library his bedchamber, while Master Samwise took the parlor, through which one had to travel to reach Master Frodo’s room.  Sir Meriadoc and Sir Peregrin had made the second parlor their room, and the Lord Mithrandir had stayed in the upper room that he’d been given on his arrival within the city.  Another of the upper chambers had been given over to the use of Lasgon, although she slept there the one night per week when Lasgon was home with his family in the fifth level, while two others were given to the other companions, who were rarely present in the house when she was there.  She helped in the straightening of the chambers of Samwise and the two Pheriannath knights, the kitchen and the dining chamber; but Lasgon had chosen to serve Master Frodo in this capacity.

            The Pheriannath preferred to do their own cooking, and they ate a good deal per meal, although Master Frodo often ate little compared to his fellows.  They mostly kept things in good order, although Sir Peregrin was often slapdash when it was his turn to clean up after a meal.  He was more impatient than the rest, she’d found, and full of restless energy.  That he could stand so still when on duty had always amazed her.  Master Frodo’s bed was always neatly made soon after he arose; Master Sam’s always looked neat, but often she thought that was due to the fact he was one who rarely turned during the night; Sir Meriadoc’s was usually made, but when not due to him having duty or being called to the King’s side it was at least presentable; Sir Peregrin’s was usually almost torn apart.

            All were literate and appeared to be well educated, even Master Sam, which had surprised her, for with his speech she’d expected him to be unlettered.  She’d even found him reading a book in Sindarin with apparent understanding, although when she spoke to him about it he’d told her he read it better than he spoke it, if she took his meaning.

            All were very focused on the welfare of Master Frodo, and he returned their concern.  When they had nightmares he’d always seem to know and would come to soothe them; and when he had his, which she said appeared to be frequent and often severe, often all three would converge on him, and occasionally the Lord Mithrandir as well, when he was present.  Once when she’d come in soon after dawn she’d found the two knights in the dining room with their mugs of tea before them, obviously worried, and in going through the parlor she’d found Master Sam wasn’t there, being found sitting on his Master’s bed with Master Frodo’s head in his lap, holding his maimed right hand.  He’d looked up warningly when she’d looked in, and nodded his thanks as she whispered she’d return later to see if she could assist him.

            She gave him a physical description of Sir Meriadoc that definitely fit with the portraits provided by Lord Strider, and when he showed her four of the pictures she easily identified each.  She said these were likely portraits, but she felt they failed to do the Pheriannath justice, and she seemed most unhappy about the one done of Master Frodo, which she said simply failed to capture his nature in spite of being what ought to be a good likeness.

            The official from Rohan, who introduced himself as Elfhelm, one of the Marshals of the Rohirrim, spoke of the first time he’d seen the Lord Merry standing before the ruined wall of Isengard, when Elfhelm rode there as one of the King’s Guard  behind Gandalf Greyhame.  He spoke of the courtesy with which the Hobbit had welcomed the King’s party, of the surprise of seeing Holbytla alive and walking the grass of Middle Earth, for they’d long been thought creatures of legends told from the days when the Rohirrim still lived in the north.  And he’d spoken of the awe all felt when they first saw the Ents of Fangorn Forest, of their great size and their obvious love of the trees that were their subjects and wards.  He spoke of the quick love that sprang up between his King and the taller Halfling, and described when Lord Merry offered the King of Rohan his sword, and his riding of Stybba from Helm’s Deep to Edoras and then to Dunharrow for the Weaponstake.  He described the deep disappointment in the eyes of the Halfling when the King told him he was to remain behind to serve the Lady Éowyn. 

            He told of his own appointment to lead one of the eoreds, and of the arrival of one calling himself Dernhelm who proved to be the Lady Éowyn in Rider’s garb, and of finding she’d brought with her Lord Merry.  And he spoke of the valor of the Halfling in the battle, for he and the Lady had fought together from the back of her steed Windfola; and when they were thrown at the coming of the Lord of the Nazgul on his fell beast, how Lord Merry had quietly crept behind the Nazgul and stabbed him in the back of the knee, allowing the Lady to get in her own stroke that destroyed the Ringwraith.  He described the finding of his uncle and sister by Éomer King, and the belief both were dead; and of how as they carried the bodies from the battlefield into the city the Halfling had become lost, only to be found on the point of collapse by his kinsman, who’d sought long to find him.

            And he told of the lost aspect on the features of the Halfling when he’d been forced to remain behind when the Army of the West marched to the Black Gate, of his realization that the Lord Faramir loved the Lady Éowyn and his labors to bring them together, of his standing on guard before the bier of Théoden King while it lay in state in the Citadel, and his eagerness to join his kin when it was learned the battle had been won and the Lords Frodo and Samwise had been found in the ruins of the Mountain. 

            Elfhelm had been among those few from Rohan who’d rejoined their king’s forces on the Field of Cormallen, and had walked beside the Lord Merry as he went to seek out his kin, and had seen the shock on the face of the great hearted Lord Merry when he saw how desperately ill were the Lords Frodo and Samwise, of his relief at finding Lord Peregrin, whom he’d described as his special favorite when he was a child, was well on the road to recovery from his grievous injuries.

            He spoke of the solemnity of the convocation when the Lords Merry and Pippin were made knights of the Mark and of Gondor respectively, and then the great joy and awe when it was learned the Lords Frodo and Samwise had awakened and were to be honored by the Lords and forces gathered there.  He recalled the tumult after the Lord Elessar had seated those two on his own throne of turves, and all praised them with great praise, each in his own tongue, of calls in Rohirric, Sindarin, Adunaic, and Westron, all giving honor to the Ringbearers.  He described the two at that time, emaciated from long privation, healing wounds still to be seen on their faces and hands, the trembling of the body of the Lord Frodo and the shining of his countenance, the seeming transparency of his skin; the awe and shock on the face of the Lord Samwise and how he appeared to be overwhelmed by it all; and the pride to the point of pain seen in the faces of the Lords Merry and Pippin, who had appeared to speak flippantly to the Lord Frodo, but who obviously were so overcome by their feelings they could not speak their hearts.

            Ruvemir thanked the Man at the last, and accompanied him to the door of the inn as he left.  The respect he had begun to develop for the four Hobbits had grown much this day, he found, and he had begun to understand why so many here wanted this monument to their courage built.  With images of the feast in honor of the Ringbearers forming in his mind, he went to the common room to get his evening meal, and as he observed the Standing Silence he found himself offering a private honor to the four Pheriannath as well.

 *******

            The morning of the Highday dawned cloudy but dry, and as he expected Lasgon to come in the afternoon, he decided to go out upon the Pelennor to visit the two fenced areas in the morning.  He took another look at the sketches he’d done so far of his subjects, including the ones of Meriadoc he’d done during his interviews the preceding day, and felt satisfied.  Dressing as warmly as he could, he took his cloak and donned gloves, then walked down to the Gate and asked one of the guards if it would be possible to rent the use of a horse.  The guard called over one of those who stood on duty as messengers and had him lead Ruvemir to the stables, where he was offered the services of a fine pony, which surprised and pleased him.  He was soon on his way, whistling merrily as he rode.

            As he approached the blackened place he found an older boy leading a goat back toward a farmstead, and asked him the history of the two sites that had intrigued him so.  On learning the bare area was where the fell beast ridden by the Lord of the Nazgul had been burnt, and that the hillock was where the body of Snowmane, the steed of Théoden, King of Rohan, had been buried with honor, he felt amazed, and thanked the boy and rode on till he came to the first fenced area and dismounted to look on the bare earth where even briars refused to grow.  At the hillock he dismounted again and tied the pony to the railing, and went through the gate to the top of the hill to read the memorial stone.

            As he made his way back to the pony, he felt the wind change from northwesterly to southwesterly, and suddenly the day began to darken, and he realized a storm was in the making.  The pony was now restless and fearful, and as he tried to mount, often a difficult process for him with the shortness of his legs and the inflexibility of his hips, it shied and he fell, again wrenching his left hip.  He rose with difficulty, cornered and finally calmed the pony, and managed to finally mount it and started quickly back toward the city.

            Then the storm hit, and at a crack of lightning and thunder seemingly right overhead the pony bolted, and once again Ruvemir was thrown, landing in a ditch of standing water left from the previous day’s rain.  He was now soaked through.  It took some time to catch his steed, and he found he could not mount it, and so led it through the downpour until he came upon the ruins of a byre where he was able to finally get up high enough to get into the saddle.

            At the stable he had to be lifted down, and one of the stableboys found clean toweling with which they usually wiped down steeds and wrapped him in it, then with a new horseblanket until the worst of the shivering was over.  When at last he felt ready to return to his lodgings the rain had let up; but as he reached the midway point of the First Circle it began again, and by the time he reached the King’s Head he was again shivering with cold, and it felt like blades were being shoved into the socket of his hip.

            It was a relief to reach his room, and he found he was immensely grateful for both the cheerful fire on the hearth and the tray he found of tea and cakes.  A moment after he arrived there was a rap at the door by Elise who brought him his daily missive from Strider, which had been left in his absence; and seeing his state she immediately went into the bathing room and lit the fire under the boiler, and came out with towels, aiding him to shed his cloak and to unfasten the outer shirt he wore so he could remove it, then wrapped him in the towels until the water would be hot enough to serve him.  Her obvious concern for his welfare touched his heart, and he thanked her repeatedly. 

            “Oh, but my dear sir, it is only right I should aid you as I can.  You stay here by the fire and I’ll get more towels for you.  And as soon as the water is hot I’ll draw a bath for you so you can get warm again and cleanse off the mud.”  Without thinking to curtsey she hurried off to find more towels, and he smiled.  He opened the note from Strider.

My dear Master Sculptor,

            I understand you were able to meet with Lord Elfhelm and Mistress Loren, and trust their information has aided you to know the subjects even better.  Mistress Loren informed me she was impressed by your courtesy and the quality of the drawing of Merry you made while she was there.  And she agrees the ones done before that she was shown by you were inferior to your skill. 

            Tomorrow evening Lord Gimli and I hope to meet with you again.  Do you feel like taking a journey?

                                                                        Strider

            A journey?  To where, he wondered?  Sighing, he fixed himself a cup of the tea again with sugar and milk, and drank it, thrice grateful for the warmth.  He put the letter with the other missives he’d received from Strider into a drawer in the desk alongside the small purse he’d received the day before, which had proven to contain seven more gold pieces of the King’s coin, the packet he’d received from Strider, his two sketch booklets, and the smaller items of his drawing supplies.  On top of the desk lay the larger sheets of paper he’d purchased the day before, and the book he’d purchased and the three cord beasts.  Sighing, he looked around, when there was another rap at the door.  Elise came in with the clean towels, but she looked apologetic as she led in Lasgon as well.  Setting the clean toweling in the bathing room near the tub, she hurried off again to fetch a pitcher of light ale and a pair of tankards, and Lasgon,  embarrassed to find the Master Sculptor in such a state, offered to come back later.

            “Oh, no,” Ruvemir said quickly, “not after coming this way from the upper city.  I can wait--I’m warming rapidly enough now.”

            Reassured, Lasgon pulled out of a heavy, covered canvas bag he carried a folder such as Strider had sent the artwork in, and offered it to the sculptor.  Sitting down near the fireplace, Ruvemir opened it--and paused, amazed at what he saw.  Artist called to artist, he thought, as he looked at the first picture, a charcoal sketch of a hill into which were built a round door and round windows, on top of which a great and ancient oak stood, and chimney pots, the house level obviously surrounded by flowers.  He could identify sunflowers and nasturtiums, what appeared to be stalks of gladioli and snapdragons.  A hedge, low wall, and picket gate marked the bounds of the property, and on the level of the door stood a low bench against the hillside that served as the wall of what was obviously a home.  At the bottom in a neat and particularly pleasing script was written in Westron Bag End.  Bag End.  Bag End, the home of Frodo Baggins, now the home of Samwise Gamgee.  Now he was seeing the heartplace of the Hobbits.

            The next picture, again done in charcoal, was of a Hobbit standing on what appeared to be a barrel, a pipe in one hand, gesticulating with the other, an oak tree lit by lanterns hung in its branches towering over him.  This was a hale Hobbit of late middle years, with a face that spoke of humor and mischief, a bit of defiance, and a keen intelligence.  He wore trousers which stopped mid-calf over his bare, hairy feet, which nevertheless were refined looking.  He wore an open jacket over his shirt and a second garment which was obviously of figured cloth, very rich looking; and a finely rendered kerchief stuck partly out of a pocket on the inner garment.  The inscription, again in Westron, read Bilbo at the Party:  his Speech. 

            Ruvemir looked to the youth and asked, “Did he tell you the story of this?”

            The young man smiled.  “Oh, yes.  Frodo was a grand storyteller.  It was the day his cousin, whom he spoke of as his uncle, turned one hundred eleven and he himself came of age at thirty-three.”

            Ruvemir looked at him with shock and disbelief.  That Hobbit was turning one hundred eleven?  How long did Pheriannath generally live?  Were they like Dwarves, who were rumored to live regularly beyond two hundred years?  But Lasgon was continuing on with the story he’d been told, of the insults to his kin and guests and the surprise of the firework set off by Gandalf, and the sudden disappearance of Bilbo Baggins.

            “How did he work the disappearance?” Ruvemir asked.

            “I asked Master Frodo that, and he became solemn.  He finally said that his uncle had carried the Ring in his pocket, and he took it out and slipped it onto his finger as he’d been talking, and it made him invisible.  Said he went back into the smial--that’s what they call their homes dug into the hillsides--and gathered his things, put the Ring into an envelope with his will and other documents, and left it on the mantel in the parlor for Frodo.  It appears that Mithrandir, whom they called Gandalf, had convinced him it was time to give up possession of this Ring, for although they did not know at the time what Ring it was, Gandalf had sensed it was beginning to consume the old Pherian and felt it important he give it up while he still could.”

            The next picture was of Samwise Gamgee--it had to be Samwise; and this was obviously done by an artist who knew him and Hobbits well.  He stood, trowel in hand, in the midst of rose bushes, low creeping flowers carpeting the ground and partially obscuring his feet.  Again, he wore trousers that stopped mid-calf, a shirt with bloused sleeves with the cuffs rolled up to show his muscular arms, and a garment over it that was open and that covered only his chest and back.  Under this garment he appeared to wear a strap from his trousers to his shoulder.  Again a kerchief, obviously not as fine as that carried by Bilbo, hung out of one of the pockets.

            Elise rapped at the door, and came in with the ale, and stopped to see the picture in Ruvemir’s hand.  She looked at it in awe, her mouth opening in surprise.  She looked at him.  “You did not do that of the esquire to the King’s Friend.”

            He shook his head.  “No, it was done by the King’s Friend himself.”

            She set down her burden, and, with a look of entreaty reached forward a hand, and he gave the picture to her to examine.  “It is just like him, sir.  Just like him.”  Lasgon nodded his agreement.  Suddenly as a call went up down the passageway, she looked that way in frustration.  “I must go,” she said as she hurriedly returned the portrait and fled toward the call.

            Lasgon looked after her, looked out of the window as one of the bells that marked the passage of time in the city rang, and said, “I, too, must leave.  Will you care well for these for me?”

            At Ruvemir’s nod, he stood.  He left Ruvemir with the ale, but again accepted two of the seed cakes and stowed them into his scrip; and with a bow and the suggestion he bathe and get warm, he left.

            Ruvemir did just that, filling the tub and getting into it as quickly as he could divest himself of his clothing.  He had just dried himself after a long soak and pulled on a worn robe when Elise returned with a mug of warmed wine mixed with fruit juices.  She asked if he would like her to take his soiled garments to have them cleaned, and he agreed.  She quickly went through pockets and removed his belt purse, and placed all items she found in the center of the table.  And taking his shoes also to be dried and cleaned for him, she left.  He gratefully sipped at the wine as he’d sipped earlier at the milky tea, and looked at the rest of the pictures in the folder.  Strider, he realized, had not needed the services of the artists of Minas Anor, for apparently unknown to him his master artist was right there before him, the Pherian Frodo himself!  Here were both Meriadoc and Peregrin.  Here also he found a portrait of one he’d known only through legend, Mithrandir, standing straight and defiantly, sword in one hand, knobbed staff in the other, facing an unseen danger that was hinted at but not shown in the picture.  It was identified as Gandalf on the Bridge of Khazad-dum.

            And then there was another picture, and this time Ruvemir recognized the subject, had even tried to render it himself--Strider, hooded and cloaked in his stained green cloak and worn leathers, sprawled in a chair, legs stretched out, his pipe this time in his mouth, his eyes shining in the glow of his pipe.  Under it was Strider, the Prancing Pony, Bree.  Ruvemir shook his head as he looked at this picture.  This was done by a Pherian, a Halfling, a Hobbit, and it was done of a Man, and it was perfectly proportioned.  He bowed his head in homage to the superior artist--or at least in regards to drawing.  Frodo Baggins, he realized, deserved the title of Master more than he himself did.

            There were a few more in the packet--one of the Dwarf Gimli, a helmet decorated with geometric shapes on his round head; his axe, the one that had stood here leaning by the hearth, in his hand; a man even Ruvemir recognized as Boromir son of Denethor, Captain of Gondor; the Elf he’d seen the day before; and a woman whose beauty smote his heart.  This one was labeled, The Lady Arwen Undómiel, Queen of Gondor.  He looked and saw the gracefully pointed ears of an Elf showing through her dark tresses, the graceful stance, the eyes that saw more than just what was before her.  He’d heard the King’s Lady was an Elf, and now it was confirmed.  And, at the bottom of the stack, a crouching creature, twisted and vile looking, naked save for a loincloth around its starved-looking lower parts, its look sly and fearful as it peered back over its shoulder.  This must be the creature Gollum.  And he shivered as he looked on it.

            With such images in his memory, no wonder Frodo Baggins had suffered from recurring nightmares, he thought.  Carefully he slipped the pictures back into his folder and stood up to put them into the drawer of the desk--

            --and fell, the folder falling from his hand and sliding under the chest into the obscurity underneath its drawers.  His hip had given out, and in an intense pain, he forgot about the folder, worked his way over to the bed, somehow got himself onto it, and passed out.

The Houses of Healing

            When he awoke he was shaking and confused.  The room was almost totally dark, and miserably cold.  The fire must be out, he thought foggily.  He looked about, realized he lay on a bed but not under the covers, maneuvered himself finally under the graciously thick and warm blankets, his hip burning like fire, and huddled down for warmth.  He quickly slipped into a troubled sleep, woke hot and threw off the blankets, woke shortly after feeling as if he were freezing and fumbled to find them again, then a while later was throwing them off once more.  He was thirsty, but could not find the half-cup of water he usually left on the stand next to his bed.  He tried to sit up, found himself almost swooning with dizziness, and quickly lay down once more.  Before he slept again the cold was back, so once more he struggled to find his covers, the lancing agony of his hip making him cry out in pain before he found them.  He knew what had happened, for it had happened before--the socket had rejected his hip, and he knew it would be a torture to have it put back in its place.  But he also recognized he was sick with chills and fever, and he was in no condition to call for aid.  He covered himself fully and let himself slip out of consciousness again.

            Elise was surprised when the artist did not respond to her knock, and even more surprised when she found the door unsecured.  Uncertain what to do, she opened the door and peeked in.  The hearth was cold, and in the mannikin’s bed lay a huddled shape.  Something felt wrong, and she set her tray on the table and came forward to the bed, placed her hand on his shoulder, and heard his groan, the rasping breathing.  His eyes were open and dull and unseeing, and she could smell the sweat of his fever.  No, she thought, he cannot become ill now!  But when her hand touched his brow there was no question.  He’d taken ill from his soaking the day before, and she recognized the signs of the chills and fevers.  She hurried from the room in search of Beneldil.  Within moments the two of them were in the chamber together, she quickly kneeling down to get a fire stirred from the few coals still lingering under the ashes, he lighting two of the lamps and leaning over to check out the condition of his guest.  There was no question, the two of the agreed--he needed to be taken to the Houses of Healing, and immediately.  The innkeeper headed out to the doors to see if he could find a guard or other help in transporting the mannikin up to the sixth level while Elise poured a cup of water and brought it to Ruvemir, tried to help him sit up, and was so startled when he cried out in intense pain she almost dropped the cup. 

            She managed to get it set on the chest, and noted he was now more awake.  “What is it?” she asked.

            “My hip--it’s slipped out of its place.”

            Between them they managed to get him upright enough to drink the water, and then she aided him to lie down again, but not without pain.  He was shaking with the chills once more, and she took the extra blanket from where it now lay on the other bed and brought it to him and put it around him.  In moments he’d drifted off again, and she hoped intensely they could get help quickly.

            Beneldil came back into the room, accompanied by the Elf who’d been working on the gardens.  He knelt by the low bed and checked the condition of the mannikin, and said, “He needs aid, now.  I can carry him to the Sixth Circle.”  The innkeeper and the maid nodded agreement, and removing the top blanket Elise helped to uncover Ruvemir, then to wrap him as the Elf lifted him gently.  “His hip has become disjointed,” she cautioned, and the Elf nodded his thanks, shifted his grip carefully, then straightened.  He headed swiftly up the streets of the city, past guards who pulled aside respectfully, thinking another child had taken ill, and finally arrived at the doors to the Houses of Healing where he was admitted swiftly.

            “Another child?” the Warden asked.

            “No, not a child.  One who knows severe chills and fever, and whose hip has given way.”

            “But--not a Pherian?”

            “No, of the race of Men, but stunted.”

            After a consultation, the Warden led them to a quiet room overlooking the Gardens, and they transferred the patient there, and removed the blanket.  Looking at hair, face and beard, the Warden nodded.  “No, no Pherian--a mannikin.  And gravely ill.”  He looked at the Elf.  “Which hip is hurt?”

            “The left.”

            Nodding thanks, the Warden lifted up the skirt of the mannikin’s robe to expose the injury, and examined it with his hands, and felt the pained reaction.  He lifted an eyelid, felt pulse and forehead, laid his head on the chest.  Raising his head, he sighed.  “It’s going into the lung fever.  He will be gravely ill before he gets better.”

            The healer who’d followed him into the room also sighed.  “Shall I summon the King?  He was deeply tired when he left last even.”

            With an answering shrug the Warden decided.  “If it were just chills or just the hip or just the lung fever, I’d say no.  But with all three together....”  The Elf nodded his own intentions, and set off swiftly to the citadel.

            Ruvemir of Lebennin was dimly aware of being lifted and carried out into the morning, and then he could hear someone asking about summoning the King.  But he was uncertain what all of it meant.  He knew his hip burned with fire and that he was beginning to be freezing cold again, and that he was starting to cough, which made the other ills that much worse.  Soothing voices were about him, he was being gently lifted while his robe was removed and another put in its place, and someone was placing a cup to his lips and instructing him to sip it....

            And then he felt a presence enter the room, and someone familiar was leaning over him, demanding details, a calming hand placed on his brow....

            Hands shifted him to his right side, held him firm.  Strong, capable hands were on his thigh, and then----

 *******

            He awoke some time later.  His body was wracked with a cough, but he realized that the knifeblade agony of his hip had been replaced by a dull ache, and a warm pack had been strapped to it.  The room smelled sweet, almost as if he were in his favorite place as a child, a hidden hollow midway beneath the larch trees to the south of his house and just this side of the river, and he smiled.  Someone was urging him to sit up so he could breathe better, was holding a basin to cough the sputum from his chest into, then when the spate was over, offering him a draught to drink.  He drank gratefully, then realized he was drifting gently back into sleep, and slid into it with equal thanks.

*******

            A hand was on his brow, and he woke, opened his eyes.  He was lying half sitting up, and he found himself very weak.  “How do you feel?” asked that familiar voice.  And he looked up to find himself looking into the grey eyes, grey with a hint of blue and green like the sea, of the King’s officer.  Except that....  He looked with curiosity at the formal black robe the man wore; the emerald ring on his hand, the emerald with a serpent on either side of it; the impression something of weight had left on his forehead and hair; the hilt of a sword; the green stone on his breast.

            “I thought your name was Aragorn,” he whispered.

            “Oh, I have many, many names and titles, my friend.  Too many, I think.  But I was born Aragorn son of Arathorn in Eriador.”

            “Aragorn son of Arathorn.  I should have realized.”  He took a long breath.  “My patron is the King himself.”  To which he received a nod.  “Was your father Arathorn the Captain Thorongil?”

            “No.”

            Ruvemir thought.  “Then another of your names?”  Another nod.  “I see.”  He paused.  “Well, then apparently I was accurate in my depiction of Captain Thorongil in Casistir.”  A smile this time.  “Just how old are you, then?  And am I always going to be off in my reckoning?”

            Slightly bemused by that last cryptic comment, the King responded, “I’m ninety--no, ninety-two.  I am one of the Dúnedain.”

            “Oh.  So many years even you forget them?”  Again the smile.  “But...Strider?”

            “The name given me by the good people of Bree.  One saw me walking hurriedly along the Greenway one day and called me that, and so I was known there ever after.  And so I was first introduced to the Ringbearer and his companions.”

            “And the one with the bow?”

            “One of my kin, the Lord Hardorn, younger son to my mother’s brother.  Always there have been a few from among the northern Dúnedain in the service of Gondor, although those of Gondor have usually remained ignorant of their origins.  He and I served together when I was Captain Thorongil, and now he is my Officer of the Privy Purse as well as one of my bodyguards when I seek to walk abroad privately.  It was good to have one beside me in those days who knew who I was, and who today shares my experience and training among the Dúnedain as well as among the forces of Gondor.”

            Ruvemir looked again at the formal dress.  “Did you receive the embassy from Rhun?”

            “You have been ill for longer than you realize, Master Sculptor.  No, today’s audience was with the embassy from Umbar.  They sought to sue for a new treaty.”

            “And did they get one?”

            “Of sorts.”

            “On whose terms?”

            The King’s expression became remote, and almost what Ruvemir considered feral.  “Mine,” he answered succinctly.  After a pause he added, “I reminded them today that I have fought and defeated them three times.  The first time I merely vanquished their fleet.  The second time the forces under Prince Adrahil and myself burned the ships of their fleet in their berths.  The third time I took possession of their fleet.  I let them know today that if there is a fourth incursion, I will take possession of their land and scatter their people all over Middle Earth, and then destroy their city and their fleet utterly.  I will no longer tolerate any threats to our peoples from Umbar.”

            “Did they believe you?”

            “Oh, I rather think they did.  When we burned their fleet one of their men injured me, and I bear the scar to this day.  Not particularly serious, but nevertheless deep.  However, he bears the scar from the wound I gave him as well.  I recognized him today as part of the embassy, and informed him that he’d best convince his people to accept my terms, or I would reveal not only where his scar is but also how I came to administer the wound which left it.”

            “Where is it?”

            “Shall we say he must have had difficulty sitting down for several weeks after our last personal encounter?”  Ruvemir laughed, somewhat weakly.  “You have still not answered my question--how do you feel?”

            “Weak, but much better.” 

            The King nodded.  “Good.  I still wish to send you on a journey so that you can base your sculpture on life, as much as possible.  And, I think if you are to do true justice to Frodo, you should hear his description from those who knew him best.”
            “You would send me to the Shire?”

            “At least to Bree.”  He looked off for a moment.  “The last battle in the War of the Ring for those four took place within the Shire itself.  After they left on their journey, still another cousin of Frodo’s decided to put all that land in subjugation to himself, and with the assistance of a troupe of outlawed men he made fair toward achieving that goal.  By the time Frodo, Merry, Pippin, and Sam returned much, very much had been damaged, destroyed, or lost, including Frodo’s own home which reportedly had been gutted, and that of Sam’s father as well.  And the true leader of the brigands came there himself and ordered the murder of the cousin.”

            “Would that be the Lotho mentioned in Sam’s letter?”

            “Yes.”  Aragorn paused for several moments.  “I made the law that no Men were to enter into the Shire, but to every law, it seems, there must needs be an exception, although I will allow the worthies of the Shire to decide this for themselves.  But I will send you to Bree with a plea that the Mayor, Thain, Master, and Master of Bag End allow you and your companion to enter their land to do research on my behalf.  As you are no taller than they, and even shorter than many, I hope they will agree to the suggestion and not see you as a possible enemy.”

            “And who will be this companion?”

            “Your sister.”

            Ruvemir was shocked.  “What do you know of my sister?” he demanded.

            “She arrived here yesterday.  Once she learned you were so ill she came at once to be at your side.”

            The artist thought, and finally looked up and asked, “How long have I been ill?”

            “Almost two weeks, Master Sculptor.  You developed the lung sickness, or fever, if you will.  You have been little conscious most of that time.  Whether or not you would fully recover we had no idea, but all signs now point to such--although you are going to be weak for several more weeks, I fear.  Add in the separation of your hip, and the situation is made far worse.”

            “How did my sister learn of my illness?”

            “The day you were brought here a letter for you arrived from Lebennin, and it was brought to the Citadel for me to judge what should be done toward explaining the situation to your family.  I wrote a letter myself advising them of your condition and sent it by swift messenger, and yesterday the lady Miriel arrived in her own person.  She is staying now in your rooms at the King’s Head.  I have sent money to keep your rooms yours yet.”

            “I am amazed she would even leave our home.  She has never felt comfortable amongst--”  He stopped, looked at the taller Man with some embarrassment.

            “Amongst people of normal height who do not know her?”  Ruvemir nodded and looked away. “Apparently her love for you has overcome her fears.  You are very fortunate, Master Sculptor, to command such devotion.

            “Now, tell me--how was your hip so injured?”

            Ruvemir thought for a few minutes, then described his ride out to the two mysterious sites on the field.  The King nodded with understanding.  While he spoke a healer came into the room with a tray, saw he was awake and smiled with definite relief, and at a brief gesture from the King set the tray on a table and stepped back.  When he was done, the King sighed. 

            “Well, until the sinews holding hip in socket are strengthened there will be no more riding for you, and we will be showing you exercises you must do two to three times a day to aid that recovery.  No, it will be walking and carriages for you for at least three months.  Now, here is some broth, and afterward I will allow a slightly more substantial meal if you desire, and now I must leave you to the mercies of my fellows here.”  And he nodded and rose.  With a final smile and bow to patient and healer, he left.

            The new healer was a younger man, who bowed after the King but then turned his attention to Ruvemir.  Taking the seat Aragorn had quitted, he took up a mug from off the tray and offered it to his patient.  When he spoke his voice was pleasant.  “Your hands are likely to shake some, so I will steady the mug until it is lighter.”  Ruvemir nodded.  He quickly realized the man’s words were true, but he felt better when he had the contents of the mug within him, after which he submitted to an examination. 
            The healer unwrapped bulky bandages and removed a padded device of thin metal that apparently had been intended to hold his hip immobile at a slightly bent angle, kneaded it with practiced hands, and smiled with satisfaction.  Ruvemir looked on it with interest himself and commented, “The colors are as varied as the last time.”

            The healer looked at him with interest.  “So, this was not the first time after all, as the Lord Elessar said.  I grow more amazed at his skill at reading the body each time I work alongside of him.  Well, now you are healing apace, Sir Artist.  Tomorrow we will begin the exercises intended to strengthen the sinews.  I caution you that at first they will be somewhat painful, but it is best the pain be dealt with if your hip is to become fully useful.” Ruvemir nodded reluctantly.  The healer had him attempt to move his leg gently, nodded, and after changing the pads replaced the metal brace, then helped him rise and refresh himself, aided him to wash hands and face, aided him back onto the high bed, and finally asked if he wished to eat more, then with a bow he left him alone.

            His sketch booklets and his tube of drawing materials were to hand on the back of the chest by his bed, and with eagerness he drew them to him, opened to the last bare sheets of the old one, took out charcoal and ball of gum, and began a new sketch of the King as he had sat by his bed.  When a knock at the door heralded the arrival of an elderly woman bearing a tray with more food he waved vaguely at the chest and continued on, and she watched for a time with some amusement.  Finally when he paused to examine his work so far she commented dryly, “So, your art is of more interest than your belly.  A good sign, I suppose.”  She sat stiffly in the chair and watched as he reddened slightly and looked to the tray.  She offered to take the booklet as he turned his own attention to the offerings, and gave a look requesting permission to look at the work in progress, which he gave easily enough.  She examined the brief study of her king and smiled with recognition.  “Our Lord Elfstone indeed.  A fine Lord and a fine healer, and, I am told, a master swordsman as well as master at reading the hearts of others.  We are fortunate to have such a one as our Lord and King.  The Lady Arwen is said to be returning on the morrow, and he will be gladdened.”

            “Then the pox is finally past?”

            She nodded.  “At last, and a fine bother it has been during the time it was with us, I must tell you.  I have never had so many children at a time to care for, although we are fortunate it was not the measles, for then the children tend to be much more ill, and such tends to kill at least some of its victims.  Or the swelling of the glands of the neck--such also always seems to cost at least one or two, and can be terrible when caught by a grown man.

            “But the pox has not been without victims, although none died of it.”  At his look of interest as he ate the sliced apples in spiced syrup she continued.  “On one older lad the pox formed sores on his eyes, and now his vision is almost lost.  What he will do I am uncertain, for his mother died four years ago, and he has served in one of the inns for his keep.  And a sweet if somewhat lazy boy he is.” 

            She turned the page backwards in his booklet, then paused, her mouth opening slightly with surprise.  “The Pherian Meriadoc!  And a good likeness, too.  He was here in this house for some time, you know, as he recovered from the Black Breath.  He and the Lady Éowyn, the White Lady of Rohan who has married our own Prince Faramir, between them killed the Lord of the Nazgul, but doing so almost cost both of them their lives.   Our Lord Elessar was able to call them back from the gates of death.  The healing hands, the Lord Elessar has.”  She looked back at the picture.  “A great heart he has--such all of the Pheriannath showed.  Great hearts, all of them.  While Master Meriadoc was so ill the Ernil i Pheriannath watched over him, obviously frightened for him, and when he awoke sat by him.  When he was left behind when the army marched to Mordor, Master Meriadoc felt useless; but while he recovered he served the Lady Éowyn.  And when he realized the Lord Faramir had come to love the Lady, he did his best to aid them to come together.  Then, when he was recovered he began to stand the honor guard for Théoden King among the Riders of Rohan, as straight and proud as any tall Man.  Then he was called to join the army as they awaited the awakening of the King’s Friend, and he was so eager, and so fearful as he left the city.”

            “Fearful of what?” Ruvemir wondered.

            “I think of what the quest might have done to the King’s Friend, who was his kinsman, and whom he loved dearly.”  For a few moments she was quiet.  “A gentle soul, the Lord Frodo, a gentle soul.”

            “You met him?”

            “Yes, after their return, all saw him at the coronation of the Lord Elessar, there before the Gates to the City.  And he came here at times in the company of the King.”  Her eyes looked into her memories.  “One time, one of those who had fought among the men of the city and who saw many of those who stood by him before the Black Gate slaughtered around him was brought here, more than half maddened by drink and the memories.  He was raving and had to be restrained by several men.  The King was called from a feast to aid in calming him, and the Lord Frodo accompanied him.  The brother of the man’s wife had been among those who had carried him here, and full of fear and anger, he began to cry out against him and to threaten him if he did not quiet--and suddenly the King’s Friend was there before him, his face white, his eyes large and shining, his voice full of authority as he commanded both to be still--and they both obeyed!  And he turned on the brother, asked him, ‘Were you among those who fought?’ and he said, ‘No.’  And the Lord Frodo said, ‘Then you cannot know the wounds he carries on his spirit.  Keep quiet if you cannot understand.’  Then he turned to the one who raved and those who had been holding him, for he had tried to do both himself and those around him an injury, and with a word let them know they should let the man go, and they did so.  Then he gestured to the man to kneel down so that he could look into his eyes, and the raving man again obeyed.  He reached out to touch the man’s face, and there was grief and understanding in his eyes, and he said, ‘Be at peace now, and allow the King to attend you.  For, like you, I have seen greater evil than I ever dreamed existed, and he called me back from it, and he can help you to find yourself as well, if you will allow it.’  And the man began to weep, and the Pherian reached out to take him in his arms and comforted him.  Many were fearful for the Lord Frodo, for the man had been full of violence, and several bore the marks of his struggles.  But the King Elessar would not allow others to approach, but said quietly that they should allow the Ringbearer to ease the man as he was doing.  And as he wept the King’s Friend continued to hold him.  The madness left the man, and at last the King came forward and put his hand on the man’s shoulder and offered him the draught we had prepared for him, and led him to a bed after he drank it, and laid his hands on him and sent him into healing sleep as he is able to do.  And the Lord Frodo sat by him through the night until he woke with the dawn, in possession of himself at last.” 

            She sat silent for a few minutes, then shook herself and looked at him.  “I ask your pardon on an old woman’s tongue, Master Sculptor,” she said more brusquely, returning the booklet to the chest.  “Always I tend to talk too much, and to weary the ears of those I serve.  Ah, I see your appetite is healthy, at least.  Good, you are indeed recovering at last.”

            Ruvemir realized he had eaten all that had been brought to him, although he remembered only the apples.  He let her take the tray, then relaxed against the pillows as she covered him with the blankets, and he fell asleep to dreams in which a white shape stood in defiance before hulking forms that fell back from before its wrath.

*******

            When he woke again it was apparently just after dawn, and a new form sat on the chair beside him, a stool at her feet, and as he stirred she smiled and informed him, “Well, Brother, it is about time you awoke,” and both laughed as they reached out to clasp one another’s hand.

            The day seemed to drag on forever, as various individuals came in to examine his hip, peer into his eyes, listen to his chest, help him to relieve himself, bathe him, bring him food and a draught of herbs he didn’t recognize.  At noon the King arrived, and Miriel rose from her place to give him her courtesy, which he returned with a stately bow and smile.  Ruvemir’s hip was unbound for the third time so far that day, and the King’s hands felt it competently, after which he had Miriel sit upon a high stool so she could watch as they began to demonstrate the exercises her brother would need to practice to strengthen the hip.  The King was dressed today in a dark green velvet tunic which became him very well, and when he was done he appeared eager to be gone.  Ruvemir smiled and commented, “I wish you joy in the arrival of your Lady Wife, my Lord,” evoking a sigh, and the cryptic comment “Ioreth” in return, and the King left in a haste that still managed to appear regal and gracious.

            Ruvemir and Miriel had little chance to speak, although she was able to tell him briefly their father was well, and that the woodcarvings he’d done over the last winter had at last all sold at the fair in Dol Amroth he’d attended a few days after Ruvemir had set off for Minas Anor.  And that he’d had the chance to return through Casistir, and commended his son’s work there.  Ruvemir was pleased to receive praise from his father, whose own artistry had always inspired his own.  Then another healer came in with a basin of steaming water in which herbs were steeping which he told him were to help release the last congestion in his lungs, and he was to lie quiet and simply breathe the vapors.  Frustrated in his desire to speak with his sister, Ruvemir defiantly reached for sketch booklet and charcoal, and quickly set to work on a rather blistering depiction of this particular healer with a donkey’s ears, and Miriel, peering over  his shoulder at the work in progress giggled, while the healer, unaware of his own role in the sketch being made, looked on disapprovingly until the elderly lady arrived with the noon meal for both Ruvemir and his sister, and informed him the Warden of the House asked he come to consult about the child whose vision had become dimmed.  Seeing the look in her patient’s eyes as he watched after, she asked, “And has that one been telling you as he does that you ought to simply lie there and do nothing as you breathe your vapors?  He does that, we know.  As if you could not breathe deeply while listening to the lady’s news.” 

            As he went to set the book on the chest it slipped from his hand, and the healer with an exclamation stooped to pick it up.  Catching a glimpse of the subject, she laughed.  “Oh, how perfectly it fits the young popinjay,” she chuckled, setting the book down carefully and then settling the wide tray over them. 

            There were, he noted, two dishes on it, two mugs, two sets of implements with which to eat.  “Thank you, Lady, for thinking also of the needs of my sister.”

            “Oh, it is no bother for the cooks, who delight in sending good food to those who must stay with us.  And I understand your sister came a long way to....”  But then she stilled and listened, then said, “Harken to the singing of the Elves.  The Lady Arwen must be approaching the Citadel!”  And she moved around the bed to the window and opened it so they could hear.

            Many voices, sweet and clear, were raised without, singing a marvelously woven harmony of song.  And then among them another voice was raised, a deeper voice, a Man’s voice, lying on the singing of the Elves as a bark lies sweetly on the water of the stream, enriching it, singing out the joy of meeting after separation.  And then another voice joined it, coming nearer, the voice of a woman, and all else was quiet except for the singing.  If there was ever anything that could have induced Ruvemir son of Mardil to lie still and simply breathe deeply, it was the awe of hearing that singing.  And looking briefly at the faces of the two women with him, he saw that both were as totally entranced as he, and that a gentle, sweet memory had filled the eyes of the elderly healer, while his own sister’s face was filled with longing.

            Outside the two voices came nearer together, and finally met, and he knew that the Lady Arwen Undómiel must stand now beside her husband in the thin autumn sunlight, and her Lord and she were only finishing the Lay they sang before they embraced one another.  And when at last the song ended it felt like the losing of a sweet vision, and all three shook themselves, and the lady healer leaned to remove the covers from the dishes, then glanced again through the window with a hint of sorrow in her eyes.  “It reminds me of the days of my youth, when my Ellenion called upon me, and we knew the joy of love.  He died many years ago, slain by the Enemy when he worked amongst the wounded in Osgiliath, but he had the gift of singing as well as of healing, and often courted me that way.”  She smiled, then. “At least I have the memories of that long time, and the son he fathered on me, and the beautiful grandchildren, and now their children as well, several of whom have the gift of singing.  Two sang before the Lord Elessar at his crowning, amidst the choir of children, and others amongst those who sang the hymns to Elbereth at their wedding.” 

            The door opened with a rap, and a young page looked in and called out, “Lady Ioreth,” and she turned away.  “The Warden asks you come and assist in a stitching, for one of the children who remains in the House has fallen and struck his head against a door and needs it closed.” 

            She clucked her tongue and bade swift good-byes while swiftly closing the window, and hurried to answer the summons of her master. 

            “Another mystery solved,” Ruvemir commented as together he and his sister applied themselves to their lunch, for once alone in the room.  She looked at him in question and he continued.  “The King murmured ‘Ioreth’ as he left, remember?  Apparently he is well acquainted with her chatter, although the chatter is pleasant enough, and not filled with evil tales on others.”

            Miriel’s eyes smiled.

            After their meal was finished, the young healer of the previous night came in and removed the form from his hip, and under his direction Miriel and Ruvemir worked on the exercises shown them earlier.  When he was satisfied, he indicated that the form would not be replaced, but that instead a bracing wrap would be fastened about his hips to assist the sinews in their continued healing but which would be less restrictive.  Ruvemir smiled.  Once this was in place he felt tired, and he lay down after bringing up some more of the sputum from deep in his chest, and while he and Miriel were talking he suddenly slipped back into sleep. 

            When he woke anew it was late afternoon and his window was shadowed.  Miriel was no longer in the room, and all seemed to be quiet and full of peace.  Two cups sat on the chest by his bed, one apparently a draught and the other most likely water.  He was wondering if he should drink the one when there was a familiar rap at his door, and when he called out to enter, it opened, and Elise stood there, smiling in pleasure.

            “Oh, sir, they told me that you had awakened and were nearly healed, and I see it is true.  I brought you these,” and she proffered stalks of flowers and foliage wrapped in fine cloth and damp paper at the bottom.  “My mother and I cut them this morning, this being my free day from my work.  I came up to see you and Master Beneldil’s son, who is also here, ready to go home on the morrow, finally recovered from the pox himself.  They brought him here the night before you came, and the fever was quite heavy on him for a time.”

            “It is wonderful to see you, my lady Elise,” he said, and she came over to his bed and sat on the chair.  “And I thank you for your caring for me, both before I sickened and after.”  She smiled, and Ruvemir found himself responding to that smile as he hadn’t to a woman’s face for many years.  “And I suppose you have been caring for my sister as well?”

            “Oh, the Lady Miriel is your sister?”  And he noted a look of relief on her face that was quickly masked.  “I’d thought perhaps she was your lady wife.”

            “Oh, no--no such one as that as yet.”  And there was no mistaking the relief.  He was surprised to find himself not just flattered but excited as well.  Perhaps it was possible for a mannikin to find a deeper caring from one who was normal after all.

            It was some time before Miriel returned, and her own expression appeared mixed as she watched the two animated faces before her, and in glancing at her, Ruvemir realized with amusement she was a bit jealous, but more protective.  She crawled up on the bed and sat by him, gradually relaxing and joining in the talk. 

            When at last the young healer came in he found the three of them laughing as Elise described an incident where they’d found a guest who’d tried to sneak four dogs into his room and the havoc it had created.  The healer smiled to see his patient obviously much better, and when they noticed his arrival he simply smiled.  “Go on,” he said. “Often a merry heart is the best treatment of all.”  He moved to the chest and indicated Ruvemir should drink the draught, and then the water, and gently checked his pulse as he spoke, pleased to see his eyes alert and engaged, his wits obviously clear. 

            Elise finally, reluctantly, took her leave, and Ruvemir felt a tug at his heart as she left, and saw that she’d apparently noticed something in his expression, for she was clearly smiling as she left.  The healer smiled also.  “Well, I must say that if Master Meriadoc were here still he would be doing all in his power to bring the two of you together.  Apparently the Pheriannath enjoy the art of matchmaking.”  Ruvemir felt himself redden, but Miriel sniffed.

            “To think the son of Mardil the Carver would be drawn to such as she,” she said, then added, “Our father would only be most pleased.”

            Ruvemir looked to her with swift surprise.  “Then you like her?”

            “Of course, goose.  And obviously you are quite smitten.  There’s apparently no hope for it--at long last my aloof brother has found a lady love.”  And he could see the mixed envy and pleasure in her face, took her hand, and kissed it.

 *******

            One more set of visitors he had that evening, after his sister left to return to the King’s Head, advised he would probably be released the following day.  He was working on a study of the four Pheriannath together, trying to envision what type of grouping he would do, when a knock at the door announced the arrival of Gimli son of Gloin, accompanied by the golden-haired Elf who’d brought him the King’s missive.  Both were dressed in identical cloaks, the silvery grey-green with the leaf brooch, and he realized these must be somehow tied to their trip from Imladris with the Pheriannath.  Gimli introduced Legolas, Prince of the Forest of Green Leaves, formerly known as Mirkwood, and the Elf gave a particularly deep and graceful bow.

            “Aragorn is otherwise engaged this evening, so we thought we would meet with you and see what studies you’ve added so far,” the Dwarf explained.

            “I can imagine the King is quite busy this night,” Ruvemir replied with a smile to which the others replied in kind.  “I heard the singing, and was quite moved by it.”

            “Rarely does Aragorn sing before others like that,” said the Elven prince, “but today his voice was quite pleasing.”

            “Was that the Lay of Lúthien?” Ruvemir asked.

            “Yes.  Apparently he had been singing that lay the first time he saw the Lady Arwen, who had spent several years in the Golden Wood with her mother’s kin and who had just returned that day to Imladris.  He says that he thought he’d been granted the grace to bring the image of which he’d been singing before his own eyes.  And certainly the Lady Galadriel has said that her granddaughter strongly favors Lúthien, who after all was great-grandmother to her father.”

            All his life Ruvemir had heard and read the tales of the great Elves and the Great War against Morgoth--and he found himself feeling odd at the thought that he was suddenly a part of it all, for here was the great, great granddaughter of Beren and Lúthien, the Queen now of Gondor, and, he realized, now as inextricably tied to mortality as himself.  He felt his scalp tighten at the thought.

            Legolas continued, “The Evenstar of our people she has been, the sign that the time nears at last for us to seek out our proper place, or to remain here and fade at the end.  But for the sake of Aragorn Elessar we willingly relinquish her to his side.  May her gift strengthen the line of Mankind and renew it indeed.”

            There was a moment of quiet as all thought over the meaning of the marriage of Arwen to the King of Gondor and Arnor combined, and Gimli looked from one to the other until he at last asked if he could see the further work he’d done.

            At last he said, “There’s no study here of Samwise, except for this last one with the others.”

            Ruvemir nodded in agreement.  “Master Samwise seems to be a difficult one to get people to describe for me, although he is apparently a strong presence amongst the four of them.  Perhaps you can give me a better idea of what he is like.”  He took back the booklet and turned to the last page, and indicated they should begin.  After an hour they left off, and both looked at the sketch he’d produced and nodded. 

            “It is very like,” Legolas said approvingly.  “Were the sketches done by the artists of Minas Anor a good guide for his features, then?”

            Ruvemir shrugged noncommittally, unwilling to divulge Frodo’s secret skill of artistry.  “It is that told to me by such as you that give me an idea of what he was truly like,” he answered, and the Elf smiled. 

            At that time the healers came in to do his exercises one last time, and Elf and Dwarf took their leave.  Once the exercises were done, he was encouraged to get up for a brief time and to walk down the corridor, and after watching him take about ten steps they brought out a cane, measured it to him, and took it to be cut off to his height.  Within twenty minutes it was back, a lovely thing of lebethron, the fine grain under his hand reminding him of his father’s own skill.  Supported with this he tried the walk again, and was able to make it to the end of the passageway and back again, and smiling he set out on a second assay, only to find he was suddenly tired before he made it all the way.  He stopped and sat to rest on one of the benches scattered up and down the walls, and heard childish voices from the nearby room.  He peeked in, and there saw two boys sitting on beds set side by side, talking and sharing a bowl of sliced apple segments.

            “No,” the one said, “it is more to your right, Ririon.”  The other boy reached further away from the bowl when his companion suddenly corrected himself.  “No, I mean left--I keep forgetting to turn the directions in my head to be for you and not for me!”

            “Well, what can I say about such a woolly headed soul as you, Benril?”  The other quickly found the bowl and chose a segment for himself.  “I find I can see somewhat better at this time of day than in full daylight.  Isn’t that odd?”

            His companion nodded, then said, “Yes, full odd.  I wonder what the King will do to your eyes tomorrow?”

            The other shrugged.  “Don’t know.  But he says he hopes it will add more to my vision.  I just hope it doesn’t hurt too much.”

            “The King would never hurt you on purpose.”

            “I realize that, but that doesn’t stop it from probably hurting some anyway, you know.”  For a moment there was quiet.  “But it will be worth it to see at least enough to find my way better.  Can you hand me my cup of water?  I don’t want to knock it over again.  They need cups that don’t fall over so easily.”

            As Ruvemir finally rose and returned to his chamber, he realized he was perhaps not as badly off as a mannikin as he’d sometimes felt.

Settling Fees

            The next morning early he was up and slipped himself out of his high bed, using the steps that had been brought for him, and made his way to the bathing chamber which had been pointed out to him the previous evening.  Attendants helped him disrobe and into the high tub.  He felt embarrassed, but realizing this was their duty, he relaxed and allowed them to clean his hair and his back.  Afterwards they replaced the supportive bandage, then helped him to dress in some of his own clothing which he learned had been fetched the previous evening when one had accompanied Miriel back to the King’s Head, and that Miriel herself had chosen them for him.  He’d have been able to guess, he thought, looking to see she’d sent her favorite of his shirts, one of soft lavender with geometric designs she’d stitched into the placket and the neck, and the surcoat that was like purple smoke over breeches of a smoky blue.  Taking up his cane, he thanked them and headed back to his own room, feeling much better for the wash, he thought, not noting the admiring glances he drew from those he walked by.  He passed the boy Benril on his way to the bathing chamber, and nodded at him, then realized the lad’s face was familiar.  He stopped and turned back to the boy. 

            “Are you the son of Beneldil, the keeper of the King’s Head in the second circle?” he asked. 

            The child nodded.  “And you are a guest there, the mannikin who stays in the Pheriannath room,” he answered.  “You are better now?  My father said you were very ill when he sent you here.  Of course, I was very ill when they brought me here, too.  But today I get to go home again.  Livril will be quite put out, having to share our parents again, and no longer getting to eat all the dried plums.”

            “Then it appears we will most like go back together.  Well, have a good bathe.”  The boy gave him a wry face--ah, but when had boys ever liked to bathe when directed? Ruvemir thought as he returned to his room.

            He was sitting and drawing when a knock at the door preceded the arrival of the King.  Aragorn son of Arathorn was looking very relaxed and light of heart as he entered and looked down at the study he’d begun in the new book.  “Trying different poses, then?” he asked, and Ruvemir nodded.

            “So far they aren’t much,” he commented.  “I can’t yet think how to show them as a group.  I can see Frodo alone now, and Sam with his flowers, but then I find Merry and Pippin standing on guard, and somehow none fit together.”

            The King nodded.  He looked over Ruvemir’s form carefully.  “Very nice appearance--a distinct improvement from the one I was roused from my bed to attend, you know.”  He fingered the white embroidery on the surcoat.  “Fine work, this, and that on your shirt.  Did the same embroiderer do them?”

            Ruvemir nodded with pride.  “Yes, the work of my sister Miriel.  Our mother was a weaver of tapestries, but Miriel cannot throw the shuttle on any but the narrowest of weavings.  So, she chose to take up embroidery instead.”  The King nodded.  “I had thought to follow our father into carving wooden figures, but then I discovered stone and became enamored of it.  And so it goes.”

            “I see,” the King replied.  “And I now find myself the possessor of one of your father’s works--Prince Imrahil sent me a figure of a singing bird he purchased from Mardil of Lebennin at the fair a few weeks ago--it arrived on the same ship as your sister.  Obviously artistry is part and parcel of your family’s legacy.”  He took the book and set it aside, then proceeded to listen to Ruvemir’s chest, straightening with satisfaction to report it appeared completely clear at last.  He then helped his patient onto the bed and had him lie on his side and lift and move his left leg, sometimes watching and sometimes feeling the movement through the folds of cloth.  He reported heart to be steady and strong, pulse equally so, temperature normal, eyes clear, gums and nails healthy, and generally all well at last in the body of Ruvemir son of Mardil.

            He then helped him down and had him walk up and down the passageway, watching his gait and offering suggestions on how to better use his cane.  Then he announced, “Then after I’ve seen young Benril I will have a cart return both of you to the second circle.”

            “What of the child Ririon, my Lord?”

            “I’m still unsure what will become of him.  I will do a cutting soon on his eyes to try to remove some of the scarred tissue, hoping to return some more of his vision.  But I cannot give him full sight again.  Gimli has suggested that perhaps crystal might be shaped to help focus sight for him, similar to the spying glasses used among the folk of Umbar aboard their ships, or a burning glass, and that is something we will consider, although it will not make all as it should be.  After I examine Benril I will begin the work on Ririon. Arwen has agreed to come to assist, for she has the gifts of our ancestry quite strongly and can soothe the fears of many.”

            “We heard the singing yesterday as the Queen reentered the upper city.  You yourself have quite a gift in your voice.” 

            The King smiled at the compliment.  “It is very easy for me to sing when I see my beloved Arwen approaching me, I find.”

 *******

            An hour later Benril and he, both wrapped warmly in new cloaks gifted to them by the King, were brought out into the gardens before the Houses of Healing, and led to a waiting low pony cart and assisted into it.  The carter turned the pony’s head, and with a wave toward those of the healers who crowded the doorway, they set off on the way.  They passed the Healer Ioreth on her way to the Houses, and she called out blessings on them that they had recovered so well, and advice to not try to resume full activity too quickly, and they blew her kisses and called out their thanks.  They enjoyed the ride back down to the second circle, talking the whole way about what activities they’d enjoyed during the summers when younger, and Ruvemir was amused to see that Benril truly saw himself as worldly wise at the venerable age of twelve.  Waiting for them at the gate to the third circle were Miriel and Benril’s sister and parents, and these walked alongside the cart as they made their way slowly to the door of the King’s Head.  Throughout this last stage Benril was talking quite fast to his parents, intent on convincing them to allow Ririon to come stay at the King’s Head once he was released from the Houses.  Miriel held her brother’s hand as they progressed, and smiled at the boy across Ruvemir’s lap. 

            “Ririon is a dear child,” she said as they came at last into the gate to the inn.  Seeing his look of inquiry she added, “I talked to both boys quite a while yesterday while you were sleeping, you know.  He is devastated--he loved to carve and now fears he will no longer be able to do any such work.  He gave me a carving he’d done not long before he became ill, and it is quite good.  I’ll show you when we go inside.”

            Ruvemir was surprised when the dark-haired Elf came forward to assist him out of the cart.  Once he was standing and his cane and the bundle containing robe, sketch booklets, and drawing instruments were handed to him, the Elf bowed deeply.  “It is an honor to see you looking so well, Master Sculptor,” he said in his clear voice.  “Tharen Thranduilion at your service.  My brother Legolas tells me you are quite talented, and it is an honor to meet the one who has immortalized the Captain Thorongil in Casistir, a work we are assured is marvelous to behold.”

            Ruvemir bowed in return, his surprise deepened to learn that a Prince labored here in the garden of an inn in the capital of Gondor.  But at that moment another form rose from further up the garden, and came forward to show that not one but two Princes were so employed this day.  Legolas smiled and bowed, and commented, “I see you are already familiar with my brother.”  Seeing the artist’s expression he added, “We of the Woodland Realm have vowed to make this a city of life once again.  Too many houses were empty; too few trees grew in the courtyards of the city; too few birds sang and brought joy to the hearts of those who live here or visit.  It is little enough we do to leave those who will rule the world after our going with the hope of beauty.

            “Oh, and I bring word from Gimli, that he hopes you will come down to the work sheds before the city and look on the gates before they are set into place.  It is hoped they will be raised in three weeks.”

            “Thank you both,” Ruvemir said in return.  With a nod of dismissal, both Elves turned away, speaking together in their own Sylvan tongue as they headed back where Legolas had knelt, already consulting on the state of the plants they’d placed.

 *******

            The fire was lit in his room, and flowers stood on the table and the stand between the two beds.  He removed his new cloak and took it to the wardrobe to hang it there, and found his old one, clean and renewed, hung there already, along with the rest of the clothing he’d worn the day of his ride, which Elise had taken to be cleaned.  Even his riding boots were cleaned and dried, and almost as supple as they’d been before.

            A tap from Elise, and she entered carrying the tray of seed cakes and tea, accompanied by a tureen and a pair of bowls and spoons as well as the mugs.  “Mardi Cook has sent you the other dish recommended by the Ernil i Pheriannath, a dish of mushrooms prepared in a stew.”  Ruvemir, remembering the words of Strider, laughed and bowed her out.

            As he stowed his full sketch booklet away, he checked to see that all was there, and found all except the folder brought him by Lasgon.  Had the page returned to retrieve it?  He doubted it, for he did not believe that Elise, at least, would allow the removal of any of his own things except for his sketch booklets and drawing case, and then only if they were being taken to him.  He tried to remember when he’d last seen the folder--then remembered his hip failing as he’d stood to put it in the desk....

            He crouched down gingerly and looked into the recess under the drawers of the desk, and saw it there, one of the pictures, at least, part way slid out of its protective covers.  He could not reach it with his hands, and then thought of the cane.

            “Whatever are you doing?” asked Miriel as she saw him rising to get his cane, then returning to the desk and crouching down once more.

            “Just watch,” he said, and in a moment had used the tip of the cane to carefully ease the folder out from under the desk.  Checking to see the contents had taken no hurt, he brought it to the table and carefully laid out each picture. 

            Miriel looked at them with awe.  “These are not your work,” she said. 

            He shook his head.  “No, they are the work of the Pherian Frodo.  They appear to be all of those who traveled with him, and the creature Gollum who apparently started the whole thing by taking the Ring into the Misty Mountains.”  He gestured as he named each one.  “Sir Meriadoc, also known as Merry, cousin to the Pherian Frodo and Knight of Rohan, Swordthain to their King.  Captain Peregrin, also known as Pippin, the Ernil i Pheriannath, and cousin to both Sir Meriadoc and the Pherian Frodo.  He is a member of the Guard of the Citadel and stands before the King’s throne.  Master Samwise Gamgee, friend and gardener to the Pherian Frodo, usually thought to be his esquire.  Lord Sam is known as the guardian of his beloved friend, and was named by him as his heir.  Our Lord King Elessar dressed as a Ranger of Eriador, as apparently he was first seen by the Halflings.  In the place where they first met he was called ‘Strider.’  The Elf Legolas, one of the Princes of the Forest of Green Leaves--he and his brother were out front when we arrived.  Gimli son of Gloin, a Dwarf of Erebor.  Mithrandir, or Gandalf, as they apparently call him in Arnor.  The Lord Boromir son of Denethor, Captain of Gondor and the heir of his father as Steward of Gondor until he died during their journey.  The Pherian Frodo’s elderly cousin, Bilbo Baggins, who found the Ring in the caverns of the Misty Mountains--I still do not know the entire story.  He apparently carried the Ring for some years before Mithrandir convinced him to give it to Frodo, before any were certain what it was.  And the creature Gollum, who apparently carried the Ring from where it was lost in the River Anduin where the High King Isildur was killed into the mountains.”  He set out the other two pictures.  “The home of the Pherian Frodo, and our Queen Arwen.”

            “But none of the Pherian Frodo himself.”

            “No.”

            She examined them closely.  “So, this is the Queen,” she commented.  “She is very beautiful.”  He nodded in agreement.  “And, was this his home?  How odd, to dig a home into a hillside!”  Again he nodded.  “I can tell the kinds even of the flowers,” she continued.  “He was a marvelous artist.” 

            He smiled, retrieved his old sketchbook and opened it to the picture of Strider seated on the block of stone and laid it beside the other.  She compared the two.  “This is embarrassing for you, my brother, for he was plainly the better artist.”

            Again he nodded, responding, “With charcoal or pencil, at least.  I have no indication he ever tried sculpture.”

            “Also, he was drawing from subjects which he knew himself, while you draw often from the memories of others.”

            He smiled, and then said, “Wait,” and turned to his best study of the Captain Thorongil that he’d used in planning his sculpture of Casistir.  “Look at it closely, Miriel.  Do you think you have it?  All right, now look at this.”  And he turned to the picture of the King Elessar as he’d sat by his bed in the Houses of Healing. 

            She looked at it with puzzlement, then looked up at him.  “It is the King, is it not?”

            He turned back to Captain Thorongil.  “I did this from the memories of those who remember Captain Thorongil when he led the assault on Umbar.  I’d never seen either Strider nor the King at that time.”  She looked again, then looked up with shock.  He smiled.  “He is of almost pure Númenorean blood, it appears.  He told me his is ninety-two years old.  You are right about my personal gift.  But even now I am still not the match for the Pherian Frodo with a subject he knows and cares about.” 

            He went back to the drawer and retrieved the sketches and work of the artists who’d done pictures of Frodo in Minas Anor and laid them out, then turned to his own drawings.  “I’ve tried to portray him, but am still not sure that I fully can picture him.  He sounds to have been very quiet, and certain he did not merit the praise he received.  His kin cared deeply for him and always sought to protect him, from what I’ve been told.  He also was very much one given to protecting, I’ve learned.  He had terrible nightmares after his ordeal, as did all of the Pheriannath, and when they had their nightmares he would soothe them, and when he had his they would come to his comfort in return.  And there are stories told here in Minas Anor of his moving to protect others that are marvelous.

            “The King wishes to send me to Eriador, possibly to the land of the Halflings themselves, to continue my research by speaking to his kin and his friends.  And he’d like you to accompany me, it appears.

            “What do you think, sister mine?  Would you like to go on a journey to the north?”

            “Now, with winter coming on?  And how would we go--by pony or ship?”

            He shrugged.  “I don’t know.  No definite plans have been made.  But it should prove interesting at the very least, should it not?”  And all she could do was nod.  With a nod of his own he returned the pictures each to its appropriate folder, carefully stored them away in the drawer, and then began to demonstrate how tea is served in the Shire.

 *******

            After they’d eaten, Miriel took out some of the embroidery she’d brought with her, and Ruvemir first wrote a letter to their father to tell him of his return to health, that he might be sent north into Arnor as part of his current commission, and that Miriel stayed by him to assist with the continuing recovery of his hip; then began working on a new idea of what kind of grouping to do.  Finally they put their work away and headed for the Common Room for the noon meal, and afterwards went for a walk, sending Ruvemir’s letter off to Lebennin and exploring the second circle.  Miriel was drawn to the window of the shop where he’d purchased the cord animals, and went in to examine some fine ribbands and threads, some of which he purchased for her.  They then went through the gate to the booksellers, and spent a happy hour looking through the shelves, until she found a book on embroidery which must have sat on someone’s shelf for a very long time before coming here.  This Ruvemir purchased for her, and  he found himself examining a collection of the tales of the Rohirrim, and bought it for himself, remembering Elfhelm’s comment that they’d had stories of the Holbytla and had been amazed to see there were really such in the world.  Returning to their rooms in the King’s Head, Ruvemir found himself tired, and indicated he was going to rest for a time.  She nodded, helped him remove his shoes, then covered him gently and left him to it, indicating she wished to go out and look at the gardens.  Setting a half cup of water by his head, she drew the curtains and left the room in quiet, and he smiled to remember the first time he truly slept here while his mind was teasing out the meaning behind the hints he’d received about the identity of his mysterious patron.  He remembered asking, “And does the King agree with this project?” and the ironic reply, “It is his will.”  And laughing softly to himself he finally slept.

 *******

            He awoke and found it was sunset.  Miriel sat with one of the lamps lit, working on her embroidery, humming under her breath as she always did.  He found it peaceful and pleasant, having his sister there with him.  He sat up and reached for his cup on the stand, and drank the water there, smiling as he watched her concentration.  Finally she appeared to have the section finished she was currently working on, then tying off a knot she set the work on the table and stretched, and smiled over at him.

            “I didn’t think to ask as yet,” he said, “but what in the letter the King sent made you decide to come to Minas Anor?”

            “May have had something to do with ‘Master Sculptor Ruvemir is very seriously ill with the lung fever and close to the point of death, and has been in terrible pain with a dislocated hip,’ don’t you think?”  She rose and approached the bed.  “I must say I’d have thought the reports were exaggerated if I’d first seen you today instead of yesterday.  Apparently you took your time deciding to recover, but once having made up your mind you made rapid progress.”  She looked him over critically.  “You do look decidedly better, you know.  Although you are very thin for you.”

            Stretching and laughing, he rose, and winced as there was a decided twinge from the hip.  He sat back down and looked at it.  “I suppose I’d better do the exercises.  Last thing I need would be for it to slip out again.”  He lay down on his side, and together they went through the exercises prescribed by the King and the healers, and when they were through Miriel brought him another cup of water.

            “Thanks,” he said, and drank it gladly.  He rose, tried stretching again, and asked if she was ready for the evening meal.  In a few minutes they were headed for the common room, and took a table near one of the windows that looked across the Pelennor.  He described the ride out to see where the beast had been burnt and King Théoden’s horse had been buried, about the fall when the pony shied as he tried to mount, and the bolting when the lightning seemed to be right above them.  She listened, and shook her head as he described being soaked the second time when the rain began again as he walked through the first circle, and how these had led to his illness.  She told him about the projects she’d recently finished and the prices they’d brought, and how she was looking for a new project to start, and about the relatively simple embroidery she was doing at the moment.  He smiled, realizing that “simple embroidery” for her would be seen as complex by anyone else.  They finished their dinner, looked out at the clear night, and talked a while longer, then paid for their meal, and after on a whim purchasing a bottle of wine, headed back to their room.

            Elise had lit the lamps for them and stoked the fire, and left clean goblets and a tray of small cakes in case they should require refreshment later--or so her note indicated; and Ruvemir found himself wishing he’d been present when she’d been there.  They were both reading when there was a knock at the door, and Ruvemir opened it to find four cloaked shapes standing there.  The tallest asked, “Do you have room to hide four refugees from protocol?”, and Ruvemir found himself bowing the King and his three companions into the room.

            Miriel had risen, and was looking up with surprise when the King removed his hood, as did quickly Elf, Dwarf, and the fourth.  The picture done by the Pherian Frodo had prepared them both for the beauty of the Queen, but even it had failed to convey fully the quiet and joy she radiated.  Both Ruvemir and Miriel felt quite overwhelmed and sought to do proper reverence and were stopped with gentle laughter.

            “No,” she said, “this night we are only your guests, and glad of it.  It appears the entire Citadel has decided to wind me about with silken gauze to honor the fact I bear the King’s child, and I could bear it no longer.  And so Estel suggested we come down and negotiate the fees for the commission, which he informs me have yet to be settled.”  Ruvemir nodded, and looked at the totally inadequate lack of chairs, and both the Queen and King laughed.  Legolas removed cushions from the other two chairs about the table and threw them casually to the floor, and quickly he, the King, and Lady Arwen made themselves comfortable, while Gimli lounged in one of the now cushionless frames.  Miriel took their cloaks and set them on her bed, and the Lord Elessar set on the table a second bottle of wine to bear company to the one they themselves had purchased earlier.  Noting the lack of sufficient drinking vessels, Ruvemir rang the bell, and then stood outside the door waiting for it to be answered.

            Elise appeared surprised to find him in the passageway, until he explained, “We have unexpected guests.  May I get a pitcher of ale, about six goblets, some fruit appropriate to be eaten with fingers, perhaps some nuts if they are available, and....” He thought for a moment.  “A pitcher of cider--my sister drinks very little, and bread and butter.  Oh, and when will you be relieved from duty?”

            “In an hour’s time.  Why?”

            “I’d enjoy it if you were to join us.”

            “Beneldil does not wish for us to visit with our guests in their rooms, for it is not seemly...but, your sister will be there, will she not?  She could serve as chaperone, I suppose.”

            Ruvemir laughed.  “Chaperone?  Oh, believe me, we will be most royally chaperoned!”  And laughing, he slipped back into the room.

            Shortly later Legolas answered the knock at the door and, smiling, took the tray from Elise, who was surprised to see such a notable personage in a guest’s room; and when she finally was released from duty she went up to the upper floor and slipped down the back stair, approaching the room from the opposite direction, then tapped quietly at the door.  Ruvemir opened it, and smiling his welcome, admitted her.  Quickly she took note of who was there--Ruvemir, his sister, a man and woman reclining on cushions near the fireplace, the Dwarf who was friend to the King, the Elf who was friend to the King--and her eyes suddenly were drawn back to those who reclined by the fireplace.  Actually the man was seated on one cushion, and the woman was reclining, her head in his lap, smiling up into his face, and he was quite handsome and obviously much in love with the woman...and he was the King.  And she...she was the Queen.  Ruvemir took hold of her elbow, and looked with concern up into her face.  The Elf rose quickly from where he’d been sitting also on a cushion and came to place his hands on her shoulders, concern and amusement both reflected on his face.  Both King and Queen looked at her with concern also, and Ruvemir’s sister looked as if she were dying to laugh out loud.

            “Elise, are you all right?” Ruvemir was saying, and the Dwarf poured a small amount of wine into a goblet and handed it to the Elf, who pressed it into her hand and suggested she drink it.  She did, then allowed herself to be shown to the empty low chair and sat in it, feeling confused and even a bit frightened, though she could not think what she had to be frightened of.  And the King, the King himself now bent over her and suggested she put her head down between her knees and breathe slowly and deeply.

            When the giddiness passed she felt very foolish, and gently they all withdrew except for Ruvemir, who still was hovering over her anxiously as she straightened.  Only when she nodded did he finally step back and sit in the chair next to hers, his hands clasped across his chest, still watching her with worry.

            “I’m sorry, Elise--but I couldn’t have told you who they were ahead of time--you do understand, don’t you?”

            She nodded, then as she began to see the humor in the situation she began to laugh helplessly.  “Well,” she finally got out, “you did warn me we would be royally chaperoned, didn’t you?”  And she was rewarded by his laughter in return, his and that of the rest of the party.

 *******

            An odder party probably never took place in a guest’s room anywhere within the city.  Elise, Miriel, and the Queen drank mostly cider while the King, his friends, and Ruvemir enjoyed the wine and each other’s company.  No one seemed inclined to get drunk, but laughter was frequently heard, and now and then song--not the raucous songs which were usually heard at such affairs, but ones that moved the hearts of the listeners to joy.  The Lady Arwen described her visit in Ithilien in the house of the Steward, and the Lord Elessar told of the shock of seeing himself depicted in stone before the facade of the new Hall in Casistir, and his own enjoyment at slowly revealing his former identity to the Prince of Dol Amroth and the Master, and at approaching Ruvemir in the guise of Strider.  Ruvemir found himself in sympathy with his Lord Imrahil, and when he admitted this all laughed.

            “I must admit,” the King commented, “sometimes it is pleasant to be able to be unknown--if only for a time.”  He was again on the cushions with his wife, and his hand rested on her belly, both smiling as they felt the stirring of the life within her.  “To be forced to be always the Lord Elessar Telcontar and to be always on display and to be expected to be all proper each moment becomes tiresome at times.  There are days when I long to be Strider again and to pass little noted through the wild, or to be the more simple Estel of my youth, deferring to Adar.”  And a brief shadow of sadness fell over the faces of both husband and wife.  Finally he smiled into her eyes.   “And I tell you, my love--this one will not be a son, but a lovely daughter, a daughter to make the stars sing.”

            “And will she be Queen after you?” she asked.

            He shook her head.  “Ah, no, for such will not be her desire.  She will marry when she is assured she has found the right man, but she will leave the Crown to her brother, and she will pity his confinement.”  Both laughed gently.

            Ruvemir asked, “Is it good to have the epidemic of pox finally over?”

            Aragorn tipped his head back.  “Oh, very good indeed.  I hope only we will not have a spate of ague, colds, and lung sickness to follow it.  So far we’ve had two, you and one other, a former soldier who took a spear to the chest on the Pelennor and whose lungs have been weak since.”

            Miriel asked, “And what of the boy Ririon?  How does he fare?”

            The King sighed.  “I think he does well enough, and he will most likely have more useful vision as he recovers from the cleaning I gave of the front of his eyes today.  But it can never be as it was before, and it is always possible that now that the tissue has been damaged it may become more unclear in time.  Such, I am told, is indeed fairly common for those whose eyes have been compromised.  But I know they will not want him back at the Dragon’s Claw, and I seek to find a position in which to put him.”

            “Benril hopes to convince his parents to allow his friend to live with them here at the King’s Head,” Ruvemir said.  “He was trying to convince them as we arrived here earlier in the day.”

            “The worst he will face,” Aragorn commented, “will be the expectations by others that he is and will be helpless.  I have seen such before, and suspect that you two,” with a glance at Ruvemir and his sister, “have a full appreciation for how it is generally expressed.  Yet he is not without skills--he was beginning to learn to cook, and his ability to carve wood was impressive.”

            “Oh, I know,” Miriel said.  “He gave me a bird he carved before he grew ill.  I’d not yet had the chance to show it to Ruvemir.”  She rose and went to the chest and opened a drawer, and drew forth a figure that she brought to her brother.  He examined it with surprise, for it was very finely done, particularly for a boy of his age. 

            “Very good indeed,” he commented.  “He has even caught the separate fibers of the feathers.  Perhaps we should see about apprenticing him to our father--he’s not taken on a pupil for many years.”  He passed the figure to Elise, who then rose and carried it to the King.    Lord and Lady each examined it, then passed it to Legolas, who nodded in appreciation and handed it to Gimli, who pursed his lips in approval of the workmanship.

            “Good carving,” the Dwarf acknowledged.  “Excellent eye.”  He slid it back across the table to Miriel, who smiled as she took it and stowed it safely away again in her drawer.

            Ruvemir considered.  “Does he have any other family, my Lord?”

            Aragorn shook his head.  “No, none that anyone is aware of.  His mother served at the Dragon’s Claw in return for room and board and a small salary, and since her death he has served as pot boy there.”

            “Then,” Ruvemir realized, “he was the one the Pherian Frodo interceded for.”

            King and Queen both became interested.  “I’d not heard of such an incident,” he commented.  “Tell me.”

            Elise explained about the day when Lord Éomer left, and how Frodo had come to stop the abuse of the boy, found out the truth of the matter, and sent the boy into the kitchen to do things the proper way, then instructed the cook as to how he ought to have handled the situation.  Ruvemir noted the looks of recognition exchanged by the King and his companions, and the nod given by the Queen.

            “Yes,” Aragorn commented.  “They went up into the city before I did, for I rode out alongside the Rohirrim to the line of the Rammas Echor.  He never told me, nor did the others.  But even that is part of his nature.”  He looked down in memory.  “Sam told me once, when we were together on the quest, that his Master could not abide to see those who are helpless abused, and particularly not children or beasts.”

            The Lady Arwen sat up and looked appraisingly at Miriel and Ruvemir.  “Do you think your father would take the boy as an apprentice?”

            “No reason why not,” said Ruvemir.  “One does not need to see to carve.  It is easier if you see, but not necessary.  I often rely as much on my sense of touch as on my vision, particularly when smoothing.”

            Miriel was beginning to become excited.  “He said that he loved to carve, and that this led to his being considered lazy by the folk of the inn, for he would lose himself in his carving and forget about what he was supposed to be doing.

            “We could take him, don’t you think, Brother?  You could begin to teach him the basics on our journey, and he could be company for both of us.  And you certainly don’t need to see to cook or clean--I could help him learn some skills there.  Remember Taurielen, Ruvemir?  She it was who taught me how to cook--certainly our mother never did such.”

            “Our neighbor when we were young.  She and her husband were assaulted once by thieves, and once they’d taken all they had, the thieves struck them both and left them by the road for dead.  Taurielen survived, but at the cost of much of her vision.  She began to devise different ways to do what she needed to do on her own as her vision deteriorated, and in the end became our cook, for our mother was helpless in a kitchen.”

            “She was an excellent cook, and taught me to feel the meat and to smell the broth and to listen to the eggs to tell when they were ready.  If Ririon has useful vision, he should be able to do quite well, I would think.”

            The King smiled.  “Well, if you would agree to take him on and to bring him to your father for apprenticeship, that would be one more problem facing the realm solved.”  He stretched.  “It is strange, but often such small things take far more thought than what one would think would be more important to the land, such as dealing with the folk of Umbar.  Yet I dealt with that situation easily enough.”

            Legolas laughed.  “Easily enough?  You had the faces of all the embassy white with terror.  And the one who led it--his was whitest of all!  I don’t think they will look to do Gondor and Arnor any harm in the near future.”

            The Lady Arwen smiled at Ruvemir.  “It is often the small matters which need the most delicate and thoughtful touch.  And it does me good to think of the child well placed, and I think he will do well with you, and well by you, given the chance.”  She leaned against her husband with pleasure.  “Ah, my love, it is so good to be back at your side again.” 

            He put his arm about her, smiling.  “No more so than to have you here, Beloved.”  He looked at Ruvemir.  “Which brings us back to the purported purpose of our visit--settling your commission.  Shall we begin to haggle?”

            And all laughed, and then the bargaining began.

A Family Formed

            The next day Ruvemir walked down to the gates to look at the progress done, guided by Gimli and his father Gloin, who’d done much of the forgework involved.  The figures on the gates, he learned, were taken from detailed, full-sized drawings from the city archives of the original figures, with a figure of Anárion on the left leaf and Isildur on the right, each flanked by wife and oldest son.  The figure of Elendil that had crowned the gate had been damaged but not destroyed, and as much as possible the Dwarves had incorporated the damaged material in the new design, covering the reconstruction with mithril foil.  The gates were of steel sheathed in mithril, paneled to allow for the placement of the figures, which were held on with steel rods.  The axis for each leaf was carefully wrought, and the counterbalance was so skillfully designed into the outer margins of the leaves few would be able to detect how it was that a single hand would be able to push them open or closed as needed.  A younger Dwarf named Dorlin son of Dwalin was introduced to the sculptor, and Ruvemir learned this was the one who had done most of the reconstruction and sculpting for the figures.  He showed Ruvemir the copies made of the original drawings, showed him what had been salvaged from the original gates, which was little enough.  It was good to use the vocabulary of his own calling with another who understood it and was equally devoted to it, he found, and to have another appreciate his compliments on his skill.

            On the second day of the week Ruvemir and Miriel dressed carefully, and taking his sketch booklets in hand Ruvemir led the way out to wait for the cart being sent to take them up to the citadel.  Many of the household, who’d learned that their guest was to sculpt the memorial for the Pheriannath who’d done so much against the Enemy in the war, came out to wish them well and bask in the glow of reflected glory.  And when, before he left, the mannikin sculptor gave the order a pallet be provided for a third guest in their quarters, all wondered at what it could mean, but none questioned the rightness of it, for it had turned out the King’s own companions had visited him regarding the commission he was to officially receive this day.  The King’s favor clearly rested here, all agreed, and Evren told the others that she’d seen his depiction of the Ernil i Pheriannath himself and that it was a wonderful likeness, while Elise simply smiled and held her peace.

            The first look at the Citadel was impressive, and the second one more so.  He quickly saw how the sculptors of the city had come to their extraordinarily formal style--when it was reflected in the gates and the ancient doors of the Citadel and almost all of the monumental work he’d passed, what else could be expected?  Well, his monument would be impressive as well, but it would be more lifelike, he vowed, and truly show the viewer the faces and hearts of its subjects, to the best of his ability.

            They were allowed into the throne room with honor, and were shown to places at the front of the crowd drawn for the public audience.  The King in rich black velvet and a white mantle sat upon his high throne holding the scepter of Annúminas and wearing the Winged Crown, and his Queen stood beside him, her left hand on his shoulder.  Seated in the plain black chair at the foot of the steps sat Prince Faramir himself, his rod of office across his lap, beside him the Lady Éowyn, her right hand on his shoulder.  When Faramir stood to announce the start of the audience all bowed low with a respect that, Ruvemir knew, had been earned by those before him.

            The matter of the commission came early enough, and Ruvemir and his sister were called forward in their turn.  Before the assembly Ruvemir’s Mastership in his profession was proclaimed, and the evidence of it as reflected in the marvelous sculpting of the Captain Thorongil for the new Hall of Casistir told forth by the King himself.  That the King had known Thorongil enough to know his visage was news to most of those present, and Ruvemir noted the King did not feel called upon to let it be known that he himself had been that worthy officer, and held his peace; and he noted in a quick glance at his sister that she was suppressing her smile with some difficulty.  The agreed upon fee was made part of the public record, along with the news this came from the King’s own monies, as his own gift to the City.  Then came the news that Master Ruvemir was to be sent north into Eriador in Arnor to meet directly with the remaining Pheriannath so that his work would be more in keeping with their actual seeming, and all present appeared pleased.

            Then the Lord Faramir called for Ririon son of the woman Damsen to be brought forth, and the Healer Ioreth and the young healer Ruvemir himself had liked so came forth with the boy.  He was neatly and soberly dressed, and carried something in his hand, all noted.  All wondered what this was about, and noted the two mannikins had not yet been dismissed.  Now the King turned his attention to the boy, and asked him to explain his situation to the assembly.

            “I am without father or mother, my Lord,” the boy said simply.  “My father was slain before my birth in Osgiliath, for he was one of those who served the troupes stationed there.  Orcs slew him, I am told.  My mother took service at the Dragon’s Claw, and since her death they have kept me there and given me service to do in return, and have been mostly caring of me.  But when the pox laid its blisters on my eyes my sight was damaged, and now I cannot see how I can do that work any more.”  And Ruvemir heard the sighs of sympathy for the youth.

            “I am told you developed another skill as you grew.  Will you tell me about it?”

            “I loved to carve, sir.  Whenever I had time to myself I would carve figures of animals and birds, or simply shapes, or babies.  But now I do not see how I can do that, either.  But I brought you a gift, my Lord, if you will receive it.”

            All watched as the King rose and came down the steps to the foot of the dais, and called the boy forward.  “I am the tall figure in black with a white mantle.  Can you see that?”

            Ririon nodded, and slowly stepped forward until he stood before the King, and held out his hand.  The King accepted the offering and murmured his thanks, then examined it with critical care, a smile gracing his face.  He then held it out for his Steward to examine, who took it graciously and had a surprised smile on his face as he turned it in his hands. He passed it to his wife, who smiled openly with delight. 

            “How beautiful!” she said, audible to all, before she passed it back and it was returned to the King, who smiled to receive it.

            The Lord Elessar raised his head to speak to the assembly.  “What I hold in my hand is a carving in wood done by this boy, a figure of a carp.  It is marvelously detailed, each scale complete.”  He looked back to the boy.  “I do not know if you realize just how much of a gift you bear, Ririon, but it is such I would like to see it developed more fully.  Master Ruvemir here is himself a Master Sculptor, as you heard earlier.”  The boy nodded.  “And there is more:  his father, Mardil of Lebennin, is a Master Woodcarver of much note in the Southlands.  It is our wish that you, if the idea pleases you, should be apprenticed to him, and learn to fulfill your gift.”

            The boy looked stunned while the rest of the assembly whispered to one another.  The King raised his hand, and all grew quiet.  He addressed Ruvemir.  “Do you agree that the boy’s damaged vision should not offer an impairment to the development of his gift?”

            Ruvemir answered proudly, “I agree, my Lord King.  His ability to use what sight he has will aid him, to be certain; but in the end his sense of touch, properly trained, can aid his artistry.”

            “Then will you accept this child in trust, and will you agree to treat him with the honor and respect you would give a child of your own body, and aid your father to teach him to develop his gift for the glory of our land and in thanksgiving to the Valar for his being?”

            “My sister and I will do so with honor, my Lord King.”  And he bowed, and Miriel curtsied deeply.

            The King then went down onto one knee, and addressed the boy directly.  “Ririon, you have had little chance to come to know these, except for the meetings you had when you were in the Houses of Healing.  Will you accept them as your guardians and teachers, and honor them for the teaching they give you, and serve them as a child should serve those who care for it and nurture it?”

            The boy lifted his head.  “They really want me?” he asked.

            The King answered gently, “Yes, Ririon, they truly want you.”

            Standing straighter, the boy replied, “Then I will gladly go to them.” 

            Smiling the King rose, and taking the boy he brought them to the two others who stood there, and gave the boy’s hand into Ruvemir’s.  “Then rejoice, for a place worthy of your gift and needs has been found,” he said.  And he held forth the figure he’d received, and both Miriel and Ruvemir saw how beautiful it was and nodded with pleasure.

            The King then mounted his throne and gave the figure into the hands of his wife, whose smile of appreciation could be clearly seen by all.  He then ordered that a formal writ of apprenticeship be made out binding the child to the teaching of Ruvemir son of Mardil of Lebennin and to Mardil of Lebennin, both Masters in their crafts, with the proviso that when the boy was fifteen he could, if he chose, leave and find a different apprenticeship if he preferred.  Also, officials were to go to the Dragon’s Claw to obtain the boy’s personal possessions and all such figures as he’d not gifted to others to provide for him.  An allowance of seven gold pieces was to be provided to allow the boy to be dressed appropriately for his new station and for his apprenticeship fees.  And it was done.

            The three stepped back thankfully into the obscurity of the assembly as the King made his next announcement.

            “I am sending out to the guilds throughout the city and the country for artisans of the realm to come to the city of Minas Anor to work alongside the Elves and Dwarves who have gifted us with so much in the reconstruction of the capital.  It has been brought to my attention that when all is done for one by others, often the gifts, no matter how worthily received and freely given, are often little appreciated.  And so our own people, that they realize how much of the work done so far has been offered through the deep friendships forged between the Men of Gondor, the Elves of the Woodland Realm, and the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain during our mutual fight against the Enemy of all free peoples, need to work alongside them, and learn of them such skills as they are willing to share while it is still possible.” 

            Ruvemir noted the murmuring he heard was almost universally indicative of approval for the King’s wisdom, and nodded his agreement.  And noting Gimli and Legolas standing nearby with many of their own folk, he saw they smiled and nodded as well.

            After all was over at last, Ruvemir, Miriel, and Ririon were drawn out of the crowd by a servant of the King and led to a private chamber where chairs appropriate to their stature had been set ready for them.  Soon after the Lord Faramir entered accompanied by his Lady, and then several among the Dwarves and Elves who’d attended to audience, two of the Guild Masters of the city, and finally the King and Queen.  Arwen sank gratefully and gracefully onto a couch, and received a drink poured for her by her husband, and all at the King’s gesture sat as the King again sat with his wife’s head lying against his shoulder.  Among the Dwarves who attended now upon the Lord Elessar and his wife was Dorlin son of Dwalin, and now the King was speaking directly to him about what he would do now that he’d finished the figures for the gates.

            “I plan to go back to my own lands soon, King Elessar, for the winter at least.  I will stay in the Blue Mountains with my mother’s people for a time.”

            “Would you be willing to take these with you on your journey, at least as far as Bree?” the King asked, indicating Ruvemir, Miriel, and Ririon.  “I will provide a small carriage, funds for lodging where appropriate, tents and supplies for those days when you are in places in the Wild where there is not appropriate lodging, and five ponies, two of which will be my gift to you in appreciation for your assistance.”

            The Dwarf smiled.  “For the sake of Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee, both of whom I honor deeply in their own right, I would do this as my own gift, Lord.  But I will not spurn the gifts of funds for lodging and the supplies, nor the gift of one pony.  But I have no need of two such beasts, nor place to house a second.”  And all nodded.  And it was settled that they would start for the North as soon as the gates were raised.

            The guild masters looked at the drawings Ruvemir had done so far, and spoke of possible groupings for the Pheriannath; and the figure of the singing bird done by Ruvemir’s father was brought out and compared to the figure of the small fish, and all agreed the boy had a gift which should not be ignored.  After eating some cakes and wine with the King and his other guests, the guild masters took their leave, and finally freed of the need to be formal, the King doffed his crown and set it and his scepter into the hands of the Lord Hardorn for appropriate disposal, and asked the rest to relax and enjoy being guests in the house of himself and his wife.

            Several hours later, after the King took Ruvemir into an inner chamber and helped him with his exercises and evaluated his gait before returning to the party, a page entered to say that the cart for the guests had arrived, and with reluctance Aragorn and Arwen bade Ruvemir, Miriel, and Ririon goodbye.  The boy, still dazed somewhat at his change in fortunes, went with them out of the Citadel and to the waiting cart, and they started back down to the second circle.  Benril and his sister were together in the front court when the cart arrived, and were amazed when they saw Ririon with the inn’s guests.  When he learned the new status for his friend, Benril’s cheer brought out his father to check out the situation.

            The next few weeks were a blur of preparation.  Ruvemir sent a message to Lasgon to let him know he was ready to return his pictures, and that evening the page arrived and gladly accepted them back, and congratulated Ririon on his new situation.  Ririon was fitted for new clothing and boots and a new cloak, and he was delighted when he was asked to accompany the King’s officials to retrieve his possessions from the Dragon’s Claw.  An hour later he returned quite happy and showed them with delight the gifts made him by those who’d known him at the other inn, including a set of cooking utensils from Evamir Cook and a sack of coin the innkeeper said had been the remains of his mother’s earnings and his own earnings, which had been kept against the day he would be ready to make his own way in the world.  And when the Dwarf Gimli came with a gift of wood carving tools sent by Dorlin son of Dwalin for the boy, he was quite overwhelmed.  Never had he had so much that was his alone.

            A surprise for Ruvemir was when a shoemaker arrived at the door and explained he had been commissioned to provide both Ruvemir and Miriel with shoes that might ease their gait.  He had them stand and measured their hips from the ground with and without shoes, and then did examinations and tracings of their feet.  After asking them for preferences in materials and colors, even providing samples of the leathers he had available, he nodded and said he would be back in three days time with something to try.

            When he returned it was with samples of a type of design he said should aid them to walk with better comfort.  The resulting shoes with the higher sole and heel on one seemed awkward at first, but Ruvemir noted that it was less a pull on his left hip now that both were on the same level.  The shoemaker then took castings of their feet and left again, promising to have the finished shoes to them by the end of the month at the latest, although he returned with them within a week, pleased to provide them with three sets of footwear each, all with the lifted heel and sole on one side, and all made specifically for their own feet.  Miriel seemed overwhelmed with the effect of the new footwear, and although she disliked the way they looked so different from normal wear, she had to admit that once she got used to them she ought to be able to walk more comfortably.  And she had to admit the shoemaker had done his best to accommodate her own tastes.

            A few days before they were to leave the Lady Éowyn came to the inn to speak with Miriel, and took her out into the city for the day.  Left to the company of one another, Ruvemir and Ririon went down to see the Dwarves, who showed them the finished leaves and indicated they would be set into place on the morrow, indicating the special jacks used to lift the arch sufficiently to allow the gates to be lifted.  Ririon was thrilled to be allowed to handle everything and to see how all were set into place, and looked at the special levers and tools on hand to use in the lifting of the gates with awe.  When Gloin showed him his forge, now almost ready to be packed to be taken up into the city where it had been gifted to a swordsmith to the realm, he was delighted, examining all with eagerness, working the bellows and trying to heft the hammers.  Ruvemir tried their heft as well, and came away from the experience with a new appreciation for the strength given to the Dwarves. 

            As they were turning to head back up to the second level, one of the Dwarves who were working on the walls came forward with a gift for Ruvemir--several small blocks of soapstone.  “I understand from Dorlin,” he said, “that you will be traveling north with him to the Shire, the land of the Hobbits.  As you will be riding for several weeks, I thought you might appreciate something to practice your skills on--perhaps work on a model of your final project with.  Or, if the young man is to learn to appreciate stone, perhaps you can start him with this.” 

            Ruvemir was overwhelmed by the gift, and thanked him profusely.  Gimli offered to carry the load back to their lodgings for them, and so they walked back up through the first circle together to the second gate.  As they walked Ruvemir asked the name of the one who’d given the gift and what his interests were, and they spoke of the Shire and what its inhabitants were like.

            “Not much interest in what goes on outside its borders,” Gimli grunted, “except for an odd few such as Bilbo or Frodo Baggins.  Although that will change--once young Pippin becomes Thain that will definitely change.  Restless sort, Pippin, full of energy.  But then, of course, he’s a Took through and through.  Once he’s Thain and Merry’s the Master of Brandy Hall I suspect there will be a great deal of commerce between the Shire and the rest of the world.  Already more notes going abroad in a month than there were from Bag End to Rivendell and Erebor in several years, I suspect.  With the King’s messengers traveling freely now from Anfalas to Annúminas and from the Grey Havens to Erebor and Dale, it would not in the least surprise me to learn that one day a Hobbit will make it to Far Harad.”  He shook his head.  “And, if it does come to that, I’ll wager it will be a Took!

            “There is now a growing interest in reading and education, sparked by Frodo Baggins.  Now, there was the time when being a Baggins meant being totally predictable--until Bilbo Baggins’s father married one of the Old Took’s daughters, Belladonna.  Tooks have always been flighty, for Hobbits.  Old Gerontius had married a Brandybuck, who are known to be steadier than the Tooks in many ways, but just as prone to choosing odd ways of doing things--for Hobbits.  More thought to what they do, but....”

            Ruvemir was becoming totally confused.  “Wait,” he said.  “Who is Gerontius?”

            Gimli laughed.  “Goes to show how Hobbits rub off on you.  Travel with them for much of a year, and you even start to understand their family ties.

            “Hobbits are very interested in their family relationships--very big on family trees and such.  They can tell you the names of their family members through at least five generations and to the stage of fourth cousins.

            “The families have family names.  The Tooks have held the title of Thain since before the death of Aragorn’s ancestor, King Arvedui.  The Thain by tradition is the King’s officer before the folk of the Shire, although until Aragorn came along his family had stopped styling themselves Kings and called themselves just the chieftains of the Northern Dúnedain.  Gerontius Took, Pippin’s great-grandfather, who is usually referred to as the Old Took--lived to be a hundred thirty years old, which is venerable even for a Hobbit, who typically live to be around a hundred years in age.  The family home for the Tooks is a huge complex of diggings referred to as the Great Smial.  Must be several hundred Tooks and close relations that live in the Great Smial.  Oh, you know they prefer to live in homes excavated into hillsides, didn’t you?”

            Ruvemir nodded as Ririon said, “No, I didn’t.”

            Gimli said, “Well, they do.  And, from what I’m told by my father, such homes are very, very comfortable and airy.  The other big family in the Shire is the Brandybuck family, and they, too, have a large smial in which a large part of their folk dwell, almost like a rabbit warren, called Brandy Hall, on the eastern borders of the Shire in what’s called Buckland.

            “Most Hobbits live in smaller smials or low houses.  Like farming and eating, mostly.  Bag End, I’m told, is the finest Smial in the area where the Baggins family settled, and was dug out by Bilbo’s father when he married.  Bilbo inherited the Baggins family name from his father, but was half Took.  And his young cousin Frodo was also part Took and part Brandybuck, but inherited the Baggins name from his father.  Merry Brandybuck’s mother is a Took.  And Pippin is a Took, but his mother was a Banks.  So, you have the three cousins who came out of the Shire, all of them great grandsons of the Old Took--four, if you consider Bilbo as well, who was simple grandson to the Old Took.

            “Hobbits develop more slowly than Men.  Where a Man becomes an adult somewhere usually between fifteen and twenty, Hobbits don’t come of age till they turn thirty-three.  Pippin’s only about thirty-one or two now, so you can see he was quite young, by Shire standards, when they all set out.  And very much a Took, too.  Impetuous, a bit thoughtless, full of pranks and impulsiveness.  Merry is about eight years older than Pippin, and Frodo fourteen years older than Merry.

            “Bilbo seemed to be a typical, totally predictable adult Hobbit until he met Gandalf, at which time he found himself headed off with my father and twelve other dwarves to the Lonely Mountain to try to steal the Arkenstone from the dragon.”

            Ruvemir stopped, and Ririon, who’d had his hand on his guardian’s shoulder as they walked, stopped himself just short of knocking him over.  Gimli turned around in surprise.  “Anything wrong?”

            Ruvemir shook his head.  “Putting some family history together, is all.  You see, it is said my father’s mother’s family came out of the north, from the ‘Devastation of the Dragon.’  My grandmother, when she cared for me when I was a young child, used to tell me the family stories, and sing me a song about the King under the Mountain and the rivers running with gold.  Father always carves a tiny dragon on his pieces to mark them as his work.”

            Gimli laughed.  “Then your people came from Dale, which could indicate why you are gifted with artistry.  Both you and your sister are mannikins--is your father as well?”

            “No, although one of his uncles was, but he died very young.  Are there stories of such as I in Dale?”

            The Dwarf shrugged.  “Not that I heard tell, but artistry is common there among both Dwarves and Men.  Perhaps it comes of the two being so close together for so long ere Smaug came.  He attacked the city of Dale first, but it is easier to flee a Dragon when you can see him coming.  Much of the population of the city of Dale survived, although they lost all they’d had.  They went among the Lake Men and helped them build Laketown on piers over the waters of the lake.  And after he’d taken Dale Smaug turned his attention to Erebor under the Mountain, and assaulted its gates.  Only those who were abroad that day or those few near the secret exit survived.  Our women and children did not survive the assault.  My father was the only one in his family who survived.

            “But the song of the river running with gold when the King under the Mountain came again is definitely one my father heard when he came to Laketown with Thorin Oakenshield and Bilbo Baggins.”  He nodded at a nearby inn.  “Shall we try the food and ale?”  With all agreeing they went in.

            Once they were seated with their food and drink, Ririon asked, “Then there are really such things as dragons in the world?”

            Gimli gave a deep shrug.  “I can’t say about now, but there was definitely at least one when I was young, Smaug, sitting on our people’s treasure under the Lonely Mountain.  I was too young to go with my father and Thorin Oakenshield when Gandalf led them to Bilbo to serve as their burglar, but came not long after.  The stink of the Dragon was still thick in the halls of our fathers, and there was much to set right.  And the Dragon’s bones can still be seen where he fell when killed by Bard the Bowman, lying in the depths of the lake.  None dare to dive for the treasure which fell from his belly as it rotted away, for fear doing so will waken Smaug’s ghost.”  His voice was sad.  “So many died so needlessly, and when Thorin caught the Dragon Sickness, it almost set him and his companions against the Men of Laketown and the Elves of Mirkwood.  My father’s dislike of Elves took long to overcome, and only now has he made his peace with the sons of Thranduil.”

            The boy asked, “What is the Dragon Sickness?”

            “Greed, my lad.  Greed.  Ward against it, for it is worse then most diseases of the body.”  They sat in silence for a time and ate their meal, and when the talk resumed, Gimli again spoke of the Shire and its folk.

            “They are small folk, smaller even than us Dwarves, given to peace.  They usually do not treat well with strangers.  Only after his adventure with my father and Thorin Oakenshield did Bilbo let the Tookish side of him run rampant, and he began walking out on purpose in search of the Dwarves that travel the West Road that runs through the Shire near the northern borders, and of the Elves that often stay in their sylvan halls in the Woody End.  I saw him first on such a journey, before Frodo came to live with him.  He greeted us courteously and in accordance with our ways and customs.  When I learned he was the esteemed Burglar Bilbo Baggins I felt much honored.  And always he sought simply to learn more about us, about our ways, the tales of our histories.  His experience woke his curiosity, but always it was expressed gently and with respect.  His own folk thought he was quite mad, for they might trade with us and accept our coin in their inns, but they do not seek to learn more than but the most obvious news from us.

            “I did not meet with him when he walked abroad with Frodo, for I did not leave Erebor for many years, until the emissaries of Mordor came in search of news of Bilbo and the Ring he found beneath the Misty Mountains.  My father chose to go to Rivendell to warn Bilbo the Enemy was in search of him, and to learn why, and I went as part of his bodyguard.  I met there the son of the Elf my father still thought of with hatred, and somehow we became friends along the way as we went with Frodo and Aragorn on the quest to destroy the Ring.  There in Rivendell I first saw Frodo Baggins, Legolas Greenleaf, and Aragorn son of Arathorn.  And all I came to esteem greatly.”

            “You did not speak a great deal when you and the King first told me of Frodo, leaving most to him.  What do you remember most of him?”

            “His capacity for compassion, I think.  Bilbo was very alive, full of great vigor and a boundless curiosity about the rest of the world.  Frodo was much quieter, but his eyes spoke of kindliness and a care for the needs of others.  His kin and Sam obviously worshipped him, and sought to guard him close, to keep up his spirits and to keep him grounded; and his care for them was always equally strongly expressed.  Sometimes they seemed to cluster around him like ducklings about their mother, as if for protection; and then they’d be like wolves protecting their young.  Quite extraordinary.  And we all felt the same toward him.  He appeared quite vulnerable, and yet had a core of strength and determination I’d never seen before.  As we traveled down the River in the boats given us in Lorien he was quiet much of the way.  He knew then he must go on alone, that the closeness of the Ring to us would serve to wear away our integrity, would corrupt us; but he was afraid to do so.  Sam recognized the battle in his Master’s heart, and watched over him with wariness, aware that when Frodo made up his mind he would leave suddenly.  And so it was only he went with Frodo when the time came, when Boromir’s attempt to convince Frodo to give him the Ring to use against the Enemy caused him to make up his mind at last.  The rest of us were all taken by surprise when Sam told us what he knew was in his Master’s heart, and we each set out in a different direction to seek him, for although we were surprised we yet saw that he spoke truly.  Only Sam reasoned it out and set out in the proper direction, determined his Master would not go totally alone.  And both he and Frodo agreed that this was good, that Frodo would have not survived long had he indeed gone by himself.  But the reason for his leaving was to protect us.  Always he sought to protect.”

            “Then that,” said Ririon, “was the reason he came into the innyard the day I was in trouble with Evamir, who was yelling at me for all to hear.  I’d wondered.”

            “Were you carving that day, Ririon?” Ruvemir asked.

            “No.  I was angry at Evamir Cook for he wouldn’t let me go out to watch the Rohirrim ride by, so I did not watch the pot of soup I was set to stir, and it burnt at the bottom.  And I did it on purpose.  The Pherian would not allow him to strike me, though.  He came suddenly and took all by surprise, put me behind him.  His face was very white, as if he were a lamp of alabaster with the flame showing through it.  There is one such in the Dragon’s Claw, in the passageway, which is lit at night to offer a gentle light for those who walk it in the dark.  His face reminded me of that lamp.  He stood up before Evamir and demanded he stop the smiting and the yelling, that this only taught fear and not respect.

            “Then when Evamir had stopped in confusion and had apologized--he never apologized, all were shocked to hear him do this to the Pherian--then the Pherian turned to me.  He could look into my face, for he was little taller than I.  He asked what I’d done, and when I told him, he asked me why I did it, and I told him that, too.  Then he reproved me, and it was worse for me than being struck by Evamir, knowing I’d disappointed him.  And he told me to go in and clean the pot, to scour it completely, and then to stand ready when the cook came in to do whatever he told me and to do it right.  And I went.  I was shamed mightily, but knew I deserved it.  And I knew that if I did as he told me I would earn his love, and I wanted that.” 

            Ruvemir saw that Gimli was nodding.  “He’d look at us, at Legolas and me when we would start arguing, and we felt the same way.  And we did argue at first, for each of us had been raised to distrust the other’s race, and the treatment my father received at his father’s hands did nothing to restore understanding.  And when after Moria and Gandalf’s fall we began to stand by one another, he smiled on us, and I knew this Dwarf, at least, would do anything to earn that smile.”  The Dwarf’s face grew saddened.  “And now I’ll not see it again.”  He closed his eyes.  “Middle Earth is the poorer for his leaving.”

 *******

            After the meal they went on to the booksellers, and there Ruvemir purchased a large sketch booklet and wide charcoal drawing stick for Ririon’s use, and a couple more smaller ones for his own use and perhaps for Miriel’s as she began developing more designs.  He also purchased three travel desks, and special bottles of ink designed to stay sealed if tipped, and a supply of quills, steel pens, and drying sand.  Once he had his designs completed, he knew, he would need to transfer them to his larger sheets of paper in ink so he could begin executing them.  One last time he took a look through the books, and found a strange book in which someone had taken the alphabet and made it raised on the page as a means of teaching it to children--and suddenly he smiled and added it to his purchases.  Perhaps it would be possible to teach Ririon, whom he’d learned did not know how to read or write, how to do so in spite of his visual loss.

            The shop beside the booksellers had been empty, but now he found it was open, and housed a pottery.  The three of them went in to look at the merchandise, and found the potter working at a table on constructing a large bowl out of coils of clay, samples of his work, both glazed and unglazed, all about the room on shelves.  Ruvemir described what was being done to Ririon, who asked for permission to touch it, and the potter agreed, cautioning him not to press hard or squeeze it for fear of damaging the thickness of the bowl.  Ririon examined the work in progress, and appeared delighted, and with the encouragement of the potter took some of the clay and worked it, too, into a thin roll and coiled it to make a tube.  Ruvemir, encouraged by the boy’s enthusiasm, then arranged to buy a block of clay from the potter, and to have it delivered to the King’s Head that evening.  After wiping his hands carefully Ririon bade goodbye to the potter and they headed home.

            The Dwarf had remained silently watching through much of this, and was nodding as they set off again.  “The boy will have plenty of materials to explore with, I see,” he finally said as they went through the gate to the second circle.  Ruvemir nodded in agreement.  They’d almost reached the inn when Gimli stopped, and watched Ruvemir and Ririon for a few more steps until they realized he was not alongside them any more.  At that Ruvemir stopped and looked back questioningly.  The Dwarf was looking at him critically, then smiled up into his eyes.  “I just realized,” he commented, “that your gait is different, and I was trying to see how that was.  You do not lurch your hips as much, but I’m not sure how it has been accomplished.”

            Ruvemir smiled, and lifted his cloak to display the new shoes, and the Dwarf smiled.  “Another of the gifts from the King,” he explained.  “It certainly is easier on my hips, although it isn’t completely effective.”

            “Clever,” commented the Dwarf, pursing his lips in approval.  “Very clever indeed!”

            He accompanied them to their room and placed the load of stone in a corner, commenting, “Good thing you are going by carriage--too much to carry on your backs, or even on a pack pony.”  He accepted some of the seed cakes that stood on the table, declined a mug of tea, and then took his leave and wished them a good journey.  With many thanks, they accompanied him back to the entranceway and watched as he headed back down to the gates to prepare for the placement of the gates the following day.

            Miriel arrived soon after, her face flushed with the exercise and with excitement.  She had received a new commission--indeed, two of them.  The Lord Elessar had determined he wished to gift his Lady Wife with a new gown once the babe was born, and had sent the Lady Éowyn to go with her to choose the fabric, the colors, and discuss the designs.  He’d sent his own drawing of the type of work he wanted, which was pleasing enough but not totally in proportion to his wife’s build.  And, to help in making certain the gown would fit, he’d sent a gown she could not wear during her pregnancy from her wardrobe.

            Then the Lady Éowyn had been enlisted by the Lady Arwen to help her in preparing a gift for her husband, a new tunic to be embroidered with the White Tree, but with the Tree as it grew and not as it was usually depicted in formal, stylistic manner.  So they’d gone up to the Citadel to look at and draw the Tree, and it had taken her a time to decide on which view she most favored.  Then they’d gone down to the first level to the weavers’ guilds and looked at both local and imported cloths, and had finally chosen fabrics they both favored for the recipients.  The Lady Éowyn had felt highly amused to be enlisted to serve the same function for both parties, and the two women had laughed together over the situation.  But Miriel now had work to do of her own, and fabrics and materials she needed to figure out how to pack and protect for the journey.  She accepted the new sketch booklet with thanks, and added it to the goods she was now working on packing for the trip north.

            The following day would see much of the populace of the city going down to watch the raising of the new Gates.  Ruvemir had his own plans for the day, and set them in motion when Elise came to light the lamps.  He was there alone, for he’d sent Ririon and Miriel to the common room for the evening meal before him, telling them he had one more thing to do.

            “Tomorrow is the day you are free to be with your family, is it not?” he asked. 

            “Yes,” she responded, although he noted her face was not as cheerful as usual.

            “I was wondering if you’d like to accompany me down to see the new Gates raised,” he continued.  “And then, if you’d like, you and I could get a meal....”

            He was pleased with the effect, for her eyes lightened.  “You would?” she asked, a bit breathless.  “Oh, yes, I would be most pleased to do so.”

            “There isn’t much time before we leave,” he continued, slowly, “and--and I will miss you and your company very much--very much indeed.  It will be hard to be gone from you for however long it takes--”       

            But his further comments were cut off when she threw herself upon him, embracing him and weeping tears of joy--tears he found himself kissing away.  And he knew that when he next saw his father, it would be as a married man.

            That night he took out the three cord animals and showed them to Miriel, offering her the choice between the horse and the cat, and she chose the horse.  “And the cat?” she asked.

            “Oh, it will have a home,” he replied airily. 

            She examined him closely.  “So, Brother, you and Elise....”

            “Yes.”  His voice held such a tone of satisfaction and joy she laughed.

            “Well, it is about time, you know.”

 *******

            And the next day, after watching the new gates raised, he and Elise found themselves exploring a jeweler’s goods before they went to eat, and she returned home with a delicate chain hung with amethysts and a finely woven shawl and a figure of a cat made from coiled cords to remember him by while he was in the Northlands.

Journey in Late Fall

            Elise aided in the final packing, and Ruvemir arranged with Beneldil for the storage of the two chests and carefully rolled large sheets of papers in tubes they would not be taking on the journey.  A large chest had been purchased for the clothing for all three of them, and into the top were carefully folded the fabrics and  other materials for Miriel’s commissions.  The flat boxes containing the few stonecutting tools Ruvemir would carry, Ririon’s woodcarving tools, an assortment of chalks, an assortment of graphite and charcoal drawing sticks, the sketch booklets, and the books for reading were packed into the second on top of the greater part of the block of clay, wrapped in an air-tight wrapping, and most of the blocks of soapstone.

            Each was to carry a personal satchel containing a change of clothing and such items as each was likely to need during the day.  Ririon’s carried his small folding knife he’d used for his carving to date, and a small sharpening stone and tube of oil that had been a gift from Benril, a few small, light blocks of wood, and a small block of clay in an oilcloth bag, carefully sealed.  Miriel’s held a linen bag in which she carried the one piece of material she’d cut out as yet, the yoke of the shirt she was preparing for the King, already with the backing in place, now ready to receive the embroidery before she put all together, as well as a needlecase full of appropriately sized needles, a cushion full of pins, thread shears, embroidery frame, a folder of embroidery thread wound around card, and the book on embroidery she’d been gifted by her brother, as well as her own smaller sketch booklet in which she kept many of the designs she favored and hints on how to determine thread counts.  Ruvemir took his current sketch booklet and the tube of his drawing supplies and the ball of gum, a small rolled cloth in which he kept some of his very finest carving tools, the book of Rohirric tales, and the wooden figure of a mouse that he’d found that day on the tray carrying the seed cakes and tea.  He’d taken it up with gladness and looked up to see the smile on Elise’s face, and a second one on the face of Ririon as Elise’s hand tightened on his shoulder, who apparently had had his own commission.

            The three travel desks and a few of the stone blocks were to ride within the carriage, along with a smaller chest which was to carry extra cloaks and blankets and warm boots and gloves in case the weather became cold enough to warrant them, and the extra funds for all.  In a separate chest would be packed enough food and utensils to feed them for three days at least, along with Evamir’s gift to Ririon.  Each carried a belt purse and eating knife, and it looked as if all were at last in readiness.

            That last night was one of the nights on which Elise was free, and they went to the Dragon’s Claw to eat there so Ririon could say goodbye to those he’d known since childhood, Benril with them (Livril had been furious to be left out).  All seemed to come out to the common room to see the boy and to wish him well, and at last Evamir Cook and his wife came in, and she carried a hat she’d made for Ririon, thinking his head might grow cold if they found snow on the way north.  It was quilted of soft cloth and had a brim which could be fastened down over the boy’s ears, and he thanked her for it, then surprised all, including himself, by embracing and kissing both of them.  And when they returned they found not only was the fire lit, but once again reclining before it were the King and his Lady accompanied by Legolas, a white knife at his belt and his bow and quiver resting by the fire.  And so they took their goodbyes of their patrons, and one last time the King oversaw Ruvemir’s exercises, now teaching them to Ririon, who was pleased to know there was a way in which he could assist his guardian.  Having watched both Miriel and Ruvemir in their new shoes and the use of Ruvemir’s cane, the King nodded with satisfaction that both would find their walking more comfortable and the ease on Ruvemir’s hip would help ensure against reinjury.  When they saw the necklace worn by Elise and the mouse sitting by Ruvemir they smiled.

 *******

            The carriage provided had originally been made for a wealthy elderly family that had owned a great deal of property in the fields of the Pelennor.  After the battle was over, it had been given to the use of the city to assist in the transport of the wounded to the Houses of Healing, and finally had been made a gift to the new King.  It was not exceptionally large, yet would comfortably hold the three passengers and Dorlin, who would drive the team, as well as their luggage.  When it arrived at the King’s Head it didn’t seem to take particularly long to get all loaded on it and fastened down successfully alongside the tent and bedding materials in waterproof wrappings, and finally Ruvemir, Miriel, and Ririon found themselves taking leave of their hosts, and receiving warm embraces from all.  Their courtesy and relative sobriety and generosity to staff had made them popular, and the fact they were completing a commission so popular within the city added to the warmth they were shown.  And when at last Ruvemir took leave of Elise with a kiss, all cheered as she blushed with pride and delight.

            Ruvemir and Dorlin together stowed the lap desks and other goods within the carriage along with the letters from the Lord King Elessar of Gondor and Arnor.  The carriage proved to have comfortable new cushions of a warm wine color as well as several pillows and warm blankets; and once all was in place Ruvemir handed in his sister, assisted Ririon into the carriage, and then carefully climbed in himself, at which Dorlin folded the steps and secured them and the door, climbed into the driver’s seat, and spoke to the team of two large ponies that pulled the coach and the two which followed behind which would take their places in a few hours’ time, and drove them out of the courtyard and down through the city.  As they approached the open gates the guard saluted as they passed, and outside a file of riders, led by the King himself on his grey steed Olórin, rode as an honor guard to the rebuilt line of the Rammas Echor, then saluted as they began the ride west and north for earnest.

            The first night found them in a village in Anorien where they were welcomed to a small inn and given comfortable rooms and a good meal, then were seen off with good wishes on the following morning as they turned west toward the Gap of Rohan.  One of the border guardians rode along with them until they came to the edges of the realm, and spoke with them through the open windows and with Dorlin and Ririon on the box about the history of the area, and of the mysterious Druadan Forest to the south of them at the feet of the mountains.  Ririon would have loved to have been allowed to visit it and meet with the Wild Men and perhaps Ghân buri Ghân himself, but the soldier refused.  “No,” he said, “that is their land, and it would not be polite to enter it only in curiosity.  Nor does the King’s will allow such.  If you wish to enter the Druadan, you’d best get the permission of the Wild Men first.”

            In the Eastfold of Rohan they found a village where they were welcomed and granted hospitality by the Captain of the local éored, who would accept no payment for their welcome.  Throughout the day Ruvemir had been amusing himself by carving a small statue of a horse from one of the pieces of soapstone they’d been given, and this he gifted their host with the following morning as they readied to resume their journey.  It was an exquisite piece, and the Captain accepted it with great pleasure, admiring both the subject and its execution.  Ririon had chosen the block for his guardian that morning, and had been excited to see it nearly done when they reached the Eastfold; and he chose to remain in the coach the next day to receive some instruction as to how to carve the stone himself.

            As they passed through Rohan they were frequently greeted by Riders, who often would ride alongside and give them directions, and who twice invited them to stop in their villages for their next rest and accept a meal before going onwards.  Twice they camped for the night, but more often they would be hosted in a village and then given gifts of food for their continued journey.  The tall Rohirrim seemed to find the carriage with its small passengers endlessly fascinating, and when they learned of the intentions of the expedition they became solemnly respectful.  Many remembered the Holbytla with great honor, and all the land had been filled with the stories of their courage and sacrifice.

            On the fifth day in Rohan they were joined by a large riding led by Éomer King himself, who’d been tracking down rumors of wolves from the Misty Mountains to the North.  That night they camped with Éomer’s troupes and shared their meal, and heard the proud singing of the Eorlingas.  Éomer listened to the story of their commission with quiet consideration, then sighed.  “Always does the Lord Aragorn seem to bring worthy souls of unusual nature through my lands,” he commented, although his eyes shone with controlled respect and humor.  “And so why should this time be any different?”  And together with his guests he laughed ere he bade them a good rest. 

            Three Riders accompanied the carriage onward to the Gap of Rohan, and Ririon was thrilled when on the second day from the camping with the Rohirrim one took him behind him on his tall steed for an hour, and he came back excited and looking forward to having a horse himself one day.  They camped on the banks of the Isen, and were advised to use only wood found on the ground for their fires until they were far north on the New South Road, and to use no axes as long as they traveled through the lands watched over by the Ents.  They finally saw the tall tower of Orthanc to the south of them and the mountains to the north.  Miriel was watching out the window when she suddenly gave a cry of surprise, and when Ruvemir looked he saw that what had appeared to be a dead tree was instead a tall figure moving steadily toward the forest to the north, and the Rider closest to them quietly explained this was one of the Ents who now watched over Orthanc for the King Aragorn Elessar Telcontar of Mundberg.

            Once they reached the Gap of Rohan and the last outpost held in concert by the forces of Gondor and Rohan, their guides bade them a good journey and turned back to their own lands, and they broke their journey for two nights, replenished their supplies, had their clothing laundered, and prepared for the next stage of their journey through the lands of the Dunlendings.

            Much of the journey north was marked by rains, and twice they had to stop for two nights to allow streams swollen from the torrents to go down sufficiently to allow them to be forded.  Then they had three days of cold accompanied by brilliant low sunlight, and Ririon began to wear his hat, and one day commented that he felt he saw better with it on, as it broke the glare which often obscured his vision.  After that he wore it constantly during the daylight hours whenever he was outside, which was often as he liked to sit on the box beside Dorlin, now usually with either a block of wood or soapstone in his hands and a couple of tools in the breast pocket of his surcoat.  There were new villages being built along the road, and raw farms cut out of the wilderness, and they were able to find shelter most nights.

            They were overtaken the ninth day of their northward journey by a party of Elves on horseback who greeted them courteously and rode with them for a time.  They, too, had been tracking packs of the great wolves, although as the packs had turned into the forests at the feet of the mountains they were inclined to follow them no more, as long as they offered no harm to those who lived in the lands.  They seemed to be aware of the purpose of their journey, and promised to carry word to the folk remaining in Rivendell that there were those on the Greenway on a mission for the Lord Elessar and his Lady.  When Dorlin turned the carriage into a small village of Men for the night, the Elves gave them farewell and melted into the twilight.

            The next day the rains resumed, and remained fairly constant for several days.  They finally took shelter in Tharbad for three days, resting the ponies, caring for the carriage, and simply getting warm before they went on. 

            Some days later they finally reached Bree as the first snows fell, and turned in through the east gate with gladness. 

Negotiations with the Shire

            Barliman Butterbur looked down at the four asking for rooms and was totally out of his reckoning.  He’d housed his share of Men, Dwarves, and Hobbits in his day, and his dad and granddad and great-granddad before that; but this party--if it didn’t take the cake.  First of all, they’d arrived in a coach, and come up the Greenway, and, to hear them tell it, before that up the Old South Road.  And they said they had come all the way from Minas Anor in Gondor, and on the King’s Business.

            Now, if that wasn’t a phrase to catch one’s attention--indeed, he couldn’t think of a better.  Old Gandalf and the Travelers had told him that old Strider was now the King, although he couldn’t truly take it all in how that sinister Ranger had managed that trick. 

            Then there was the odd part about their size.  At first he’d thought they were a party of Hobbits with a single Dwarf, which was unheard of to begin with.  But when he said this the man snorted as if insulted, and said if he hadn’t the wits to recognize Men when he saw them, even if they were mannikins, then there was perhaps no use in saying more.  Certainly on second glance they’d been clearly not Hobbits--no Hobbit wore a beard or had hair like that, and the man’s hands, at least, were the size of those of a normal Man.  And the boy was very clearly of the race of Men for all his strange garb.  And the woman did not have the look or walk of a Hobbit lady, either.  But what a mannikin might be he had not the slightest idea.

            However, they did agree to take two rooms, one of those designed for Hobbits--with at least three beds; and one designed for Dwarves.  Butterbur had thought the request for separate beds odd until he heard the woman address the man as “Brother,” and then understood.  And they paid for it with the new coinage, the King’s coin, and in looking at it he was again bemused to seem to recognize the features of the enigmatic Ranger on the profile of the King.  He’d received several of these in the past two years, often from the Rangers themselves, who seemed to walk more proudly than they once did and who spoke of journeys to the south to see their kin serving now in Gondor or of when the King would come back north among his own people.  He’d had these coins checked by the Dwarves, who told him every time they were of exactly the worth in gold or silver or copper stamped on them, and now he trusted them.  If they carried the King’s coin, he thought, that certainly indicated they probably did come from the Southlands.  Their use of the Common Tongue was a bit odd, but clearly understandable, and finally he had Nob show them to their rooms and promised to bring along a supper for them if they wished.

            As he came in with a heavy tray half an hour later, he heard the woman exclaiming, “Oh, Brother mine, I never thought to find any inn where the furniture was comfortable for our size, but now we’ve found two!”  Then she reddened when she realized she’d been overheard.

            “Oh, we’re always proud to cater to the Little Folk,” Butterbur explained as he set the tray on the table.  “We have a number of Hobbits who live here in Bree, the only land where such happens, Big and Little living together, from what I’ve heard tell from them as ought to know.  And as you are, begging your pardons, even shorter than most Hobbits I would guess this room would be about fit for your comfort.”

            She nodded.  “In Minas Anor several of the inns in the lower circles have rooms for the Halflings, should they desire to visit the City, and we were allowed to use one there, for there are none visiting as yet.  It was the first inn my brother had ever stayed in anywhere where he has seen such a thing.”

            The boy nodded solemnly.  “The King told us it was so that if the Pheriannath return to visit they will have a room devised for their comfort, and not have to try to become used to beds and tables too high for their stature.  The Ernil i Pheriannath and his kinsman Sir Meriadoc came to teach us how to make them comfortable.”

            “Ernil and what?” Butterbur found himself asking.

            The little Man interrupted.  “The folk of the city saw Peregrin Took and thought he was a Prince of the Halflings, and so they gave him that title.”

            “Peregrin Took?  Peregrin Took, a Prince of Hobbits?”  The innkeeper was so tickled at such an idea he began to laugh uproariously.  “My heavens,” he finally managed, “the idea of that one as a prince--it is even odder than that of Strider as King!”

            “That’s right--that is how you know him, isn’t it?  I’ll admit, the first time I realized Strider was the Lord King Aragorn Elessar Telcontar I, too, was taken quite aback.  But I’ve seen him both as Strider and as the King, and I assure you he is one and the same.”  And he went to the chest by the windows and fetched a book from it, and opened it to a page.  “Behold the King,” he said. 

            Butterbur looked at the drawing of a man seated on a high chair, Winged Crown on his head, a surcoat with a tree and seven stars embroidered on it, a scepter in his hands, and realized he did indeed recognize those features.  It oughtn’t to have been such a shock, as he had been told, and by them as ought to know, after all, that Strider was the King now of Gondor and Arnor, but he still found himself totally overwhelmed.  “Who’d have ever thought,” he murmured, bemused, “that the Ranger sitting in the corner with his long legs stretched out was the King?”

            “Yes, I know,” the man said.  “That was how he introduced himself to me, too.  Although it turned out I’d already seen him in the Crossed Keys in Casistir, where I thought he was one of the new King’s officers--only to learn later he was the King himself.  I didn’t recognize him the following day when, dressed as Strider, he came to my work shed to talk to me about the commission.  I have a picture I did of that, but it’s packed in the other chest.”

            “I’ve certainly seen a shirt like that one there,” Butterbur said, indicating the one worn by the King.  “Those as call themselves the King’s Messengers wear them, and Peregrin Took was wearing one, too, and over silver mail.  Only it has a crown broidered on it.”

            “Yes, that is his uniform shirt.  He must wear it when he stands on duty before the King’s throne.  Didn’t you know?  Peregrin Took is a member of the Guard of the Citadel and serves the King himself when he is in Gondor.”

            “Then it’s all true?” Butterbur found himself saying as he sat down, rather hard, on a stool, “all of it, what the Travelers said, about what they’d done and all?”

            “Well, I can’t speak to what they said or didn’t say to you, but, yes, Peregrin Took served Gondor in the War of the Ring and became a Guard of the Citadel; and Meriadoc Brandybuck served King Théoden of Rohan and is considered a Knight of Rohan--indeed King Éomer, who became King when his uncle died in the Battle of the Pelennor, sent him a gift through us when we saw him on our way here.  And Master Samwise Gamgee is seen as a Lord of the Realm, as was Master Frodo Baggins, for they carried the Enemy’s Ring to Mordor itself to its destruction.”

            “They did what?  Mister Baggins and Mister Gamgee, I mean?”

            “They went to Mordor, alone, to destroy the Enemy’s Ring.  It almost killed them both.”

            “They was alive enough when they got back here.”

            The man smiled.  “They had had some time to recover--although I’m told Master Frodo’s health began to fail after he returned to the Shire.  That is why he is no longer there.”  His eyes grew saddened.  “Which is a great pity, for I would have been very glad to have met him, and to have thanked him.”

            “Thanked him for what?”

            Dark eyes met those of the innkeeper’s, solemnly searching them.  “For offering his safety and health for the freedom of Middle Earth.”

            Butterbur didn’t know what to say to that.  It had been enough for him to think on, struggling to wrap his brain around the thought of Strider as King.  But for those Hobbits to have gone alone to the Black Lands!  He shivered.  He forced the thought and the images it raised to the back of his mind to think on later, when he’d have time, and looked back to the picture.  “Well, must say he cleans up proper well,” he commented.  His guests laughed.  A cry could be heard down the hall, and he turned in frustration.  “Now what mischief?  I’m sorry, but I must see to what’s going on now.  You enjoy your supper, and I’ll look in on you afore you go to your rest.  Ring if you need anything, and Nob should see to it.”  And he left them, wiping his hands on his apron, barely acknowledging the approach of the Dwarf carrying a tankard of ale with a nod.

            After their meal they rang for Nob, who showed them the way to the bathing room and demonstrated the use of pump, boiler, and drains, then removed their used dishes, and they took turns ridding themselves of the grit of the road.  By the time Butterbur returned Dorlin had finished and was sitting in front of the parlor fire, tankard by his side, rebraiding his beard while the boy sat on a foot stool set on a wide cloth as the man guided his hands as he did something to a block of wood he held, and the woman sat by the table, embroidering by the light of three lamps.  The innkeeper nodded to see such a domestic scene.  “If only all my guests were as pleasant a lot as you,” he commented.  “An argument broke out in the common room between two who disagreed as to which was the smarter, and if it didn’t turn into a fight!  Had to finally knock their heads together to break it up, and told 'em both they’ve neither got the brains to come in out of the storm--quite obvious, that.”

            All laughed.  The man then became businesslike.  “I’ll need to send messages into the Shire on the morrow--will take them to the Bridge myself if it is necessary.  Can you advise me what is best to do?”

            “Well, if you are willing to ride to the Bridge yourself, that might be best, although the messengers are far more regular nowadays.  But they usually do the rounds three times a week, and as tomorrow’s High Day they won’t be likely to stir themselves for others.  Have you a saddle for one of your ponies?

            The Dwarf nodded, fastening a golden circle about the bottom of the braid he’d just completed.  “The King provided a saddle for each, and they are in one of the chests on the coach roof.  I’ll remove them tomorrow morning if you’d like, Ruvemir.”

            “Thank you, Dorlin.  When will you be off to see your mother’s people?”

            “On the first day of the week.  Some of my folk from Erebor are here, and I’ll travel with them.”

            The woman spoke up.  “We’ll miss you while you are gone, and hope that you will find the visit heartening.”

            He smiled.  “Oh, I think I will.”

            “You have a sweetheart among your mother’s people?”

            The Dwarf didn’t answer, only smiled again, and lifted his tankard in salute.

            The woman turned to the innkeeper.  “One other thing, Master Butterbur--is there a decent laundress nearby we can trust our clothing to?”

            “Yes, Mistress.  Missus May Underhill as lives nearby does much of the linens for the Pony, and is by all reports responsible and careful with all fabrics.”

            “Good, for all our clothes need cleaning again, I fear.  It has been a long journey.  If you can give us directions in the morning, I’ll appreciate it.”

            “Nob told me as you’d used the bathing room.  Was it sufficient?”

            The little Man nodded, then turned back to the boy. “No, Ririon, or you will scar the wood.  You’ve shifted your grip again.”  After watching the boy change his hold on the tool and giving an approving, “Better,” he turned  back to Butterbur.  “It was good to feel clean again, and to soak my hip.  It has ached in the cold and damp.” 

            “If your hip is hurting you, Ruvemir, perhaps we should wait till the messengers come.  The King didn’t want you to ride and perhaps reinjure your hip.  And with the snow the road will be slick.”

            He shrugged.  “I’ll chance it, Sister mine.  I wish to meet with the three of them as soon as I can.”

            She tutted with disapproval, and turned back to her embroidery.

            “And what business do you have with the Shirefolk?” asked Butterbur.

            The little Man sighed.  “I’ve a commission from the King himself, and to complete it properly I need to meet with Sir Meriadoc, Captain Peregrin, and Lord Samwise.”

            “What kind of commission?”

            “I’m a sculptor, Mr. Butterbur.  I’m to do a memorial of the four Halflings for the capital, particularly of Lord Frodo.  But as he is no longer in Middle Earth, he is proving the hardest to picture.”

            “A memorial?”

            “Yes, statues of the four of them together.  It is the King’s will.”

            “I never heard tell Mr. Underh--I mean, Mr. Baggins, had died.”

            “He’s not believed to be dead, sir--but he has left Middle Earth.  The King was told by the other three himself, for they saw him go.  Had he stayed, he would have died, though.  The King was very sure.”

            “But where could he have gone?”

            The  little Man was quiet briefly.  “The King did not say, but all I can imagine is that he must have been granted the grace to go to the Undying Lands.  He gave up very much to complete his duty.  He certainly deserved some great reward.”

            Butterbur thought on it himself.  “Funny,” he finally said, “but I can accept that better than Strider as King, although Gandalf told me himself, and he’s never lied to me.  But I can actually see that gentle soul among the High Elves.”

            “Then you remember him?”

            Butterbur nodded.  “Oh, yes, I remember him.  The row he started the first time, how could I not?  Dancing on the table, disappearing that way....”

            “Let’s sit.”  And they sat.

            And Butterbur found himself describing that first visit by the party from the Shire, the fear and determination that filled their faces, the attempt to hide the identity of the leader of the group by calling him “Underhill.”

            Suddenly the small Man laughed.  “Underhill!  That is what Lord Samwise spoke of in his letter!”  Butterbur looked at him in some confusion.  “He mentioned using an empty home in the village as a school, the old Underhill place, and then wrote, ‘And don’t you laugh at the name, I know you will, remembering Bree.’  Now I understand why he wrote that.”

            “Mr. Gamgee is writing you letters?”

            “No, he sent it to the King, who allowed me to read it to learn more of what he is like.”

            “He writes to the King?”

            “Yes, and from what I can tell the King writes to him as well.  They did travel from here to Gondor together, after all.  And in Gondor the titles held by the Lord Frodo Baggins are ‘The King’s Friend’ and ‘The Ringbearer,’ while Lord Samwise is known as ‘The Esquire’ and ‘The Faithful.’”

            “’Esquire’?”  Butterbur shook his head.  “I thought he was a gardener!”

            “I am sorry--I interrupted your story.  Go on.  You were telling me that the Lord Frodo was trying to disguise himself through the name of Underhill.”

            So the innkeeper went on, and told of the letter from Gandalf, and the warning to be looking for Frodo Baggins, who would be traveling as ‘Mr. Underhill’ and who would most likely need aid, and how the letter had sat for months in his own quarters, forgotten, when no one could be found to take it to the Shire.  And of the visit to the common room and the song on the table, and falling off and disappearing....  “Talk about a row!  Let me tell you, that caused one, a big one indeed.  And that was when that Strider got to them at last, and they took up with him in spite of what I could do to keep them safe.  Only, how was I to know he was the King?

            “And then that night they stayed in the parlor--this very parlor, in fact, and didn’t go to their room at all.  And in the morning the window had been forced to their room, and the beds were all cut up and stabbed, the bolsters destroyed, the dark mat cut to pieces.  Feathers was everywhere, and we were finding them here and there for weeks after.  Them Black Riders had crept in, or had got some of the evil Men then coming up the Greenway to creep in, and tried to kill all four of them.  And some of the evil Men opened the stables and drove away the ponies and horses, and stole one or two, and that, too, was awful, for they were in a pinch--needed something to carry supplies, and nothing to be found but that awful Bill Ferny’s old wreck of a pony, so they took that.  And now Samwise Gamgee has that pony back, and they do seem to love one another dearly.”

            “And you didn’t see them after that?”

            “Not till they came back.  And wasn’t that a surprise!  Nob called out, ‘They’re back, Mr. Butterbur!’ and I thought it was the evil Men coming back, but it was the Travelers instead.  Here I was with a club in my hand, looking at four Hobbits and a Wizard.  ’Twere rather funny, really.  They were trying to tell me about the war down south ways, and I was trying to tell them about the evil Men trying to take over Bree and all, and us driving them away.  And I think we were all talkin’ over one another more than listening.  Only after the first Mr. Under--I mean Mr. Baggins--sort of sat back and let them tell it.  Looked kind of tired, don’t you know, and Gandalf was looking amused and proud like, but was also looking at Mr. Baggins watchful like.  Was surprised not to see old Strider with them, but I guess they left him down south after he became King.”

            “Who were the Black Riders who were after them?”

            Butterbur found himself becoming very solemn.  “Strider said as they came from Mordor, that they were the Ringwraiths.  I had thought the Ringwraiths were only from old, old stories.  Oh, I’m a lettered man, and I’ve heard the old stories of what Sauron had done afore.  And I’d heard tell of the Ringwraiths, too, and the Black Breath and what it was like.  But I saw Mr. Brandybuck’s face when he came in, when they first got here.  He’d gone out for a bit of a walk, and saw Black Riders and was trying to see what they were doing, only one seems to have crept behind him, and he seems to have been overcome by the Black Breath.  His face was white when he ran in, and Strider went just as white when he heard his tale.  Luckily Bob and Nob had gone looking for him, and saw two Riders crouched down getting ready to haul him away, but when they saw the torches coming they crept off and let him lie. 

            “Only Gandalf said, when they came back, that the Ringwraiths are no more, that they were destroyed, but I don’t completely understand how.”

            “You say that Mr. Baggins was singing and dancing on the table, and then suddenly he disappeared.  Do you know what happened?”

            “No, I don’t think I really have the right of it.  Mr. Took had started telling the tale of old Bilbo Baggins’s birthday party, and we’d heard that tale even here, how he was giving a speech and said he was leaving the Shire, and then he disappeared in a flash of light and a cloud of smoke and a sound like thunder.  Then suddenly Mr. Frodo was up on a table talking fast and drawing the attention of everyone else--or, so I’m told by them as was there--I was talking to the Dwarves at the time, for one had decided the ale was watered down and was raising a row of his own.  Anyway, as long as he was on the table, everyone thought as he’d had more ale than was good for him, and someone called for a song, and he sang.  Sang a song about a cow jumping over a carriage and the Moon getting drunk and a dog laughing, or some such nonsense, and then he started dancing a bit, too, only the table fell and he did and he flat disappeared--everyone who was watching swears to that--that they saw him start to fall and disappear afore he hit the floor.  Only he was trying to claim he hit the floor and rolled under the table and crept off to the corner, and Strider had him sit by him to talk about something.  But old Jape, my barman, says that when he was dancing he had something in his hand, and he thought he saw some gold, and Mr. Frodo grabbed for it, and then he disappeared.  And coming so close on the story Mr. Took was telling about old Mr. Bilbo Baggins disappearing, it seemed too much a coincidence to some of the folks as were there, and particularly to Jape.

            “He--meaning Mr. Underhill--was right apologetic and paid for the broken dishes and all, but it was just too much.  But then something in the story, probably the idea of him disappearing with a small flash of gold he was grabbing for after the story of old Bilbo Baggins, made me remember the letter the Wizard Gandalf had left to be sent to Mr. Frodo Baggins, and I thought, ‘What if the two of them stories go together?  What if this is Gandalf’s Frodo Baggins?’  So I took a chance, and brought the letter here to see if he was indeed Mr. Frodo Baggins, and it turned out he was.”

            “You said he looked sort of tired like when he got back?”

            “Yes, tired like.  Like he’d been through a lot.  Was eager and pleased to be home, but then drew back, sort of.  Smiled and all, and nodded a lot, and now and then corrected the others, but more and more it was them telling the tale and not him.

            “I don’t know for certain what all happened down south, but it changed Mr. Baggins.  I think he was bad hurt, some how.  Seemed to be recovered, but maybe not as much as he looked on the outside, maybe.  And if anyone deserves to go with the Elves, I think somehow it would be him.  Can’t really say quite how I know that, but that’s the way I see it.

            “Now, you say that in Gondor they call him the Ringbearer.  Why do they call him that?”

            “He carried the Enemy’s Ring to Mordor to have it destroyed.”

            “But how did he get such a thing?”

            “Did you hear tell of Mr. Bilbo Baggins leaving the Shire before?”

            “Of course--another tale that made it even here.  Quiet, dependable Hobbit suddenly goes haring off with thirteen Dwarves, begging your pardon, Mr. Dorlin, sir....”

            “Quite all right, Mr. Butterbur.  But one of those thirteen Dwarves was my father, you should understand.”

            The innkeeper’s eyes got larger.  “Oh, really?  Do tell, Mr. Dorlin!”  He blinked several times, then continued:  “Anyway, off he goes for a year and a day, and then just as suddenly he comes back again with a bunch of treasure.”

            “Well, apparently at one point in their travels they were traveling through the passes of the Misty Mountains and found themselves in Goblin caves.”

            Dorlin interrupted.  “There was a horrible storm, and mountain Giants were throwing boulders about, so they found what appeared to be a shallow cave to take shelter in until the storm went down and the mountain Giants went to sleep.  Only it turned out this was the entrance to a series of Goblin caverns, and the Goblins came through a hidden doorway while all were asleep, stole the ponies, and took the Hobbit and my father and the other Dwarves captive.  But Gandalf helped them escape, and while they were seeking the way out, Bilbo got separated from the rest, and found a deep cavern with an underground lake, and met the creature Gollum.”

            The little Man nodded.  “So, that was the way of it, then?  I see.  Anyway, years ago the creature Gollum had lived near the Great River Anduin, near the place where Isildur son of Elendil and High King of Gondor and Arnor was slain, and the Ring Isildur had been carrying was found at the bottom of the River there.  Gollum stole it and carried it away, and he hid in the depths of the caverns beneath the Misty Mountain and kept the Ring for his own, not knowing it was in truth the Enemy’s Ring.  I am told he used it to make himself invisible so he could attack Goblins, which sometimes he would eat. 

            “One day the Ring slipped off his finger after he’d attacked a Goblin, and it was the day on which the Dwarves and the Hobbit were in the caverns seeking a way out of them.  Bilbo Baggins somehow was separated from the Dwarves and the Wizard and found himself in the depths of the caverns and tripped, and as he was trying to rise again he put his hand on the Ring and picked it up, then heard the creature Gollum and stuck it in his pocket.

            Again Dorlin nodded.  “Yes, he told my father and the others about this, too, how Gollum heard him and came to see what he was, and he indicated he would like to try to see if such as Bilbo were better to eat than Goblins.  And they played the Riddle Game.  If Bilbo lost, Gollum would eat him; but if Gollum lost, he would give him a present and lead him out of the caverns.  And when Bilbo touched the Ring in his pocket and didn’t remember putting it there, he asked, ‘What do I have in my pocket?’ and the creature thought it was the next riddle and demanded three guesses, and lost.  And as he ran away from Gollum, once he realized Gollum intended to eat him anyway, he tripped while his hand was in his pocket, the Ring slipped on his finger, and he realized Gollum couldn’t see him, and that the Ring made him invisible.  He used it several more times during their journey, usually to save my father and the other Dwarves.”

            The little Man Ruvemir nodded.  “So, that is a fuller tale than I had heard.  At any rate, this was how the Enemy’s Ring came into the possession of the Pherian Bilbo Baggins; and many years later the Wizard Mithrandir, still not certain what Ring it might be but frightened by changes he was beginning to see in his friend, convinced him to give it to his heir, the Lord Frodo Baggins.”

            Butterbur found himself nodding.  “So, that was the way of it, then,” he said.  “Old Mad Baggins put it on during his speech--”

            And Dorlin added, “And Gandalf set off one last firework to surprise everyone so no one would guess he had a Ring of Power in his possession.  Yes, Bilbo told us of that as we drove away toward Rivendell and Erebor.”

            Ruvemir looked at him with surprise.  “You were there at the birthday party, then?”

            Dorlin shrugged.  “Several Dwarves, including my father, were at Bag End, assisting Bilbo in his preparations to leave, and we traveled together first to Rivendell, where the Dwarves have ever been at peace with the Elves of that place, and then over the mountain passes and on until we at last came to the Lonely Mountain.  We did not go to the Party, though, knowing rightly that if we did, when Bilbo put on the Ring we would be blamed for the disappearance.  As Gandalf attended the party, he was blamed instead, and we were content that he should bear the brunt of the blame.  Now and then a Wizard needs a humbling experience.”

            And all laughed.

            Butterbur continued, “And then, when he was here, Mr. Frodo Baggins had the Ring in his hand as he danced on the table, and when he fell he slipped it on his finger.”

            Ruvemir shook his head.  “The King is certain that the Ring slipped itself onto Lord Frodo’s hand on purpose, to reveal him and itself.  He said that the malevolence of the thing was immeasurable, and that it often sought to reveal itself and to betray them on their journey.  It betrayed Lord Frodo at Amon Sul, and called to the evil creatures that lived before and within Moria while they sojourned there, although he would say no more than that.  A great grief happened there, apparently, for he would not speak of it, but pain was in his face in the mere mention of the place.  And he said he often felt a compulsion, while Frodo was sleeping, to come to him and take the Ring for himself.  The loathing he felt toward the thing was extreme.  He told me of it the night before we left Minas Anor.  He was trying to explain why it was that once they reached Orodruin Lord Frodo put it upon his finger one last time.”

            Dorlin nodded sadly.  “Gimli has told me of how they looked when they were found, he and Master Samwise, both near death and unconscious, Frodo’s hand still bleeding where the ring finger was now gone, both gaunt with lack of food and water and exposure to the fumes of the air of Mordor.  Both were bruised and cut from falling on the jagged stones of the Mountain, and Frodo was so far given to death the King almost could not call him back.  Master Samwise told him later, after they wakened, that he carried Frodo out of the chamber of the Sammath Naur, and that they managed to crawl till they came to a hillock where they had a few moments to speak their goodbyes to one another ere they died, for both were certain they would die.”

            “But,” Butterbur asked, “what happened to the Ring?  How was it destroyed?”

            Ruvemir sighed.  “Apparently after Bilbo took the Ring from Gollum’s cavern, Gollum himself left the Misty Mountains in search of it.  He followed the Fellowship several times during their journey, and when Lord Frodo left the rest to go on alone save for Lord Samwise, who would not leave him, he followed Lord Frodo and the Ring.  He followed them all the way to Orodruin and into the Chamber of Fire, and when it claimed Frodo and he finally put it on his hand one last time, Gollum struck down Lord Samwise and leapt where he’d last seen Lord Frodo, and found his hand by feel, captured it, and brought it to his mouth.  He then bit off the finger bearing the Ring and took it once again for his own--and fell, holding it, into the Fire of the Mountain, and so both were destroyed.”

            Butterbur shivered.  “That poor creature,” he said, unsure himself if he meant Frodo or Gollum.  And all nodded in agreement.  “Well,” he said at last, “that explains a good deal.  And you tell me Mr. Baggins is gone now, gone for good.  May he find rest.”

 *******

            The next morning Dorlin agreed to go with Ruvemir on the ponies to the Brandywine Bridge to send off the letters to Bag End, Brandy Hall, and the Great Smial.  In going through the dispatch bag provided with the carriage, Ruvemir had found there were several letters and packets already addressed and sealed, plus he had written his own letters to Lord Samwise, Sirs Meriadoc and Peregrin, the Mayor, the Master, and the Thain, asking for permission to speak with them of a commission laid on him by the Lord Aragorn Elessar Telcontar, King of Arnor and Gondor.  Then they returned to Bree and the Prancing Pony, where he repaired to the bathing room to soak his hip before returning to his own quarters to do the exercises before falling at last into his bed.  He had nothing save his old, threadbare robe to change into when he awoke, as Miriel had gone during his absence to see the laundress suggested by Butterbur and had taken all else to be cleaned, so he spent the day in his room or in the private parlor while Ririon and Miriel went to explore Bree with Dorlin.  Butterbur checked on him several times during the day, and during one of these visits Ruvemir produced from the dispatch case a thick, heavy envelope addressed to Barliman Butterbur, Proprietor, The Prancing Pony, Bree, Eriador in the Kingdom of Arnor, sealed with two blobs of black wax, one impressed with the device of the Tree, Stars, and Crown indicating this was from the Court of the King, and the second with the simple A glyph Ruvemir now knew indicated it came from the King himself.  Butterbur seemed very impressed, he noted, and rather than breaking the seals he provided a small knife and lifted them carefully, then opened the envelope with an expression of concentration on his face.

            The letter itself was short, but inside the paper was a black leather bag tied about with silver cord; and after puzzling out the letter Butterbur opened it with clumsy fingers to reveal seven gold pieces of the King’s coin, and shook them into his hand with a look of wonder.  That look continued as he raised his head to look at his guest.  “He says that this is to recompense me for the damage done when Mr. Underhill danced upon the table, and for the aid given to the party as they left the following morning and for any losses caused by the evil Men who attacked Bree.  He says Arnor and Gondor will always remember how the aid given at the Prancing Pony helped in the defeat of the Great Enemy.”  He looked down at the coins with awe.  “I’ve never held so much in worth in all my born days,” he said.  “And he signed it, ‘King Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar, Aragorn son of Arathorn, King of Arnor and Gondor, Strider.’  He signed himself ‘Strider’!”  He shook his head.  “Who’d have thought he’d remember the Pony?”  And shaking his head in amaze he went out.

            Ruvemir smiled after him.

 *******

            Sam Gamgee looked at the excited face of his friend Robin Smallburrow who stood at the door of Bag End, holding in his hands several missives just taken from the bag he wore at his shoulder.  “And what are you, a Shiriff, doing, playing at Quick Post messenger, Cock Robin?” he asked.

            Robin looked disappointed.  “Well, these came to the gate at the Brandywine Bridge yesterday, and I thought as you’d like to get them as quickly as possible.”

            Sam looked at the top one, and failed to recognize the handwriting.  “Who brought them?  A King’s Messenger?”  The looks of a King’s Messenger in their black and silver or grey-green with silver star at the shoulder were now a familiar sight at the east gate of the Shire.

            Robin, his excitement again growing, shook his head.  “Oh, no, not a King’s Messenger this time--a very short individual such as I’ve never seen before in my life--has a beard like some Men, but not long like old Gandalf wore.  He rode upon a pony, and wore a cloak of a wine color, very fine looking.  Wore boots, one of them with a very thick sole.  His arms and legs were very short, very short indeed.  I have no idea what race he is of.”  He shook his head with amazement.  “Never saw such as he in all my days.”  He held out the letters, and Sam took them diffidently, looked at the first with continued suspicion, then looked at the second, at the sight of which his expression lightened.  “Who’s that one from, then?”

            “Strider--from the King hisself.  Well, you may as well come in, as I know you aren’t going to leave anyway till I tell you what it’s all about, are you?”  And he turned and left Robin to close the door and follow him into the parlor.

            Rose looked up from mending she was doing.  Elanor sat near the fender removing the dress from a doll, and her brother lay on his back on a blanket nearby, sucking industriously on a large silver circle, watching the two Hobbit men with interest.  “A letter from the King, Rose, and another as well.  Cock Robin decided to play postman with them to relieve his curiosity.”  Rose smiled. 

            Sam set the missives on the chest by the chair which was now his, and headed back into the cellars and kitchen to fetch his friend some refreshment, and returned some moments later with a laden tray and set it on the chest by the letters, handing bread folded around sliced ham and cheese and a mug of ale to Robin and a cup of mulled cider to his wife.  Then and only then did he finally sit down and take up the letter from Aragorn and open it.  His forehead wrinkled as he read it, and finally he looked up.

            “How many other letters did he bring to the gate, this stranger?”

            “Oh, several, Sam.  A couple each for the Travelers, for the Mayor, the Thain, and the Master as well as these for you.”

            “And when did they get sent on?”

            Robin shrugged.  “I just told them that as my duty was now over I’d save a messenger and bring yours to you on my way home to Bywater, and set off immediately.  I suppose they would have been sent on right away.” 

            Sam nodded, and carefully examined the second.  Its seal, as Robin had already noted, was of grey wax stamped with the image of a mountain.  He opened and read it, a look of discontent on his face.

            “What is it, Love?” Rose asked.

            Sam shook his head as he answered.  “It’s that fool idea of doing a monument again,” he commented.

            “What monument?”

            “Oh, the King wants to do a statue of us for Minas Tirith.  Says he has a Master Sculptor he’s sending here, and asks us to meet with him and perhaps let him into the Shire to talk with them as knew and cared about Mr. Frodo most so as he can do a study for the statue.  And he wants him to do statues of us, too, me and Mr. Pippin and Mr. Merry.  Gonna do a group statue of all four of us, he is.  And the second letter is from the sculptor himself, someone named Ruvemir son of Mardil of Lebennin.  Think Lebennin is one of the southern fiefdoms, near where the Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth comes from, down near the Sea south and west of Minas Tirith.  Anyway, he’s come to Bree from Minas Anor, and is excited to finally have a chance to meet us, and me in particular, he says.  Admits he was in the Southlands when the war was going on, so he never saw any of us.  Says he’s a Man, but is of a sort called a mannikin, although I have no idea in Middle Earth what that means.  Says he is here with his ward and his sister Miriel, who’s a broiderer.  Wants to meet with us in the next week.”

            “Doesn’t sound like you’re too keen on this monument idea,” Robin said as he raised his mug to finish his ale.

            Again Sam shrugged.  “It’s not like we did anything all that special,” he said.

            Rosie stopped short, her needle paused in mid-air.  “Samwise Gamgee!” she exclaimed.  “I swear, I don’t know what to think of you at times.  You went all the way to the Black Land with your Master, all the way to Mount Doom itself, almost died how many times, and you don’t think that’s important?  We’d all be in chains if you hadn’t--in chains or, more like, dead, if you and Master Frodo hadn’t done that.  And if the King wants to do a monument for it, then I say good.  You deserve to be honored, you and Master Frodo both.  And from what you’ve all told me, Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin deserve as much as well, for a lot of important folk would have died hadn’t they done what they did.  Now, am I right, or am I right?”

            Sam reddened as he shrugged again and took up the third mug on the tray and drank from it.  Finally he said, “But you didn’t see the pictures as those artist folk in Minas Anor did.”
            “That one of your Master is fine enough.”

            “Well, that one was fine, but nowhere near as good as anything Mr. Frodo could have done, but Mr. Strider never asked him.”

            “No question Master Frodo was as skillful with drawing sticks as with his pen, but did Mr. Strider ever see any of his pictures?”  After another shrug from her husband, she nodded.  “Well then, then why complain he didn’t ask to see what he didn’t know was?”  She resumed her mending.  “I’m all for it, myself, Love.”

            “Why?”

            “Because I’m married to the finest gentlehobbit now in the Shire, and I think he deserves it, that’s why.  Now, why don’t you go get Cock Robin another mug of ale and a small cup of milk for your daughter?”

*******

            For several hours that night Sam sat looking at the two letters, and finally, after Robin had left and the children were in their cots and Rosie had announced her back hurt bad enough to take it to bed, he went into the study to write a reply.  Then he fetched his stationery box from the small desk in his bedroom, unlocked the drawer, and spent a while going through the papers it contained, a familiar ache in his heart.  Near midnight he finally locked them back in the drawer, and carrying it went back to the master bedroom and put it back where it belonged, and undressing and putting on a thick nightshirt against the cold, he slipped into bed beside his wife.

            A few hours later he woke to find her stroking his face, her eyes tender.  “I’m sorry, my love,” she said softly.  “I didn’t mean to waken the grief again.”

            He realized he’d been weeping in his sleep.  “It’s okay, Rosie.  You didn’t do it, and you’re right, he deserves a monument--a whole kingdom’s worth of monuments, even.  But I wouldn’t of done what I did if it hadn’t been for the need not to let him go alone.  He’d have died--almost did anyways.”

            She nodded gently, and kissed him just as gently, and he embraced her with relief.

*******

            Nevertheless, it was still with a degree of reluctance that Sam went to meet with the Mayor and the Master and the Thain and Merry and Pippin in Michel Delving three days later.  Pippin and Merry were already there looking uncertain, while the Thain, the Master, and the Mayor all looked eager, if (on the Mayor’s part, at least) a bit bemused.

            “I think it’s about time the Shirefolk got some recognition in the outer world,” Paladin Took, Thain of the Shire, announced.  Since reading the entire Red Book his pride in his son and his friends had grown to an almost alarming point, and of the six of them he was the most keen on the project.  “After all, our own gave a good deal to help defeat the Enemy, and they have all done much worth praise.”

            “It was Frodo and Sam who did the most, Da,” Pippin said, “and they are the ones who deserve praise, not me.  And even Merry helped kill the Lord of the Nazgul.”

            “And you were found with a Troll the weight of a mountain on you, one which you vanquished.  And your friend from the Guard, the one who is now the chief guard for the Prince of Ithilien, would not be alive if not for you.  Even Merry wouldn’t be alive if not for you.”  To which Merry nodded agreement.

            “I’m agreeing only for Mr. Frodo’s sake,” Sam said.  “He’s the one what deserves a monument.”  And Merry and Pippin agreed.

            The Mayor shrugged.  “I still don’t completely understand what it was all about, and you can keep on talking about Black Men on Black Horses and Rings and mountains till the world ends and I doubt as I’ll ever truly understand.  But the four of you apparently saved a whole bunch of folks out there, and that’s good enough for me.  And what’s more, you saved a bunch of folks here.  I go along with it.”

            Sam grunted.  “Well, I want to see what he’s good for, first.  The ones in Minas Anor--they was awful, and you two--” with a nod to Merry and Pippin “--you two know it.  If he ain’t going to do a good job, I don’t want nothing to do with him.  If he’s to do a monument for Frodo, he’s to do it right or not at all.” 

            “And I agree with that,” Merry said. 

            Pippin added, “Me, too.”

            A letter was drafted to send back to the sculptor in Bree, and all agreed to start for Bree the following morning.

 *******

            Ririon was feeling the small sculpture that his guardian had just finished, his face delighted.  “I can feel his hands, Ruvemir, on his knees.  And the hood half over his face.  And his boots.”  He turned his face toward where the sculptor sat by the fire.  “Will I ever be this good, do you think?”

            Ruvemir laughed.  “You are doing well enough, Ririon.  You will be good at what you do, you will find.  I cannot do as well with animals as you do.  It is possible you may specialize in animals or even simple shapes.  My colleague Bergemon specializes in figures on horseback;  Ferion specializes in silhouettes in bas-relief; Damrod does armed soldiers and ships and buildings in bas-relief.  And I specialize in people, and reconstructing the faces and figures of those no longer with us.  You cannot expect to do what I do, nor what my father does.  You are already learning some of my techniques; but in the end you will develop your own that will serve you best.  This is the nature of art.”

            At that moment there was a knock at the door to the parlor, and at Ruvemir’s call the door opened and Nob entered, clearly excited.  Ruvemir had been happy to finally meet a Pherian in person, and had paid a small commission to both Nob and Butterbur to do several studies of him so as to better acquaint himself with Halfling physical appearance and build.  Nob had been embarrassed at first to be so closely examined, but as he saw the drawings produced from these sessions he’d become increasingly intrigued with the work of the odd guests at the inn, and more and more he had begun to feel he had a personal interest in seeing the sculptor complete his commission.

            Ruvemir noted immediately the excitement the servitor showed, and asked, “Word has come at last?”

            Nob grinned as he nodded and held out the envelope he carried.  “Just came, sir, just now.  I was shaking out the mat at the door when one of the messengers who makes the run to the gate at the Brandywine Bridge arrived and announced he had a letter from Michel Delving for the sculptor as was sent by the King.”

            As he took the envelope Ruvemir asked, “Michel Delving?  That is the capital of the Shire?”

            “Oh, the Shire don’t have a capital--it’s just where the Council Hole and the storage tunnels and the Mathom House and the grounds for the Free Fair are.  It’s central-like, so makes a good place for most folk to meet when it’s needed to meet is all.” 

            Deciding that it wasn’t worthwhile trying to reason why that didn’t make Michel Delving the Shire’s capital, Ruvemir examined the envelope.  He did not recognize the writing, and the seal of what appeared to be a leaf wasn’t particularly informative, either.  Sighing, he slipped the smoothing tool he’d been using under the wax and lifted it, then pulled out the letter inside.  Ririon had paused in his examination of the soapstone figure his guardian had made and was peering toward him expectantly, as was Nob.  And at that moment Miriel came out of the bedroom with one of the sleeves she’d just finished cutting, preparatory to starting the embroidery, and seeing the letter in her brother’s hand she, too, waited to see what news had arrived. 

            Finally Ruvemir raised his gaze and announced, “They’ve agreed to meet with us, and are apparently already on their way to Bree.”

            Miriel asked, “Who is coming?”

            Her brother looked back at the letter.  “Apparently all of those to whom the King and I wrote.  I’m not sure when they’ll arrive, though, for no date nor time is given.”  He turned to Nob.  “Can you let Master Butterbur know that we will expect at least six individuals from the Shire in the next few days, and I will gladly pay for rooms for them?”

            Nob smiled broadly as he assured the sculptor he would see to it immediately, and scurried off to carry the request.  Relieved to know that he would at least get a chance to meet his proposed subjects and to reason with them, Ruvemir took back the figure he’d been working on from Ririon, and had him bring out his own work, a wood carving of a snake coiled around a branch, and had the boy go over the work and point out flaws he could feel and describe why he believed them to be flaws and what he might do to correct them, or to compensate for them if he’d gone too deep to truly set things right.  He then set the boy to doing the corrections he’d identified, and examined his own figure for a few minutes, and setting it on the small table he’d been offered as a work bench he continued the smoothing process.  Miriel sat at the table with her sleeve and colored threads, and all had been working diligently for about an hour when an abrupt knock at the door announced the arrival of Butterbur and Nob together, both looking flustered. 

            “They’re here already, sir!  Seems as they left the Shire afore the letter was entrusted to the Messengers, and the Messengers passed them on the Road today!  They’re in the stables with Bob, seeing about the housing for their ponies.  What can we do to tidy things for you, now?”

            Ririon’s carving and his own were both set on the main table momentarily as stools and work table were moved aside to lift the drop cloths Ruvemir routinely worked over when doing a sculpture inside, and Nob frisked off with them to shake them out in the alley behind the inn.  Butterbur ran a quick duster over the furniture; Miriel produced the whisk with which her brother brushed off his clothing after working on a project and did her best to hurriedly neaten the appearance of her menfolk; and deciding there wasn’t time to do more at this point, the innkeeper hurried out to bring six more chairs into the room. 

            The additional chairs were barely in place before they heard voices in the passage, and a knock at the doorway announced the arrival of Nob with the cloths draped over his arm, leading six figures.  Ruvemir immediately recognized Peregrin Took and one who must be his father, as he had the same browline and auburn curls, and Meriadoc Brandybuck.  The serious-looking Hobbit who followed after was probably the Master of Brandy Hall, he decided.  He was surprised to find both sons were decidedly taller than their fathers, indeed taller than any of the Pheriannath he’d already seen here in Bree, and wondered at this.  Behind them was a round Hobbit who looked rather tired, as if he’d just done far more physical exertion than he’d done for some time.  His expression was cheerful but somewhat drawn, as if he’d been seriously ill at some time in the past.  At the end came Samwise Gamgee, his expression very guarded.

            Both the Hobbit knights and Sam wore now-familiar grey-green cloaks with hoods, cloaks fastened with enameled leaf brooches, and as they removed them he saw that the knights wore mail shirts and carried swords.  Lord Samwise, on the other hand, wore what he knew to be standard Hobbit attire--trousers to mid-calf, a finely made shirt, the garment he now knew was called a waistcoat or vest--a very fine one of figured cloth, he noted, far richer than he’d been pictured wearing by Frodo, neatly buttoned with a chain across it from which dangled a silver key; and over that a jacket of excellent fabric, finely finished, complementing the vest beautifully, with a fine kerchief standing up in its pocket.  It appeared first that Samwise Gamgee’s status within the Shire had changed markedly for the better, and that he was intending to impress upon this stranger that he was a Hobbit of substance.  Ruvemir, Miriel, and Ririon found themselves the focus of serious attention by their guests, and Ruvemir found himself returning the attention avidly.  Miriel took the shed cloaks and laid them over the now dusted work table, which had been moved near the hearth, and once all were finally relieved of their outer garments, the sculptor decided it was time to make introductions.

            “As you have been told, I am Ruvemir son of Mardil of Lebennin, and am a Master Sculptor.  This is my sister Miriel, who is a Master Embroiderer, and our ward Ririon son of Embril and Damsen, who is apprenticed to learn carving.”  With a low bow, he continued, “We welcome you and thank you for agreeing to meet with us, and for coming so quickly to Bree.  Won’t you sit and become comfortable?”  He then turned to the innkeeper.  “Thank you very much, Master Butterbur, for the assistance you have given us tonight.  Will you please bring a pitcher of mulled cider and one of ale?  And we should all be ready for the excellent lamb stew I understand is being served tonight within an hour’s time, if that is all right with our guests?”  He looked at the six Pheriannath, who, one by one, nodded their agreement.  Pippin and Merry greeted Butterbur quietly before he slipped out of the room, while Sam gave him a brief nod of acknowledgment and turned his gaze back on Ruvemir as he and his fellows seated themselves.  Each introduced himself, and he found he was right in his guesses, and that the sixth, the round Hobbit, was Will Whitfoot, the Mayor of the Shire.

            It was Sam who spoke first.  “Well,” he said, “Strider’s told us as he’s going to follow through on this monument of his, and that you are to carve it.  Not that I’m all that well pleased to appear in no monument, understand, although I can’t presume to speak for Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin.  Don’t rightly understand why Strider is so for it.  Are you any good?”

            Ruvemir decided false modesty would have only a negative effect on the Shirefolk, and answered with a succinct “Yes.”  At the skeptical look on the Hobbit’s face, he continued:  “Last summer I was working on a commission in the village of Casistir on the River Gilrain, and was approached by a cloaked and hooded stranger about accepting my next commission in Minas Anor itself, that he wished a memorial made for his friend.  He based his choice of me for this work on two of the sculptures I’d done for the new Hall for the village, one of them Prince Adrahil, father to Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth--” (all three of his subjects nodded their recognition) “--and one of the Lord Captain Thorongil, who many, many years ago served in the forces of Gondor, and who with Prince Adrahil led a very successful assault on the Corsairs of Umbar.”

            Captain Pippin spoke up.  “You did one of Aragorn leading the assault on Umbar when he burned their ships in the harbor itself?”

            Ruvemir nodded.  “Then you have heard of that assault?”

            Captain Pippin returned the nod.  “Yes.  He told me of it as I was recovering in Ithilien.  He’d been injured in the fight on the wharves, but not seriously, he said; and then as they were returning to Minas Anor he got word through one of his foster brothers he was needed in Eriador, for his uncle had been killed in a major orc raid, so he sent a letter to the Lord Steward Ecthelion resigning his commission.  Once he had things settled there he came back south secretly and went east toward Rhun.  I’m not sure when he went to Harad, but he told us he’d been there, too.  But I thought hardly anyone in Gondor knew he’d served as Captain Thorongil.”

            “That’s true.  I certainly didn’t know.  But I questioned some who had known him and got them to describe Captain Thorongil to me, and based my sculpture on that.”        

            Lord Samwise snorted.  “And how was you to get a good description of him from others?”

            Ruvemir smiled and went to one of the chests which stood in a far corner, opened it, and brought out a booklet and carried it over to the gardener, leafing through it to a specific page as he walked across the room.

            “These are the studies on which the features of the Lord Captain were based.  They were all made from descriptions given me by those who remembered him.  They were made a year before I met the mysterious Strider in Casistir.” 

            Lord Sam looked at the first indicated page with skepticism still obvious in his face, but the expression changed to surprise as he turned pages, looked at each new study.  Finally he reached the picture of the girl and looked up with new respect on his face.   “You did these just from what folks told you about what Captain Thorongil looked like?”

            Ruvemir nodded.  “Yes, from what others told me of him.  I understand when the King saw the finished statue he and the Prince and the others with them were all taken aback.  Certainly the first time I actually saw his face I recognized the features of Captain Thorongil, although I assumed that person had been his father.”

            Sir Merry laughed.  “I bet when you asked him about his relationship with the Lord Captain Thorongil he just passed it off, although I’ll also wager he was trying hard to keep a straight face.”  And when Ruvemir indicated this was true, he continued, “That is just like him.  I can’t tell you how many times it took hearing it to realize he was going to be King of Gondor sometime; and once it got through to me Frodo was thoroughly disgusted with me, but Aragorn was doing his best to keep from laughing in my face.”

            Captain Pippin said, “Oh, I just didn’t really understand what it all meant until Gandalf was leading me into the Citadel in Minas Tirith, warning me it wouldn’t do to talk of Strider to the Lord Denethor as when he came he’d be coming to take over as King, and you should have seen the look old Gandalf gave me, Merry.  I must have looked quite the fool for my expression at the time.”       

            “As if that were anything new,” his cousin responded, and received a good-natured jab to his ribs from Captain Pippin’s elbow.

            “Ow!” said Pippin.  “Remind me not to jab you when you have your mail on.”

            Sir Merry smiled at Ruvemir.  “He always says that, you know.”

            Ruvemir was beginning to see the reality of what he’d been told by Lasgon and Mistress Loren, while Ririon couldn’t help but laugh at what he heard.

            Sam ignored the two cousins, having turned his attention back to the sketch booklet.  “So this is how you intend to find out as what my Master looked like, then?”

            Ruvemir nodded.  “I’ve already begun working on preliminary drawings.” 

            Sam nodded guardedly and began turning pages.  He stopped at the page on which Ruvemir had begun doing the sketch intended to give him the proper contours of Lord Frodo’s face and frowned, then turned past it.  The next study he stopped at for quite a while, and his expression softened.  Seeing this the two knights rose and came to stand looking over his shoulders, and the faces of both became gentle with memory.

            Pippin looked across at Ruvemir, his eyes shining with unshed tears.  “You caught him laughing.”

            The sculptor nodded.  “Mistress Loren and the page Lasgon both told me of how hard you worked to coax him to laughter, my Lords.  I wanted to capture that.”

            The door opened, and Nob and Butterbur carried in a couple of trays and set them on the table, then bowed and left to distracted thanks from those in the room.  Sam set the booklet on the table, turned to the tankards and pitchers of ale, then spotted the soapstone carving that sat there, reached out to take it up instead.  For some moments he held it, turned it to look at it from several sides, and at last looked to the sculptor.  “You did this?” he asked in a soft voice.

            Ruvemir nodded.

            Sam took a deep breath and held it out to Sir Merry, who took it with wonder, examining it with care and a level of reverence.  He then gave it to Pippin, who drew himself up straight, and suddenly Ruvemir realized just how the young Hobbit could be transformed into the Guard of the Citadel.  There was a decided look of pride on his face as he looked into the hooded features of the small carving.  He didn’t quite salute, yet....

            The one identified as Sir Meriadoc’s father had reached for the booklet and was handed it by his son; and had started to look at the pictures, then stopped to watch first Sam’s face, then his son’s, and then his nephew’s as they each examined the small figure.  Captain Peregrin looked to catch his eye, then held it out with respect.  “Sir, this is how we first saw the King.”  Master Saradoc set down the booklet on his lap to take the sculpture, and examined it carefully, then passed it to Mayor Whitfoot, who in turn passed it to the Thain.  Each looked at the sculptor with great respect as they completed their inspections, and for several moments the room was quite silent. 

            “Ruvemir?” asked Ririon, trying to understand the change in the tone of the assembly.

            “They are looking at the figure of Strider I did, Ririon.”

            “And,” added Captain Peregrin, “recognizing our friend and our King.  Your--master--is a fine sculptor.  A fine sculptor.  I see how he is considered a Master in his craft.  That is exactly how we first saw him, in the corner of the common room here in the Prancing Pony, just over five years ago.”  He held out his hand, and the figure was returned to him, and he took it with great gentleness, stroked it gently with one finger.  A single tear rolled down his cheek.

            Master Saradoc was beginning to look again through the booklet, and found the studies of Captain Thorongil, leafed through them, stopped to look at the figure of the girl, then turned to see two pages had been removed before he saw the study of Frodo that had caused Sam to frown, and then the next one of Frodo laughing.  His face softened markedly, and Ruvemir realized this one also felt a level of grief.  He held it out to show the Mayor and the Thain, and saw the recognition in both faces.  He then began leafing through more pages, paused with pleasure at the study of his son, then held it out to show the others, and then with all three looking at it together he turned more pages, revealing the study of Captain Peregrin caught in a moment of introspection, and the Thain straightened much as had his son.  Then they turned to the picture of the King as he’d sat by Ruvemir’s bed....

            “The King?” asked the Master.

            “Yes,” Ruvemir replied.  “He came to tend me in the Houses of Healing after seeing an embassy from Umbar.”

            “And what mishap had you endured?” Sir Meriadoc asked.

            “I got caught in a rainstorm out on the Pelennor, and took a severe chill.  Then my pony threw me twice, first time while I was trying to mount to get back to the city, and the second time when lightning and thunder broke over our heads.  It injured my hip, which isn’t the strongest feature I have anyway.  Later that evening I was going to put some pictures into the desk in my room and the hip slipped out of place, and I was in agony.  I made it somehow to the bed before I quite passed out.  I was found in a bad way the next morning.”

            “And does he make you do those exercises several times a day?” asked Captain Peregrin.  When Ruvemir indicated he did, the Pherian nodded.  “Yes, I had to do them up until after the wedding.”

            “I didn’t realize you’d had your hip displaced.”

            “Oh, yes, when the troll fell on me.  I’m glad I was still unconscious when they put it back in.”

            “I was just barely returning to consciousness, but I didn’t stay so for long.”

            “I can imagine.  My whole side turned the most interesting colors with the bruises.”  Again they shared a mutual nod of fellowship.  “Umbar, eh?  And what did they want?”

            “A new treaty.  The Lord Elessar told me he gave them a new one--but strictly on his own terms.”

            Pippin straightened again.  “Yes, I imagine he did,” he said knowingly. “And I can imagine his expression--most grim.”

            The other two who had known the King himself nodded their agreement. 

            Then the Master turned to the study of Samwise.  “But this looks just like him!” he exclaimed, then turned it so the younger Pheriannath could see.  Sam looked at it surprised, while the others gave a sharp intake of breath. 

            Sir Meriadoc looked at it in awe, then at the artist.  “How did you do that one?” he asked.  “It looks so very much like him.”

            Unwilling to tell them of Frodo’s pictures in Lasgon’s keeping, he said, carefully, “Lord Frodo--left a description of Lord Samwise.  And it was so detailed I could--”  He stopped, and found himself looking into Sam’s face, who was looking at him in a calculated way, and he realized this Halfling had divined what he’d really seen, but was willing to let the others think it was a written description.

            But the others nodded, as if this was not unexpected.  “Bet he did it for the King,” Sir Meriadoc said quietly to his cousin, and Pippin nodded.

            Lord Samwise gave him a long, evaluative stare.  “And now you’d like to do life studies of us, I suppose, and have us to describe him as have done those in Minas Anor?”

            “Yes.  And this the Lord Elessar had hoped as well, that you would allow us to enter the Shire and see where he had lived and speak to those who remember him with love.”

            “And you want to do this monument?”

            “Yes, I want, very much I want, to do this memorial.”

            “Why?”

            Ruvemir looked down, then back at the gardener.  “I am a mannikin.  Can you imagine what the Enemy would have done to me and mine, to my sister and myself and others like us, had you and your Master not done what you did?  We would have been slaughtered out of hand, and I could barely have lifted a hand to try to protect us.  Oh, I can wield hammer and chisel well enough to carve, although I usually have an apprentice do the rough cutting as it is so much more laborious for me than for others of more normal proportions.  But I cannot use a sword with any facility at all--and as for a bow--”  He shrugged.  “The whole of Minas Anor wishes to do honor to you and your Master, Lord Samwise.  The word that he has left Middle Earth has spread through Gondor, and all everywhere mourn his loss.”

            “I don’t think as he’s dead, not yet.”

            “What has become of him is a mystery to all, and the Lord Elessar will barely speak of it for grief.”

            Sam became more alert.  “Strider is grieving?”

            “Yes, Lord Samwise.  He knows he will not see him again in this life, and he grieves strongly for him.”

            As the Lord Samwise squeezed his eyes shut, Ruvemir realized that the feelings of the King mattered greatly to him.  Sir Meriadoc placed his hand on Samwise’s shoulder and gently kneaded it.

            Ririon spoke up.  “Lord Samwise, do you remember me from Minas Anor?”

            Sam looked at him intently.  “Should I member you?  Sorry, but I don’t-- we met so many there.”

            The boy nodded his understanding.  “I was much smaller than I am now, just a little boy in an innyard, getting my ears boxed--”

            “Oh, I do member you,” the Halfling interrupted.  “And Mr. Frodo went in and stopped him hitting and yelling at you.  Did he treat you proper after that?”

            “Oh, yes, Lord Samwise.”

            “And did you behave proper back?”

            The boy smiled.  “Yes, sir, I did.  I wanted to earn Lord Frodo’s love.”

            And the Pherian nodded slowly, and smiled back.  “Yes, I know.”  He examined the boy’s face for a time.  “What happened to your eyes?”

            “I got the pox, and it put blisters on my eyes, and afterward I could barely see.  I see better now, for the King helped scrape off some of the scars.  But I still can see only partially, sir.”

            “And how did you end up with these folk?”

            “I have the gift of carving.  And Master Ruvemir is helping to teach me how to use my gift.”

            Sam looked into the sculptor’s eyes.  “He any good?”

            Ruvemir smiled.  “Look at the other carving on the table.”

            Captain Peregrin turned and looked, then reached across and caught up the other carving, examined it and smiled, then handed it to Sam, who took it gently and looked at it with surprise.

            “Do snakes live in Minas Tirith?” he asked.

            “Evamir Cook kept one as a pet, to help keep mice down in the kitchens at the Dragon’s Claw.  He had it from Anfalas.  He couldn’t keep a cat--made his face to swell.”  And again this carving passed from hand to hand.

            Finally the Mayor spoke.  His voice was high, but not unpleasant.  “I don’t recognize the name of your race, Master Ruvemir.  Where do the Mannikins live?”

            Ruvemir shook his head.  “Mannikin is the name given to us by normal folk, Master.  My sister and I are of the race of Men, but are born with stunted bodies and limbs.  There aren’t many of us in Gondor, but always there at least a few.”

            The three older Halflings looked into one another’s eyes with concern.  The Thain spoke finally.  “The King has made a law forbidding Men to enter the Shire, yet he asks you be allowed to do so anyway?”

            “Only for a short time, and only if you yourselves will welcome us, sir.   It is your decision, and not his--and certainly not mine.  Only to you does he grant permission to overlook this law.  Certainly he will hold himself to it.” 

            The six of them looked from one to another, and he sensed they were making their decision without words.  Finally the Thain spoke.  “All right, we will grant it, for you and for the sakes of Frodo Baggins and the King.  But we will not tell our people that you are of the race of Men--too many are too deeply scarred by what we endured during the time of the Troubles.  And we ask that you refrain from naming yourselves as well.”

            And so it was decided to allow the Master Sculptor to enter the Shire.

Finding Frodo Baggins

            The next day they repacked the rest of their goods; and with the help of Jape the barman and a couple of others hired for the day, the chests were remounted in their places on and in the carriage, and early the following morning they set out for the Shire.  The road was bare again, and it had become cold enough the road was half frozen.  Sam rode on the box beside Ririon, driving the team while Ruvemir, Miriel, and the Mayor rode inside, the extra three ponies trailing behind.  It took until after sunset to reach the gate at the Brandywine Bridge, and finally they turned toward Buckland and Brandy Hall.  The two knights had gone before to prepare folk for their arrival, and it was with relief they saw the door open and golden light spill out as the coach came to a welcomed halt.  Merry helped Ririon and Samwise down, Pippin assisted the passengers from within, and once their personal goods and the one chest of clothes were handed down Pippin clambered up and drove the carriage to the stable yard while Ruvemir, Miriel, and Ririon were led into the Hall with the rest. 

            They were given two rooms in the guest wing, interior rooms that were nevertheless quite comfortably airy and warm.  They were then shown the bathing rooms, and soon, warmed and changed into fresh garments, they were shown into the dining hall for the next meal.

            They quickly garnered glances from all over the room as folk took in their outlandish dress, stunted arms and legs, apparently oversized heads, unusual gait, and Ruvemir’s bearded features.  Miriel’s hairstyle of braids twisted into a knot at the back of her head was being closely evaluated, as was her embroidered shawl over her simple yet rich-looking gown, so different from the knit or crocheted shawls, multiple petticoats, and full skirts of the Shire ladies.  And the hints of her shoes from under her floor-length skirt drew the eyes of both sexes, it seemed.  Ruvemir could see how pale she was, and yet at the same time she held herself with great dignity, and he was immensely proud of her and took her elbow protectively.  Ririon walked on the other side, his hand on Ruvemir’s shoulder, listening intently, trying to get a feel for the room and the people in it.  There were a couple of tables which seemed to hold young hobbits, not children any more, yet definitely not adults, either, while young children appeared to eat with their parents. 

            The food served was already familiar as it was similar to that served at the Prancing Pony, but with even more choices.  Many of those present had already started eating before the Master and his Lady took their places at the head table to which the guests were being led, and as they were being shown their chairs the two knights entered and slipped into chairs side by side.  A moment later the Thain entered with the Mayor and Lord Samwise, and Ruvemir tapped Ririon on the shoulder and they rose respectfully, which drew both surprise and appreciative glances from the others.  Well, Ruvemir thought, apparently their manners were being noted positively.

            Lord Sam gave a glance to the two knights, who rose, and the three turned to the West for the Standing Silence, which Ruvemir, Ririon, and Miriel joined, as did the Master and his Lady after a brief pause.  All others quieted but watched them with curiosity, only the Thain lowering his own eyes with still an air of respect.

            As they resumed their seats the Mayor looked at them with curiosity.  “One of these days,” he commented in his high, pleasant voice, “someone is going to tell me what that means.”

            Lord Samwise gave him a surprisingly (from Ruvemir’s perspective) indulgent smile.  “You could of asked Mr. Frodo or any of us at any time, Will,” he said, “and we’d of told you.  It’s the Standing Silence, in respect for those as are in the Undying Lands.”

            “The Elves?” asked Master Whitfoot, apparently surprised.

            “The Valar,” corrected Sam, “though there’s many among the Elves as deserve all honor, too.  And Mr. Frodo,” he added, almost under his breath.  Apparently the two knights had caught that comment, too, as they gave quick nods. 

            Then Sir Merry rose as a pretty young Hobbit lady approached the remaining empty chair to his right, and they embraced and briefly kissed.  “My wife, Estella,” he said by way of introduction.  “These are Mistress Miriel and Master Ruvemir of Lebennin in Gondor, children of Master Mardil, and their young ward Ririon, who’s apprenticed as a carver and sculptor.”  Once courtesies were exchanged all round, she turned briefly West, then sat down.  That she had adopted the Standing Silence impressed the sculptor, for what he’d seen of Sir Meriadoc was not indicative of one who would impose his own observances on another.  No, if she kept the Standing Silence it was to both honor her husband and the Valar, he sensed.  He wondered how long the two of them had been acquainted.  “All right, my Love,” Merry said, “and how goes the wooing of the fair Melilot?”

            “The question just popped out of him yesterday,” she said with satisfaction as she served herself from a bowl handed her.  “I think only Melilot was not surprised when it happened, for he turned several shades of pink.”

            “Will she have him?”

            “Oh, yes.  Oh, give my brother a few more months, and he will be most definitely married.”

            “Good for Fatty,” he said.  “You know, it is so long since he was truly ‘Fatty’ I don’t know why we keep calling him that.”

            She smiled.  “Sam never has, nor did Frodo.  And I think if he were to try to reclaim his former title properly Budgie and Viola would clap him back in the Lockups to lose it all again.  Budgie says his former weight was not good for him, you know, and that it’s good he doesn’t carry it now.”

            “And  how does Budgie feel about him marrying?”

            “Seems to think it will be the making of him.  Says it will undoubtedly add years to his life.”

            Sir Peregrin smiled with satisfaction.  “Good, then.  If Budgie says it’s good for him, I’m all for it.”

            “And now we’re waiting for you, Pippin.  When are you and Diamond going to announce?”

            “Hmm.  After the way you three badgered me and Rosie,” Lord Samwise commented, “it’s about time we returned the favor.  Or, should I start proposing to her as he--” with a jerk of the head toward Merry “--did with Rosie?”

            Sir Pippin gave him a considering look and said, “Oh, but I don’t think Rosie would take too well to a second Mistress of Bag End, though she might agree to Diamond setting up in Number Three.”  He turned to the Mayor and the Thain.  “Tell me, Will, Da--would it be legal for Sam to take a second wife?”

            And with similar good-humored talk the meal continued.  Miriel was apparently surprised at the easy manners, and as the meal and talk continued began to giggle, which Ruvemir noted with satisfaction.  Ruvemir suddenly realized that Sir Peregrin, who sat to Ruvemir’s right, was quietly assisting his ward, asking if he’d like help cutting his meat, telling him where on the plate food sat, serving him with the cider provided as a drink, and yet all the while keeping up his part in the often outrageous commentary that kept all of them laughing.  Even the stolid Lord Samwise was unbending, far more than he’d done in Bree. 
            Mistress Estella was examining Miriel closely, and during a lull asked, “Mistress Miriel, I was wondering who did the embroidery on your shawl, for it is among the finest I’ve ever seen.”

            Miriel colored prettily, Ruvemir thought, and admitted, “It is my own work, Mistress Estella.  I am a master embroiderer among my own people.”

            “Well, with such as a sample, I can see how it is you have earned your rank.  Are those flowers from your homeland?”

            And now at last Miriel was being drawn out, which also pleased Ruvemir.  The Master’s Lady, who was belatedly introduced as Mistress Esmeralda, was also interested in the workmanship displayed on the clothing of the three guests, and soon the three ladies were obviously planning projects to decorate gowns for the Midsummer festivities.  And the rest of the meal passed pleasantly. 

            After the meal Miriel, Ruvemir and Ririon rose politely and with bows and curtseys thanked their hosts, who again seemed pleased and flattered at the courtesy shown by their guests, and it was suggested that they go into one of the more private parlors to continue the talk.  Miriel and Ruvemir agreed, but noted they needed to fetch their work from their rooms, and so Merry agreed to accompany them and show them the way, and all parted, bowing agreeably.  As they walked back through the room Miriel was more relaxed and less self-conscious, and again Ruvemir was pleased.

            The parlor was well appointed, although it had more furniture and decorations than a similar room would have carried in Gondor, Ruvemir thought.  The chairs were comfortable, although deeper than Ruvemir would have had built for himself.  They were offered wine, which Ruvemir accepted, and pipeweed, which he did not.  Miriel was given a chair under a lamp as it was noted she carried her embroidery, and Mistress Esmeralda took the chair on the other side as she had brought lacework, and soon the two of them were talking companionably as they worked, soon joined by young Mistress Estella and her knitting.  Ririon had brought his serpent carving and his dropcloth, and Ruvemir carried his sketch booklets.  For a time the talk of harvests that had been going on from their arrival continued, but at last all fell silent and looked to the Master as host. 

            Ruvemir had said little so far, but had been sketching steadily, now and then giving quiet instruction to his ward.  Now he paused and watched the Master, who was clearly unsure how to begin.  Finally the sculptor decided perhaps he ought to lead the discussion. 

            “We thank you for your hospitality to us, strangers from the Southlands.  And we thank you for honoring the request of the Lord King Elessar, allowing us to enter your land and meet with you and learn more of our proposed subjects.  I know Lord Samwise--” he noted the flush  “--has not been exceptionally comfortable with being so immortalized, but has graciously agreed at the King’s plea.  And I tell you that each I have spoken to who remembers you in Minas Anor and along the way has agreed this is a project full worthy of completion, and all remember all four of you with greatest respect and honor. 

            “Sir Meriadoc, Lord King Éomer of Rohan sends you this, and his sister Lady Éowyn this.”  And he held out two small packages. 

            The knight flushed as he accepted them, and opened them eagerly.  Both held horsehead brooches, the one from the Lady Éowyn finely modeled.  He read the note enclosed with that one and smiled, then handed brooch and missive to his wife.  “This is intended for my bride,” he explained, and she accepted it with delight. 

            Two gifts there were for Sir Peregrin, also, from the Lord Steward and the King--a small dagger and a velvet box containing a fine chain from which hung a White Tree wrought from mithril, covered with blossoms of diamond.  Sir Peregrin’s mouth opened with awe, then he looked suspiciously at Lord Samwise.  “You told him!  You told him about Diamond!” 

            Sam shook his head.  “Did not!  Oh, I might of mentioned you was keeping company, but I swear that was all!” 

            Sir Meriadoc stood to look more closely at the pendant and said, “He’s right, Pip.  I saw the letter before it was sent.  Think we’re seeing the results of his family’s gift of foresight, myself.  Dwarf and Elven workmanship, both.  Gimli and Legolas also were cooperating with this one.” 

            The Thain took the box and examined it with respect.  “Magnificent!” he said at last as he handed it to the Master.  “Now at the wedding she will look doubly glorious, you know.  For if you don’t ask her soon, I’ll take her myself alongside your mother!”

            “Not fair!”  The young Hobbit turned in appeal to Ruvemir.  “They are ganging up on me!”

            The artist smiled.  “May serve you right for teaching the children of the Row how to carve turnip lanterns,” he said, watching the further consternation on the other’s face with amusement.  The three women laughed openly, then gasped as the box was handed to them.

            Three packages were there for Lord Samwise.  The first held a finely wrought brooch in the shape of a rose, carefully enameled.  He smiled tenderly.  “Lorien work,” he said, and his friends nodded.  “For my Rosie.” 

            Next was a pair of riding gloves of black suede, embroidered on the back with the White Tree.  Miriel looked at them with surprise.  “But I embroidered those a few months ago.  A special order to embroider the White Tree on a pair of gloves made by Master Glover Enril.  He received the order from Dol Amroth!” 

            “When the King was there, I wonder?” Ruvemir mused aloud. 

            Sam smiled broadly and opened the third package, which held two small books.  “For children,” he said, opening them and looking inside.  “Elvish tales!”  And suddenly he started to weep.  “Bless him,” he said through his tears.  “And wrapped in a pair of handkerchiefs!  He knows me too well!”

            Pippin put his hand on Sam’s shoulder.  “Well, he certainly owes you a few.  How many have you lent him he didn’t give back?  Use one of them, for pity’s sake.”  And he embraced Sam until he regained his composure.

            Mistress Esmeralda cleared her throat delicately.  “Tell us, Master Ruvemir, how can we help you?”

            “All agree the studies made by the artists of Minas Anor were not adequate.  They were stiff, mostly did not reflect Halfling proportions well, and failed to capture personality.  And the ones made of Lord Frodo were the worst, for they were monumentally severe and regal, or totally expressionless.”  Merry and Pippin nodded, and Sam gave a grunt of agreement as he dried his eyes.  “I’ve done several studies of him based on the memories of those who knew him there, but the King was still not fully happy.  He hoped you would help me know him more.”

            “I see,” she said.  “May I see what you’ve done?”

            Once she saw the studies he’d done she began to talk, telling of her friend Primula, who was much younger sister to her late father-in-law, and her marriage to Drogo Baggins, the early birth of their only surviving child, the doting of the parents, their deaths when he was twelve.  He saw she had gone back to the picture of Frodo laughing, and had that open before her as she spoke of learning of the whispers in his heart, the attempts to protect him, the transformation of the happy child to the quiet, despondent youth, the turning to reading and study, the caring for the younger children, the boredom, the healer’s fears, Bilbo’s concerns, swimming. 

            Her husband described the devotion to his younger cousin, the beginnings of rebellion, the raidings in the Marish, Farmer Maggot and his mushrooms and his dogs. 

            Merry explained about the feelings of isolation expressed, the summers on the river bank, the reprimands of the teens and tweens who ought to know better, the awareness that there were a few, always a few who taunted and teased, and the realization the only reason Frodo himself was not a bigger victim was because of his position as fosterling to the Heir and his Lady, of his being taught how to throw a punch that mattered by his cousin Merimac and his vow not to use the skill unless it mattered (here Lord Samwise, Ruvemir noted, looked up with surprise and interest, as if this answered some questions he himself had held), of Merry on occasion being part of the diversions for the raidings in the Marish, of Frodo’s discovery he could draw and the secret cache of pictures Merry had found in the rooms where his parents had stayed when they visited, of the confessions of anger and frustration that he was not allowed to do things, of Frodo’s secret campaign to help in spite of the restrictions set on him, of his fears expressed when it was learned his cousin Bilbo had decided to exercise his option as head of the Baggins family to take Frodo as his ward. 

            Pippin told of the marvelous stories Frodo always told and his protection of the younger children in Hobbiton and Bywater.  He also told of the Yule when he was five when his family and the inhabitants of Bag End had all come to Brandy Hall for the holiday.  An older farm tween who’d stolen a bottle of brandy had found Pippin alone in the school room and had tried to paw at him, only Frodo had been searching for him and heard Pippin cry out, came in and suggested the tween stop.  The big tween had answered he would if Frodo was willing to substitute himself for the child, saying he was a pretty enough boy, and Frodo had agreed.  Then, as the bigger and more muscular tween tried to paw at Frodo there had been one single blow delivered which had felled the lunk and left him lying on the schoolroom carpet.  Frodo had simply straightened his jacket, made sure Pippin was all right, and conducted him back to his parents.

            Even Sir Meriadoc seemed surprised at that story.  “You never told me about that one, Pippin.  Why not?”

            Sir Peregrin looked as if it were the most logical thing in the world when he answered, “Well, Tolman Smallburrow deserved it, you know; and Frodo asked me not to say anything; so I didn’t.”  Ruvemir looked to catch Lord Samwise’s response, and noted he had a small smile and was nodding as if this was not an unusual occurrence.

            Mistress Esmeralda shook her head in wonder.  “I knew several of the smaller children feared Tolman, and now we learn why.  And that explains the bruised cheek that he said was due to him hitting a door.  I always had wondered who’d fought with him and why, and now we know.”  To which her husband nodded. 

            The Thain looked furious.  “Whatever happened to Tolman Smallburrow?” he demanded.

            Master Saradoc answered, “When Lotho tried to take over, he joined the Shiriffs and became an informer.  But one day he gave an answer one of Lotho’s Big Men didn’t like, and the Man killed him.”

            “One of your farmworkers went to work for Lotho Pimple?”

            “He’d not been one of our farmworkers since shortly after that Yule.  Remember the Appledore girl?”  When the Thain indicated he did, Master Saradoc continued, “He was the one who hurt her, and we finally got her to tell us who’d done it.  That was the last he worked for the Hall, and you can be certain the word was passed to all the farms in the Marish he could not be trusted around pretty lasses.  But this is the first I’ve heard tell of him pawing at children--or a lad.”  He turned to his son.  “Go ask Merimac to come in here, please.” 

            A few moments later Ruvemir was being introduced to the Master’s brother, who was asked to explain how he’d come to teach Frodo how to throw a punch.  He looked surprised and a bit sheepish.  “It was not long after we took on that lout Tolman Smallburrow.  He was what--nineteen, I think?  Yes, nineteen.  At first Frodo was one of his favorite targets to taunt, but Frodo had become adept at avoiding him.  Then he started on a younger child, Holden, Porto’s boy.  Frodo tried to protect the boy one day and I came along just in time to stop him being beaten badly and to put the fear of the Powers into young Tolman’s heart, or so I believed at the time.  Once I’d sent him about his business Frodo asked me to teach him how to strike a proper blow, so I did.  We took the scarecrow into the old mill building, and I taught him how to strike best to stop someone else before he realized he was under attack.  He got very good at it, very good at it.  I made him promise not to strike anyone unless he deserved it, and he agreed.  Otherwise, I was afraid he might just seriously hurt someone.  He learned quickly.”

            Pippin was impressed.  Then he suddenly chuckled.  “Too bad Strider didn’t realize what he’d been trained to do.  He was almost a failure with a sword, you know--if he’d thought to strike that one blow maybe he’d have felled that Black Rider who stabbed him.  Or the cave troll!”  And he and Merry both laughed, while even Sam gave a broad grin.

            Ruvemir then asked them to think of one stance they felt was representative of Frodo Baggins, and after much discussion all agreed on him telling stories to the smaller children.  He had Mistress Esmeralda describe it first, and asked her if she could copy his posture.  Then all tried it, and all agreed Pippin could copy it best.  So Pippin sat in a chair before the others for a time while Ruvemir worked on getting the posture down on paper.  Then he had them all try to reproduce the expression Frodo would have on his face, and Mr. Merimac was agreed to be able to do it best.  It was now his turn to sit before the others while Ruvemir drew.  Then he asked whose hands looked most like Frodo’s, and suddenly the group grew silent and just looked at one another.  Finally Merry said, “It’s hard to think of his hands as they were when he was younger--the memory of them with the missing finger keeps interfering, and that we don’t associate with the stories.”

            Pippin nodded.  “When he was younger he would gesture a lot as he told stories.  But not afterwards.  And afterwards his stories changed, too--they were gentler, more in hope or in sadness where before they were in delight.”

            Merry sighed, and put his hand on his cousin’s shoulder.  “So much of him was lost in Mordor--more than just his finger.”  He turned to the artist.  “As Frodo grew up here, he began to lose his joy, winter by winter with little to do, no feeling of purpose.  He didn’t really want to leave and go to Bag End, although he truly loved Bilbo dearly, for he loved us also at the same time he was getting closer and closer to hating us to the depths of his being, and many of the stories about Bilbo, even though he knew they weren’t true, he’d heard enough to begin to wonder about them.  He barely remembered going to Bag End as a small child with his parents, before his mother refused to go near Hobbiton any more for the vileness of Lobelia Sackville-Baggins.  He half believed the place was left to fill with dust and crumbs and all, all the stories Lobelia would tell to those who came to Hobbiton who would be willing to listen to her tales.”

            “Pardon me, but who is this Lobelia?”

            The others exchanged embarrassed looks.  Mistress Esmeralda answered.  “The Sackville-Bagginses were cousins to Bilbo and Frodo, the one remaining Baggins family still living in the Hobbiton area, other than Drogo’s older sister Dora, who never married.  You’ve heard of Lotho?”  At his nod of assent, she continued, “Lobelia and Otho were his parents.  The first time Bilbo left, they thought that they finally had their chance to become the head of the Baggins clan, so after a year and a day they had him declared dead and began to auction off those of his belongings they didn’t want to keep for themselves.  When he showed up shortly after the auction began with a pony and a couple of chests filled with treasure from the dragon’s hoard in Erebor they were shocked--shocked and very frustrated. 

            “When he disappeared the second time and they learned he’d legally adopted Frodo as his heir, they were breathing fire in frustration.”

            Merry snorted.  “Breathing fire is putting it mildly.  I’ve never seen anyone in as high a dudgeon as Lobelia that day.  When Merimac caught her stealing from Frodo’s room and we shook out her umbrella and found all the other things she’d taken as ‘mementos’ of the cousin she’d detested all her married life, it was with great pleasure we trotted her out the door and dumped her on the stoop.  She lived only, it seemed, to tell as vile a tale as possible about our Cousin Bilbo, and then, after he came to Bag End, Frodo as well.”

            His mother continued, “At least once Frodo was there, Bilbo regularly invited the rest of the family over to see him.”

            “And how many times before he took Frodo did he invite us, and we never went, for fear he would insist on doing his duty by Frodo?” Merry asked her. 

            She had the grace to lower her eyes in shame.  “I didn’t want to lose him, Merry.  You know that.  I thought I was doing right by him.”

            “I’m just glad the healer wrote that letter and sparked Bilbo into action at last.”  And all nodded agreement.  He then looked at Ruvemir to see if he’d heard that part of the tale and saw he hadn’t.  “Marko Longbottom, who married our cousin Bluebell Brandybuck and came here to live afterwards as auxiliary healer, was insistent that Frodo wasn’t getting proper exercise, particularly in the winter; and he saw how despondent Frodo was getting and how it got worse year by year, and he finally wrote letters to my father, the Thain, and Bilbo, as head of the Baggins family, insisting Frodo had to have changed circumstances or he would start actually fading from sadness and lack of worth.  That was when Bilbo decided at last to defy us and demand to become Frodo’s guardian.”

            Saradoc sighed, “Here we were, trying to spare his heart, and going about it all the wrong way.”  He shook his head.  “At least he recovered quickly once he got to Bag End.  When we saw him there after only three months and saw how different he was, how he’d filled out and his eyes were beginning to shine again, how his sense of humor was back--we had to accept that Bilbo and Marko were right all along and we were wrong.  Guess Frodo wasn’t the only one who was coming to half-believe Lobelia’s stories told us second-hand.”

            Soon after they agreed it was getting late, and they watched with interest as Ruvemir returned his drawing things to his tube, then watched to see that Ririon folded the drop cloth from the corners to contain the sawdust and finally lifted it, and then Ruvemir went to take Ririon to the front door so the cloth could be shaken out outside.  Merry again accompanied them to show the way, and brought them back to see that while they were gone Miriel had finished packing her own work away back in the linen bag in which she carried it and picked up the card of embroidery thread.  Merimac had been examining Ririon’s sculpture, and on his return commented, “This is as fine a piece of woodcarving as I’ve ever seen.  If when you’re through you want a buyer for it, I’d be interested.”  Ririon was surprised, and Ruvemir was both amused and grateful.  With muffled words of thanks, Ririon accepted the figure back, and Merry and Pippin both accompanied them to their rooms.

            Morning brought a knock at the door and the announcement through it that breakfast would be served in half an hour, and Ruvemir sat up, a bit disoriented, and saw by the light of the rushlight left lit as a nightlight that Ririon was huddling deeper under his covers in the other narrow bed.  After a moment he realized where he was, and registered there was no window to this room.  How odd, he found himself thinking, to be in a room with no windows at all.  He rose and lit the other candles, stretched, and set about preparing himself for the day, then finally went over to his ward, pulled down the blankets to which he was trying so hard to cling, and suggested that if he wanted to eat he’d best be up and out of bed and dressed by the time Ruvemir got back from the privy.  Ririon gave a great yawn and groan, but began to comply, and by the time Ruvemir returned was dressed and ready to be shown the way himself.

            Miriel was waiting for them at the passage to the dining hall, smiling happily and carrying her linen bag and folder of threads.  “Mistress Esmeralda is going to introduce me today to the women who do most of the sewing for the folk of the Hall,” she said as they walked down the passage, “and I think I will gather some new patterns.  Will you be working with the family again?”

            “I hope,” her brother answered, “to work with them one or two at a time today.  Although I got some wonderful impressions of Frodo last night.”

            Ririon commented, “Ruvemir, why did Lord Frodo change so much?”

            “At what time?”

            “While he was away.  It sounds like he used to have a lot of fun, but that after the War he was very different.  Almost like they didn’t quite recognize him when he came back.”

            “Sounds to me like each time his circumstances changed, he changed, too.  He sounds as if he were quite different as he grew up here than he was before his parents died.  Then, when he went to live with Master Bilbo he changed again.”

            “Did he have to be an apprentice, too, do you think?  I mean, what did he do for a living?”

            “Master Bilbo appears to have been fairly wealthy, so Lord Frodo doesn’t appear to have needed to do a great deal in order survive.  The King told me he was a scholar, but that he also had business interests of some kind that appear to have given him an income.  I’m not sure he was ever apprenticed to anyone.”

            “Frodo?” asked a voice behind them, and Merry caught up with them.

            “Good morrow, Sir Meriadoc,” Ruvemir and Miriel said together with a quick bow and curtsey, while Ririon also stopped and bowed.

            Merry looked quite uncomfortable.  “Please,” he said, “you don’t have to do that here in the passages.  Here I am Merry the Traveler and the Master’s Heir, and that’s quite complicated enough.  And, please, just call me Merry.  When people call me Meriadoc I start looking around to see what trouble I’m in this time.”

            Miriel stifled a giggle, and Ririon grinned.  Ruvemir, however, tried to explain.  “It is hard to think of you as simply Merry, sir, as the honor in which you are held by those in Gondor and Rohan is so very great.”

            “We finally have some esteem here, too, but it will all go to naught if folks catch you bowing and scraping every time one of us comes into view.  It’s different in the Shire--they don’t think well of those they think are trying to be above themselves.  So, please, while we are here, keep the bowing and curtseying down.  And please, please call me Merry.”

            Sighing, Ruvemir agreed.

            Merry brought them to the same table as last night,

            “Sir Peregrin is not yet awake?”

            “Pippin?  No, he won’t rise till second breakfast, probably.  Had one of his bad nights.”

            “Bad?”

            Merry took a deep breath.  “We all have them, Sam, Pip, and I.  Not as bad as Frodo would have, but bad enough.  You can’t go through being pursued by Black Riders from Hobbiton to Rivendell, seeing your beloved cousin stabbed by a Morgul blade, almost freezing to death on Caradhras, seeing Gandalf fall off the Bridge of Khazad-dum with the Balrog, seeing Boromir shot full of arrows at Amon Hen and being taken prisoner by Saruman’s Uruk-hai, watching the Ents destroy the Circle of Isengard, going through the ride in the dark to Minas Anor from Dunharrow, stabbing a Ringwraith and almost dying as a result, seeing your beloved cousins and friends all almost at the point of death and all you can do is to be there with them and talk to their unresponsive bodies, and then coming home to find out that while we were gone the War had come here anyway--you can’t go through all that without having occasional nightmares.”

            Ruvemir looked down in embarrassment, then looked back into the Hobbit’s pain-darkened eyes.  “I beg your pardon.  I did not mean to sound as if I were prying or belittling your experience--although I didn’t realize all that you went through.  But when you list all that, I know more than ever the respect my people wish to give you is well deserved indeed.”

            The pain lightened slowly, and finally Merry said, very softly, “Thank you, Master Ruvemir.”

            The Master and his wife appeared, accompanied by the Mayor and the Thain.  Merry looked around.  “Sam already out at the glass houses, then?”

            The Master nodded.  “Had an early breakfast and headed out to them.  Says he wants to get some ideas for the one he’s commissioning at the herb garden at the Three-Farthing stone.”  He turned to Ruvemir.  “Sam can’t seem to stay away from plants, no matter where he is or what he is doing.  Understand that while they were in Rivendell he spent a good deal of the time in the gardens there, and that in Minas Tirith he and Frodo both helped in the replanting of gardens there.”

            Ruvemir nodded.  “So the King and those who served them there tell me.”

            Merry smiled.  “Even in Lothlorien he was often in the gardens, and the Lady Galadriel took him and Frodo down into her private garden where her Mirror was.  Then as her gift to him she gave him soil from that garden, which is the primary reason many of the trees you will see as you travel around the Shire are growing as well as they do.  Almost as many folk now call him Sam Gardner as they do Sam Gamgee.”

            The Thain agreed.  “First time I rode through the Shire after Sharkey was dead and his Big Men defeated, I was horror-struck.  They killed trees everywhere.”

            Merry commented, “I think that was partly aimed at us, but at least equally intended to be a revenge against Treebeard and the Ents and Huorns of Fangorn Forest for their destruction of the Ring of Isengard and the defeat at Helm’s Deep.  Once he was far enough away to not risk their vengeance, he took it all out on the trees of the Shire.  Good thing for him he didn’t try that in the Old Forest, though, although it might have made things simpler if he had.  The trees there would never have stood for it.”

            Estella appeared, leading a small Hobbit child by the hand.  “Young Arto is going to join us this morning.  His mother is feeling very nauseous with her pregnancy, and his father is on duty with the Bounders this week.”  She indicated a chair, and the child slipped into it.  The rest then turned to the West to do the Standing Silence, and then took their seats.

            “You were wondering about Frodo being apprenticed?” Merry asked.

            “Well, Ririon was asking, really.”

            “It wasn’t a formal apprenticeship such as those who are preparing for a trade go through, but in a way I suppose you could say he was apprenticed to Bilbo.  After returning from his travels, Bilbo became a scholar, and recognizing a like mind in Frodo he set Frodo on that path, too.  Frodo had beautiful writing, while that of Bilbo’s was often cramped and spidery, so he would have Frodo do much of the copying he needed done of books he’d borrowed from Rivendell or were intended to be copied for this library or that one.  We have several here in Brandy Hall Frodo copied and bound, if you’d like to see them.

            “He also taught Frodo Sindarin and got him started on learning Quenya.  After Frodo came of age and Bilbo left, he began studying on his own, also.  There were a few Elves in Rivendell and later in Lothlorien who spoke both languages, and he spent a good deal of his time there learning what they would teach him.”  He paused.  “I suppose that is aiding him now.  Or, at least I hope it is.”

            During breakfast Ririon, who was sitting today beside Arto, got to talking with the child, and afterwards went with Mistress Estella and the lad to explore the Hall.  Miriel went with Mistress Esmeralda to meet with the seamstresses and embroiderers for the Hall while Ruvemir walked out with Master Saradoc to help bring in the other trunks from the stables.  Ruvemir went back to his room to collect his cloak and cane, and a sketch booklet that he stowed with his tube of drawing sticks in his personal satchel, and met the Master at the main door to the Hall.

            As they walked slowly around the hill to the stables area, the Master described daily life in Buckland and pointed out many features of the property.  Then they were quiet for a time as the Master leaned on a fence near the stables, looking out into a paddock where several blanketed ponies pulled at the brown grass or sniffed at the air.  As Ruvemir came forward to stand beside him, Saradoc Brandybuck turned to look at him gravely.

            “After what we said last night, you must think we treated Frodo horribly.  And in many ways we did, although it wasn’t as bad as all that.  The reading masters were in awe of him.  He came to us already knowing how to read and write, and his parents both said he just seemed to know exactly what to do from the time he first picked up a quill.  Figuring was also easy for him, and his curiosity about the world was insatiable.  We had a hard time finding folks to engage to keep his mind and his capacity for learning fed.  It helped that Bilbo was sending so many books to us--he had plenty of chances to find new subjects to learn about.  He wrote some poetry as well, although nowhere as much as did Bilbo, of course.  But he would write simple stories for the children, and was often kept busy helping to copy texts for new students in the Hall School.

            “Esme and I had no idea what to do with him at times.  He was so different than the other children.  There was the condition of his heart to worry about, his keen intelligence, his quietness after his parents died.  He was so eager to please, and yet so----.  I don’t know what to call it, I guess.  He didn’t lose his temper often, but when he did there was no facing him.  He’d go stark white, and just look at you, and you knew he saw right through you.  His gaze could be so intense, and it frightened Esme--and, to be honest, me as well.  We were in over our heads with him, and we knew it.  But Esme was certain him going to Bilbo would do him harm, what with Bilbo’s reputation as odd and unstable.  Lobelia wasn’t the one who first named him ‘Mad Old Baggins,’ but once it was given she certainly repeated it often enough.” 

            He turned back to the ponies.  “We didn’t keep him cooped up all the time, and after a while he simply began going out in spite of us and would be gone for hours.  We found he would go to the old mill, or to visit his parents’ grave, or a few other places here and there.  Or we’d find he was in a field, weeding.  That was after he quit raiding the farms of the Marish.

            “I got a new hoe for one of the farmers, and it disappeared as soon as I got it home.  Finally I had to get another new one.  Then I began to hear from the farmers here and in the Marish that they’d go to weed the beans and find it was already done.  Or the corn.  Or the squash.  Or the turnips.  They’d go out to bring in the cows for milking, and they’d find them already in the barnyard, with often the first to be milked already in the stanchion.  The day Frodo left with Bilbo that hoe was found in the stable with the other tools, well used.”  He turned to look at the artist again.  “It was like he felt honor bound to try to make it up for all the food he stole.  But when we tried to talk to him about it, he’d just close up and go away inside himself, and it was no use trying to say anything.  Only one who could deal with him when he did that was Bilbo.”

            There was a silence for a time.  “No question Bilbo Baggins doted on that lad.  One reason we saw so much of him, for he came over at least once every couple months just to check up on him.  Brought him a wooden flute.  Sent him books by the shelfload.  Sent him paper.  Sent him ink.  Sent him quills and a steel pen and pen knives.  Bought him clothes from time to time, but Frodo usually would wear them only when Bilbo was there.  And he’d take Frodo out on his walks.  Big one for going on walks, Bilbo was.  First time Frodo came back after meeting a Dwarf I thought he’d never settle down, he was so excited.  But first time he saw an Elf--he came back in awe.  Couldn’t get a word out of him for days.  That was when he started drawing, I think, trying to draw that Elf.

            “He kept a journal, but the night before he went with Bilbo he burned it.  I caught him at it.  When I asked him why, he said it was so he’d never hurt anyone with what he thought.  It was the only time I could get him near admitting he was unhappy and often angry.

            “We couldn’t believe the change we saw in him when we went over to the birthday party the first time after he went to Bag End.  He didn’t appear apologetic any more.  He was straight out smiling most of the time.  He was standing so much straighter, and was tickled pink to show us the work he’d been doing for Bilbo with the copying of books and documents and all.  He was wild to see Merry again--he’d doted on Merry from his birth, in fact; but he was just as obviously devoted to young Samwise Gamgee, who was just a child of ten at the time.  Merry was eight, Freddy Bolger was ten, and Pippin was just three months short of being born.  The four of them and Folco Boffin were often inseparable once they got older, after Bilbo left.  Merry would come in and announce he was off to Bag End as if he were just heading for the river bank; he’d saddle his pony and he’d be gone, just like that.”

            He straightened, and commented, “I wish we’d let him go to Bilbo years earlier, really.  Ready to see about your chests?”

 *******

            After they returned Merry and Pippin helped carry the box of tools to Ruvemir’s room, after which they headed back to the dining hall for second breakfast.  Ruvemir accepted a cup of tea, but watched with awe as the roomful of Hobbits ate as if they hadn’t eaten yet all day.  Then the two knights asked if he’d like to go see Crickhollow, where Frodo was to have lived but in which he spent only a single night as its master.  As they assured him it wasn’t far, he decided to ride, a decision he was regretting by the time they arrived at the isolated house.  They took him in and Pippin quickly lit a fire.  Seeing the obvious pain on the artist’s face as he rubbed his hip, Merry and Pippin directed him into one of the bedrooms (“This one has the hardest mattress,” Pippin commented), had him remove his cloak and lie down on the bed, and Merry first massaged the hip and then both assisted him in doing the exercises. 

            Then they helped him up and gave him a brief tour of the house, and Pippin told him briefly of the one night they’d spent here, the three bathtubs ready when they got there, then the uncovering of their conspiracy.  Merry told him what his cousin and brother-in-law had told them about the assault on the house by the Black Riders, and together they examined the place where the doorframe had been damaged when a spell had been used on it to force the lock and bar.  Ruvemir found himself shivering as they looked at the place.  “Nazgul, here in the Shire,” he commented.  “I never saw one, although those who fought for Minas Tirith and before the Black Gate all tremble when they are named.”

            Merry looked very grim.  “And rightly,” he said.  When he looked up into Ruvemir’s eyes, his face was grey, his eyes dull with painful memories.  “And rightly.  They were terrible.  Only thing worse was the Enemy himself.”  At which Pippin visibly shivered.

            Merry rode on ahead, leading the two other ponies, leaving Ruvemir and Pippin to walk back, Ruvemir having admitted the King had told him he should avoid riding for a time yet.  And as they walked they were silent for a time, and then Pippin began to sing under his breath.  Ruvemir recognized a marching song sung often in Gondor, and guessed that the Halfling at his side had learned it marching toward Mordor.  Then, after he’d finished, he began to sing again, what with surprise Ruvemir realized was an Elven hymn to Elbereth.  His voice was clear and high and, the sculptor had to admit, beautiful, and the depth of feeling he put into the words he sang was easily felt.  Once he’d finished, there was another silence.

            Finally Ruvemir commented, “I’d never thought to hear that song here.  I’ve only heard it once, sung by the Lady Queen Arwen the night before we left Minas Anor.”

            It was a few minutes before Pippin spoke.  “I first heard it here in the Shire.  First Elves I’d ever seen, in the Woody End.  We had seen at least one Black Rider as we went through the woods, probably two or possibly even three.  One was following our scent toward us when a group of Elves led by Gildor Inglorion came by, singing that.  At the name of Elbereth he backed off, mounted his horse again, and left as quickly as he could.  I heard it again, several times, while we stayed in Rivendell, and other versions of it in Lothlorien. 

            “Gildor is gone now--left on the same ship as Frodo, Bilbo, Gandalf, the Lady Galadriel, and the Lord Elrond.”

            “Then the Ringbearer did go to the Undying Lands?”

            Pippin nodded, examining his face.  “Didn’t Strider tell you?”

            “Not outright, athough I’d guessed it.  Did you tell him?”

            “The Queen told him when she realized Frodo had chosen to go, and he tried to get here in time to say goodbye, too, but he arrived too late.  Accidentally lamed his horse in Rohan.  He went to Rivendell to see the sons of Elrond, then together they came past Bree, to across the Road from the Barrowdowns.  He sent in word, into the Shire, and we rode out to see him, Sam, Merry and I.  We told him.”

            “You saw him go?”

            “Yes, but no thanks to Frodo.  Was going to try to sneak off without us knowing again, silly old Hobbit.  Didn’t even tell Sam he was leaving Middle Earth altogether--let him believe he was going to Rivendell to live with Elrond and Bilbo.  Sam was so shocked when they met Elrond and Galadriel and Bilbo and Gildor and many of their folk heading west.  Then he knew.  Cried most of the way to the Havens, I suspect.”

            “How did you find out?”

            Pippin unexpectedly chuckled.  “Gandalf, bless his soul.  Merry and I had just gotten back to Crickhollow from a ride in to the Hall and were deciding what to fix for a bedtime snack when there was a smart rap on the door, and we both instinctively grabbed up our swords and went to peer out.  And there stood Gandalf with Shadowfax behind him, and he was ordering us to get our packs together, and shoving packets of lembas into our hands.  Told us if we didn’t get a move on and get headed off toward the Havens we’d miss Frodo altogether.  Said he’d just learned Frodo had not warned us he was leaving, and that this was not fair to us or Sam.  He rode with us a good part of the way, then left us the last day and said he’d go on ahead and hold things up till we arrived.  We had no time to worry or grieve or anything--unlike poor Sam, who’d been living with it for the past few days.  We were just hurrying as fast as we could to get there in time, trying not to lame Stybba or Jewel along the way.”  Again he was quiet for a time.  “I didn’t realize Gandalf was leaving, too, until I saw him on the quay.  I guess Shadowfax had already been led on board--didn’t see him when we arrived.  Sam was standing there almost alone, looking so small and stricken.  Felt we were coming to his rescue.  And Frodo’s face--first real feeling we’d seen from him for a while--frustration and relief to see us.  Relief to be able to say goodbye face to face.  He’d sent us letters, which arrived after we left.  And much of the pain he felt seemed to be already falling away, although that may have been the effects of the draught Elrond had been feeding him along the way.  Sam told us about it.

            “If he’d stayed only a few days more, he’d probably have died.  He was fading quite quickly.  We’re not sure if he survived the voyage, in fact.  But it--it doesn’t feel like he’s gone.  I think we’d know, if he didn’t make it.  I think we’d feel him die.  Aragorn certainly felt when the ship left the confines of Middle Earth.  But then, he’s kin to the Lord Elrond through his father’s line as well as through his marriage to the Lady Arwen.

            “Our parents were fit to be tied when they realized we’d just left everything and taken off, left the fire to die out and the kettle for tea had boiled dry.  They were here when the letters came, and they opened them.  Once they realized we must have been warned somehow, they realized where we’d gone, and figured out when we’d get back.  Da and Merry’s Dad were both here when we arrived, and all they did was hold out their arms to hold us.  Didn’t say a word, just held us while we cried--again.  Then they tucked us in as if we were little lads and left us.  Had the kettle ready to go on the fire, the teapot ready to be scalded, the caddy out, cheese and hard bread sliced and ready to toast, my favorite strawberry jam....” 

            He stopped and his eyes were squeezed shut.  Finally he opened them again, and they went on, and now he was deliberately telling humorous stories of the trouble he and Merry would get into as children, here, at the farm in Whitwell where he spent much of his summers, at the Great Smials, and at Bag End.  They were both laughing uproariously over a prank pulled on Gimli and Legolas in their quarters in Minas Tirith when they came in sight of the Hall, and then Merry came forward to meet them, telling them if they didn’t get a move on they’d miss tea.

Knights in Arms and a Tale of Leaving

            Over tea, which turned out to be another full meal, Ruvemir asked both of the knights if they would be willing to wear their uniforms from Gondor and Rohan for him for a study.  They looked to one another questioningly, then in unison turned back to him and indicated assent.

            Half an hour later they were all in the library with them posed before the fireplace.  Lord Samwise wandered in, saw them, shook his head, and searched the shelves till he found a book he apparently approved of, then sat down to read it.  A group of smaller children came in to watch, then older ones, accompanied by Ririon and three dogs.  A cat, which had been happily sleeping on a sofa, commented on the invasion of its territory with a hissed invective and stalked deliberately out, turning about to stare disdainfully for a second at one of the dogs who’d made a move toward it before disappearing out the door. 

            He’d had both knights remove their helmets, which he noted were well kept and polished, and these sat now on a low table near one of the couches.  Several of the children were drawn to them, and Ririon went with them.  He could hear Ririon carefully explaining to the other children about the helmet from Gondor, explaining the significance of the wings, stars, and tree, and the purpose of the nasal and other features. 

            “You mean you’ve seen this kind of helmet before?” asked a girl.

            “It’s the helmet worn by the Guards of the Citadel in the city of Minas Anor where I was born and raised,” Ririon explained.  “And what’s more, I have seen this very helmet before, with Sir Peregrin wearing it, and more than once.  He wore it the day the Rohirrim rode back to their own land out of respect to them and their new king.  Sir Meriadoc wore his that day, too, for the same reason.  He could have gone with them if he’d wished, but our King Elessar asked that he be allowed to stay in Gondor until the Rohirrim returned to fetch the body of Théoden King for his formal burial according to their customs.  Often in the days that came between Sir Meriadoc would stand the honor guard for Théoden King outside the tomb where his body rested, and often Sir Peregrin stood guard before the throne of the King Elessar.”

            “How do you stand guard?” asked a boy.

            “By standing still with sword at the ready, or with spear at the ready if you are a pikeman.”

            Ruvemir laughed, and called out, “Or, if one is an archer, with bow and arrow at the ready.”

            They turned to him, and an older boy asked, “Have you seen an archer standing guard?”

            “Yes,” he said as he worked on catching the shadows on Pippin’s face.  “In Casistir.  The King was accompanied by one of his kinsmen who is an archer, and he had his bow with an arrow nocked loosely the whole time we were speaking.”

            Pippin looked interested.  “Would that have been Lord Hardorn?” he asked.  “I didn’t get to know him well, but he was a fine bowman.  Even Legolas was impressed by his skill, and Legolas could shoot the wings off a fly in the air, if he were so inclined.”

            Ruvemir agreed that it had been Lord Hardorn, then thought of a question he’d wondered about.  “Does the Lord Elessar have brothers?” 

            Merry and Pippin exchanged glances, and Merry answered, “He was an only child, but had foster brothers.”

            It was Sam who truly answered the question.  “He was raised in Rivendell from his second year, after his dad Arathorn was killed by orcs.  He was raised as if Lord Elrond was his father, which is why he called him Adar from time to time.  So I’m sure he grew up thinking as the Lords Elladan and Elrohir was his elder brothers, for all that they looked to be the same age as him or younger when we saw them in Rivendell and Minas Tirith.  And they were both superb archers, too.  You live a few thousand years, and you’d probably get to be real good with a bow.”

            The older boy snorted.  “Folk don’t live a few thousand years,” he objected.

            “You do if you’re an Elf, less’n someone kills you first.”

            “Will Frodo live to be thousands of years old in Elvenhome?” asked the little girl.

            “No, he won’t.  He’s not an Elf--he’s a Hobbit.”

            “But if only Elves can go there....”

            “It was a special grace, ‘cause he was the Ringbearer.  The Valar was asked by the Lady Arwen, her Adar, and Gandalf hisself, and they granted that grace.  And he deserved it if anyone ever did.  No one else could of got as far with that cursed thing as he did.”

            “How do you know he won’t live thousands of years?”

            “’Cause I asked Lord Elrond hisself and he told me so.  Said mortals can’t live beyond their time there any more than here.”

            Another boy objected, “But old Bilbo Baggins lived beyond his time.  My gammer told me so.”

            Sam fixed him with a stare.  Finally he said, “You know how long the Old Took lived?”

            “One hundred thirty.”

            “Well, I saw Mr. Bilbo the day he turned one hundred and thirty one, and I’ll tell you, he looked old, old and frail.  He wasn’t going to be here much longer, and Lord Elrond said as much, also.  Said he only held on for two reasons--to go with Mr. Frodo on the ship to Elvenhome, and to make sure he passed up the Old Took.  After all, the Old Took was his gaffer.”

            One of the children looked at Pippin.  “Is that true?  Was the Old Took old Mr. Bilbo’s gaffer?”

            Pippin, whose face had remained uncharacteristically solemn while he stood in his uniform, nodded slowly.  “Yes, old Gerontius was his granddad, and was great granddad to Frodo, Merry, and me.”

            “So will you live to be a hundred thirty, too?”

            “I hope not!”     

            “Why not?”

            “I saw Bilbo that day, too.  Well, not that day, but a few after, at the

Havens.  I don’t want to get that frail.”

            “But then you’d be dead!”

            Pippin looked at the older boy who’d said that, and said, “Believe me, Evro, there are lots of things worse than being dead.”

            Evro shot back, “Name one.”

            “Being a Ringwraith, for one.  Being slave to Sauron for over an age of the world?  No, no thank you.  And then, to think no Man can kill you and then find that maybe Men can’t but Hobbits and women can?  I suspect he was terribly surprised, you know, once he realized he was dead.”

            Merry shuddered.  “Don’t talk about it, Pippin.  It was horrible enough living it.  I don’t want to remember it any more than I have to.”

            Pippin was immediately contrite.  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Merry.  Please forgive me.  Didn’t mean to reawaken the pain.  Is your arm okay?”

            Merry flexed the fingers of his right hand.  “Seems to be all right.”

            Pippin nodded with relief.

            “I know one,” Sam said unexpectedly.  “Hating joy so much you’ll do anything to rob others of it.  That’s a hundred times worse than being dead.”

            “Like Sharkey and his Big Men?” asked a child of middle years.

            “He was just copying his masters, Sauron and Morgoth.  But, yes, like them.”

            “Was Sharkey always bad?”

            Sam screwed up his face in thought.  “Always?  No.  He started out pretty good from what old Gandalf told me, in fact.  Just got to the point he thought as he could decide for everyone else how they ought to live.”

            “Mr. Lotho thought he could do that, too.”

            Sam sighed.  “Yes, I know, rest him.”

            “What really happened to Mr. Lotho?” asked the boy Evro.

            “He got murdered on Sharkey’s orders.”

            Several children shivered.  Evro continued, “I heard that Worm person ate him.”

            Sam shook his head sadly.  “No, that was just more of Sharkey’s lies to stir folks up.  No, we found his bones, and he hadn’t been et.  Wasn’t treated with proper respect, but he hadn’t been et.  We gave the bodies of the Big Men as was killed more respect than Wormtongue gave Lotho’s.”  Merry nodded agreement.

            Evro’s face darkened.  “Well, Lotho didn’t deserve respect after what he done, bringing Men in here to boss us around.  They killed my big brother just because he stood up to them.  No Men better get in my way.  I’ll show them they can’t boss me around!”

            Sam had dropped his book, risen, and come to stand over the lad so quickly that Ruvemir was shocked.  He easily lifted the boy to his feet by his shirtfront.  “You listen here, Evro Brandybuck.  We didn’t go to the Black Land and back, Mr. Frodo and me, or them--” with a gesture toward Merry and Pippin “--through the destruction of Isengard and the fight of Minas Tirith to hear a lot of Orc talk from the likes of you.  You only seen a few Men in your life, and we’ve seen lots--bad and good.  Our King is a Man, and don’t you forget that.  He’s a fine Man, one of those as makes the world shine.  And he sent these--” indicating Ririon and Ruvemir “--to make a memorial for Mr. Frodo and us, so’s the Men of Gondor don’t forget what we done to help rid the world of evil so bad it makes Sharkey and his men look petty, like a lot of little ants stinging you.  Yes, it hurts, but it won’t kill you unless you let them breed and get hold.  And another thing--many of them ‘Big Men’ wasn’t properly Men at all--that Saruman was breeding Men with Orcs in Isengard, and a good few of those as was here was half Orcs at least.  And don’t go asking how he done it, for I don’t know and don’t even want to think as how it was done.”  He gave a shudder of his own.  “Most Men are decent and fine, or selfish and petty, same as any Hobbit or Dwarf as you’d ever meet.  And no way was Sharkey a Man.  Understand?”

            Evro nodded, and Sam let go of his shirt, put his hands on his hips and looked around.  One of the other children asked, “But who’s Saruman?”

            “Who was Saruman, you mean.  Started out as one sent by the Valar to protect Middle Earth from the likes of Sauron, but fell to evil, and became Sharkey.  Tried to make hisself the next Dark Lord.”  Sam shook his head with disgust.  “All of them as tries to make themselves lords of the whole of Middle Earth come to a dark end.  You’d think as they’d learn.  No plain Hobbit sense.  Just goes to show as living more than a lifetime isn’t always a good thing, don’t you know.  Forget what they was intended to be and tries to make themselves boss of all, and then where does that lead them?  I’m just glad the Elves as I’ve met never got that way.”  He turned and went back to his chair and his book.  “At least Gandalf stayed true, him and Radagast.  They’ve stayed true to what they was sent to do, and Gandalf, when his job was done, went back so as to not fall victim to the same fate as Saruman.  The King hisself called him the wisest of the Maiar.”

            All were quiet for a time, and suddenly Pippin began to sing.  It was a song in Sindarin, a lament for Turin and Nienor, Ruvemir realized.  All listened, enthralled, till he was through.  “Where’d you learn that, Pippin?” asked an older girl.  “It sounds sad.”

            “It is sad.  I heard it first in Rivendell, but I didn’t actually learn it till I was in Minas Tirith.  The King and Queen taught it to me one day when I was on guard duty.”

            “Is it about the great Elves?”

            “No, the great Elves wrote it about one of the great Men who lived among them and who fought the forces of Morgoth with them.”

            Evro muttered, “No one sings songs about Hobbits, though.”

            Merry looked at the lad and gave a sigh of exasperation.  “You are bent on being contrary today, aren’t you, Evro?  You were at the Free Fair at Michel Delving the first summer after we returned.  The Lords Elladan and Elrohir sang to us the song that was written about Hobbits.  They sang the Lay of Frodo of the Nine Fingers.”

            “That was about Frodo?”

            “Yes, about Frodo son of Drogo, and Samwise son of Hamfast--with brief comments about Meriadoc son of Saradoc and Peregrin son of Paladin.”

            “That was about you?”

            “Yes, that was about us, but mostly about Frodo and Sam.  They went to the brink of despair and death to stop Sauron taking us all, and don’t you ever forget it.”

            Ruvemir finally spoke.  “That is why I’m to create the memorial for them.”

            All pondered this in silence.  A movement at the back of the room drew Ruvemir’s attention, and he realized the Master of the Hall was there, and had probably heard much of what had been said.

            Suddenly Pippin said, “Merry?  I’m hungry.  Got an apple?”

            Merry sighed.  “Do you think I’ve got my pockets stuffed with apples under my mail, Pip?”

            “Here,” Sam said from his chair, and producing an apple from his pocket he lobbed it at Pippin, who caught it one handed and called his thanks.

            Merry shook his head.  “Uncanny, Sam is.”

            The oldest girl walked over to Sam’s chair and sat on the floor at his feet. 
“Master Samwise, will you tell us a story?”

            “What kind of story?”

            “Tell us about going to the Havens with Frodo.  You’ve never told us that.”

            The littlest girl came over and sat herself in the biggest girl’s lap.  “Were there Elves, too?”  Many of the other children followed the two girls, and sat themselves expectantly at the gardener’s feet.  The Master moved to a far chair and sat, obviously as interested as any of the children.

            Sam’s eyes were focused on a memory only he could see.  He closed the book with his finger inside, marking his place.  “Elves?  Oh, yes, there was Elves.  The Lord Elrond, and the Lady Galadriel, as beautiful as the morning of the world, her golden hair a veil of sunshine and moonshine at the same time.  She were in joy, for she was going home, at long last.  So long ago she left Aman to come here to Middle Earth, and the leaving had been bitter.  Now at last she could go back, see her kin.  Only one sadness, that her Lord Husband had not chosen to go with her.  His heart is still here, in Middle Earth.  Oh, he’ll follow in time, but who’s to say as when that will be?

            “A few days afore Frodo left, he’d had a dinner for Mr. Paladin and Mr. Saradoc and their lady wives, and during it he got weak, and your Master Saradoc helped him to his bed.  We could all see as he was very ill, very tired.  I didn’t sleep much that night, for sadness.  I woke early, and was restless, so I walked down the Hill to the woods at the bottom, where we used to go to explore when I was a little lad.  I was membering those days when I saw as there were an Elf there, watching me.  He was the Lord Erestor of Rivendell, and he had a bundle in his hands, which he gave to me, telling me as the Lord Elrond had sent it.

            “I took it back to Bag End and brought it to my Master, who was still lying in his bed, looking pale.  It had herbs in it, along with other things, herbs for his strengthening.  And I gave them to him, and he was strengthened, enough to do what was necessary to prepare to leave.

            “We met the Elves in the Woody End, singing a hymn to the Lady Elbereth.  And when I realized at last as where it was they were going, I was sad.  He spoke some, but not a lot, for it took almost all he had just to ride.  The Lord Erestor watched by them, him and Mr. Bilbo, and the Lord Elrond hisself rode by Mr. Bilbo, who drowsed on his pony’s back as he rode.  Lord Elrond and Mr. Frodo cared for Mr. Bilbo, making sure as he didn’t fall, and the Lord Erestor rode to watch for weakness in Mr. Frodo.  The other Elves, the Lord Gildor Inglorion and many of his folk and folk from Rivendell and from Lothlorien, rode around us and sang to comfort and strengthen us.  And the Lady herself laid her hand on my head in blessing and comfort, and rode by me.

            “When we stopped, the Lord Elrond hisself prepared more herbs to the strengthening of both of them, and then we rode on.  And the Elves delighted to give them honor.

            “Frodo spoke but little, and he was almost in a trance much of the way.  But his heart was eased, and his breathing unlabored, and that was a blessing.  And when he saw us, he’d smile in recognition.  But always he stayed by Mr. Bilbo, honoring him as the Elves was honoring both.”

            “They were honoring you, too, Sam,” said Merry softly.

            Sam shrugged.  “Maybe.  It was good to ride by the Lady, I know that.  And the Lord Elrond comforted me in the times as when we rested, and I think once he gave me a draught of herbs, too.  Part of the journey I member only as riding in a haze of golden Light, and a clear Light was shining about my Master.  I think as I were seeing him and Mr. Bilbo as they do, seeing the Light of Life as is within them.  I could see the Light as shines from the Elves, too.  Beautiful Light.

            “The last time as we stopped I sat looking at Mr. Frodo.  Can’t tell you what he were looking at, but I don’t think it were anywhere in Middle Earth.  His face was very pale, his lips without color.  Lord Elrond was preparing the draughts for him and Mr. Bilbo, but when he brought them he gave the one for Mr. Frodo to me to give him.  I touched his shoulder and he looked up at me, and I held out the cup, held it to his lips, and he drank, humble and grateful, then looked up at me.  Then he smiled, that beautiful smile as was his alone, and he whispered, ‘Thank you, Sam--thank you for all.  Live Sam--live twice as hard, for us both.’  And he reached out to take my hand.  The Lord Elrond had come behind me, and his hand was on my shoulder, and he took the cup from me with his other hand.  I drew--I drew him up, drew Frodo to his feet, and I could see the strength returning, his color returning--a bit, at least.  He mounted Strider, and rode over by Mr. Bilbo again.  But this time the Lord Elrond indicated I should ride by Frodo’s right hand as Bilbo was on his left, and as we rode I often held his hand, and he’d smile.  He was working right hard at being present.  And the song of the Elves was of healing.  The Lady rode to my right, and often her hand was on my head or my shoulder as we rode.”

            Sam gave a deep sigh, and Ruvemir realized all eyes were riveted on the gardener as he sat there, his book forgotten in his hands.  And Ruvemir realized he had turned the page automatically in his own booklet, and was drawing reflexively, catching Sam, Sam’s dignity, Sam’s sadness, Sam’s pride.  Pippin stood at full attention, the soldier of Gondor giving honor; Merry stood with his hands resting on the pommel of his sword, its tip on the granite of the floor paving before him, doing the same for Rohan--for Rohan and the Shire.

            “Then we reached the Grey Havens with the remains of the Elvish city about it at sunset.  We rode to the quay, and dismounted one last time.  The horses as the Elves had brought were led forward, but Strider’s and Bill’s reins were wrapped about a tree, for Strider was too much a pony for a mortal. 

            “Gandalf was there already, and Elves was leading Shadowfax aboard.  It was said in Rohan the Valar brought the Mearas, the Lords of Horses, to Middle Earth when they came at the end of the First Age to fight against Morgoth, and gave them to those of the Edain, those of Men as joined in the Alliance against the Enemy then, who was the fathers of the Rohirrim.  So I guess for Shadowfax it were a going home as much as for Gandalf.  Gandalf was standing there in majesty, all in shining white.  I could see the Light of Anor about him and knew at last whose service he were sworn to.  I could see the Ring of Fire on his hand, made of red gold and set with a great ruby.  And Elrond went forward to stand behind him, with the Lady and the other Elvish Lords and Ladies who was leaving on this Ship.  And I could see the Ring of Water on Elrond’s hand, a pale sapphire set in pale gold.  And I could at last see Nenya, the Ring of Air, on the Lady Galadriel’s hand, a great stone of adamant set in mithril, shining with the Light of her Being.

            “The rest of the Elvish horses was being led aboard when we heard a noise from behind, and it were Merry and Pippin arriving at last.  Frodo and I were standing either side of Mr. Bilbo, who was awake now and had been looking on Frodo with care.  Frodo was frustrated and relieved at the same time as they hollered out as it were Gandalf who give him away this time.  And Mr. Bilbo tightened his grip on my hand and smiled with relief for me.  I heard him whisper to me, ‘I warned Gandalf he’d try to sneak away again.  In wanting to spare others he manages to give more pain without meaning to.’  And they came forward, leaving Jewel and Stybba to wait, and hugged the old Hobbit.  Then Gandalf came forward to speak to us.

            “Frodo and Mr. Bilbo had to go forward on their own, I saw, had to choose at the last.  There were no hesitation in Mr. Bilbo, and Lord Elrond reached out his hand to him and led him on board.  The Lady Galadriel looked to Frodo and gave her joyous smile, then looked to me.  When I shook my head she smiled even bigger and went aboard.  Then Gandalf said his goodbyes and moved down to the gangplank, and he waited.  Frodo embraced each of us.  He didn’t speak--past it, I fear.  He kissed Merry and Pippin as he hugged them, then held me a long time, and I think he tried to say as how much he loved me, but I felt that more than heard it.  And he kissed me in blessing.  And then he turned.  He were a bit afraid, I think, but he looked in Gandalf’s eyes and the fear passed, and he went forward, trusting.  He were smiling, like a child taking its dad’s hand, as he looked up at him as Gandalf took his hand and led him aboard.  They stood by him, the Lady and Gandalf, as he took the Lady’s Starglass out of his pocket and held it up so we could see it as long as we could.  And he were smiling in relief as he stood there.

            “At last we could see no more, and as the dawn neared Círdan the Shipwright came and walked by us as we went to the ponies, and bent to speak to me.  Then we started for home, the three of us, taking turns leading Strider.”

            “What did Círdan say to you?” asked the biggest girl.

            “Just never you mind.  It was private and nothing to do with now.  But I’d trust a ship as he built.”

            “What became of Strider?”

            “Frodo gave her to Rosie, so she has a pony to ride when we travel together about the Shire.”

            “How come she didn’t come with you?”

            Sam shook his head.  “You are one for questions tonight.  She’s with child and in no shape to be gallivanting about the Shire on a pony at this moment.  And I must be off to home tomorrow to see to her, while Master Ruvemir goes with the Thain and Mr. Pippin to see the Great Smial.”  And he opened his book again in a manner that made it plain the story was over.

            Ruvemir turned back to his study of the two knights, thinking about the three of them and the fourth he’d not seen, and sighed.

Love Lost

            At dinner, Miriel asked, “Did the Lord Frodo ever fall in love?”

            The Hobbits exchanged sad looks.  Finally the Thain answered, “Once, briefly. He was very popular as a tween, and there were many lasses who hoped to catch his eye, and I suspect as many families behind them whose own hopes for an excellent marital alliance were dashed when Frodo fell in love with my daughter Pearl. 

            “Pearl fell in love with Frodo when she was about eighteen.  By the time Frodo was twenty-six, the attraction was mutual.  Frodo was one of those whose heart could be given only to one at a time.  And he was not one to take advantage of others.  It used to be that when he went to parties or feasts he would dance all night, delighting in the admiration he received.  But he was too shy--and too decent--to insist on more.  Once his heart was set on Pearl he would rarely dance with other lasses unless they were too young to be seen as possible mates, or were obviously devoted to others, but their preferred partner was not present or at the moment able to dance.”

            “So, after he settled on Pearl, he danced either with her or with partners who were obviously not competition?”

            “Yes.”

            “What happened between them?”

            It was Samwise who answered: “Lobelia Sackville-Baggins got her claws on Pearl and filled her head with tales on how likely Mr. Frodo was as to die if he were to do too much, and how any children they might have would be like to be weak hearted.”  To the unasked question in the Thain’s eyes, he answered, “I asked Mistress Pearl, sir, after Mr. Frodo left.  I’d always wondered.”

            “She never told us why all of a sudden she was no longer answering his letters, why she was finding excuses to be elsewhere when we went to Bag End, why she would try to avoid banquets or dinners or parties where he might be present, why, when she did go, she avoided him.  Nor did she apparently tell him.  He would look after her with such puzzlement in his eyes, and eventually the mention of her name would cause his face to draw in pain.  For about three years he mourned before his heart healed.”

            “And then,” Mistress Esmeralda said with bitterness, “the Ring came to him, and he lost the ability to love.”

            Miriel was shocked.  “What would the Ring have to do with his ability to love?”

            Pippin answered, “It was when Bilbo left the Ring to him that he could no longer feel attracted to anyone any more.  Suddenly he didn’t seem to notice lasses any more.  If’ they asked him, he would dance with them, but otherwise they were just--just folk.  And it hurt him, when he thought on it, to not be able to appreciate a lass any more.  He said so to us.”

            The Master nodded, his face full of pain for his lost cousin.  “Yes, he said the same to us, a few days before he left.”  And Ruvemir saw that his wife and brother-in-law were nodding in agreement.  “Would you care for potatoes?”

            After a while of silence, Miriel asked Estella, “How did you come together, you and Sir Merry?”

            Estella looked at her husband, who just shrugged.  “We’ve known each other from childhood.  We’re second cousins, also.  We’re all at least a bit related to one another and to Frodo.

            “During the time of the Troubles, once it became known my brother was leading one of the groups of Rebels, as the Big Men called those who opposed them, our folks were driven out of our hole and most of our possessions confiscated by Lotho and his Men.  My parents managed to get me to the Tooks, who hid me on a farm outside Tuckborough for the rest of the time before Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin got home.  After the Big Men were thrown out of the Shire and Sharkey was dead they had to find me and bring me home.  Merry was the one I saw first. 

            “Took a while for our home to be restored and refurnished and all.  The most valuable items my folks had hidden early on, and so we weren’t completely destitute afterwards.  But it seemed Merry and I just kept accidentally meeting each other here and there throughout the Shire, and then one day he just asked me to marry him, and after taking a few days to think it over, I accepted him.

            “How about you, Mistress Miriel--are you spoken for?”

            Miriel blushed.  “No, but then until we heard Ruvemir was in Minas Anor ill and almost to the point of death I almost never left our home.  It’s not easy to feel comfortable when most of those who live surrounding you see you as different and therefore either dangerous somehow, or in some manner an offense against nature.  But when word came from our Lord King himself that Ruvemir was seriously ill, I overcame my fear and set out to the capital to come to his side, and found I was better accepted in Minas Anor and here than I was near my home.”

            Mistress Esmeralda bristled.  “As gentle and accomplished as you are--there is anyone who would give you such offense?  That is a great offense in itself!”

            Miriel looked at her with appreciation.  “I thank you for your courtesy, my Lady Esmeralda,” she said.

            Estella turned to Ruvemir.  “And you, Master Ruvemir--is there one you have come to love?”

            Ruvemir found himself smiling broadly.  “I’d not thought to find it in Minas Anor, but yes, I have found love, and I hope we will marry soon after I return to the city.”

            “What is she like?”

            “Elise is taller than I, which is to be expected, as I am considered short even among my own.  Yet she is herself quite small and well proportioned, with a mouth made to smile and eyes that are bright with laughter.  Her hair is the color of ripening wheat, pulled back into a braid at the back of her neck.  And when she is gently teased she colors beautifully, and her eyes shine with delight.”

            “It sounds as if you are very happy.”

            “Oh, very happy indeed,” Ruvemir answered.           

Letters to the King

To my beloved Lord Strider,

            You have certainly set me a pretty puzzle.  Each time I speak to someone it adds more information to what I knew before, and makes all increasingly complicated.

            I am learning that the Frodo Baggins you knew is one (or more) in a series of Frodo Bagginses, each far different from the rest.  There is the happy child who was lost the day his parents drowned in the Brandywine River.  There is the scholar Frodo Baggins whom all remember with awe for his prodigious hunger for knowledge that appears as great as the typical Hobbit hunger for food.  There is the Frodo Baggins who desired only to please others, often at the cost of his own desires, and the Frodo Baggins who resented that self-sacrifice he felt impelled to make.  There is the rebellious Frodo Baggins who used his knowledge of character to organize the raids on the farms, smokehouses, dairies, and glass houses of the district they call the Marish.  There is the rebellious but repentant Frodo Baggins who stole a hoe in order to redeem himself for stealing food from the farms, smoke-houses, dairies, and glass houses of the district they call the Marish, and who did this in defiance of his family’s desire he remain “safe” at home where the whispering in his heart would hopefully not be stressed.  There is the Frodo Baggins who worshipped his cousin Bilbo Baggins and desired to be with him above all others, and the Frodo Baggins who half believed the gossip which indicated that Bilbo was mad and lived in squalor.  There is the Frodo Baggins who gesticulated eloquently as he told stories to the children, stories of delight and awe and grandeur, most of which he learned from his cousin Bilbo; and the Frodo Baggins returned from war who rarely gestured but told stories of simple things and gentleness and loss and finding.  There is the gentle Frodo Baggins who was repelled to be required to wear a sword and who swore he was incompetent at using one anyway, and the Frodo Baggins who saw injustice and learned to fell it with a single, well-placed blow so efficiently that the one who taught him to place that blow made his swear to strike only when it was merited--a vow it appears he kept faithfully.

            I am finding the people of the Shire failed to understand Frodo Baggins when he returned from his adventure, but neither did he attempt to make such understanding easier for them to accomplish.  I am finding everywhere a sense of mourning for the Frodo Baggins they knew from the days in Bag End before the Ring came to him, who laughed and flirted and even loved, briefly, before the Ring appears to have burnt that capacity from him.  From a few I find grief for the Frodo they knew after his return, although most admit they saw him only briefly during that period.  Mostly they saw an unapproachable shell, reminiscent of the fading youth who was beginning to despair of life before his cousin Bilbo exercised his right to take Frodo as his ward and, in the end, his heir.  I start study after study, and then find that before I can complete the details the Ring gets in the way.  I am coming to hate that Ring--to hate it with a passion beyond the measure of any I have ever known before.  What Sauron wrought in this one’s life through that Ring cannot begin to be told.

            The Ring and his failing heart each took its toll of Frodo Baggins, and have left a measure of grief for him in this place I find almost overwhelming at times.  As you told me in Minas Anor, the amount of loyalty and love he garnered just by being alive is incalculable; the amount of grief they feel for him is equally immeasurable.

            I see now why Gimli stated one cannot picture Frodo without Sam--as different as they are to outward seeming, they appear to have been two halves of the same whole, and although he is very happy with his wife and children and home, there is a great empty place in the soul of Samwise Gamgee that will not be filled until he can be reunited with his other half and share the delight he has known through all of these with him.  And I suspect that as fulfilled as he may be by the beauty of Elvenhome that Frodo may be experiencing, he, too, holds an empty spot which will not be filled until Samwise brings his experiences to fill it.  Sam will live his life as fully as possible only to offer it, once it is complete, to the Master who cannot, through the offices of the Ring, experience such fulfillment for himself.

            I stand in awe of both of them.

            I still cannot decide on which design to use for the memorial.  I fill page after page after page, and continue to find all lacking somehow.

            I must go.  Tomorrow we head for the Great Smial, and I will see Pippin’s home of the heart.  Then I will stop at Budgeford to meet the Conspirator you never met, whose heroism here in the Shire was as great as that of the others outside it.  After that I will go on to Bag End, and hopefully find the details I need to complete the image I have of Frodo Baggins.

            In my work over the past eighteen years I have found myself on the trails of many interesting individuals, but never have I met one as fascinating and as hard to catch hold of than Frodo Baggins, not even the mysterious Lord Captain Thorongil.

            Until I can return in the Spring, I remain your faithful servant,

                                                            Ruvemir son of Mardil

 *******

To our Lord King, Aragorn son of Arathorn, Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar, King of Arnor and Gondor

From Paladin Took, Thain of the Shire

Our Lord King, I send you greetings from the Shire.

            I wish to thank you for sending to us the sculptor Ruvemir son of Mardil.  I will tell you that when we heard that you wished us to entertain this Man we were uncertain  what to expect, nor were we all certain that we wished to support the project.  But we have found ourselves not only now warming to the idea of a monument built to Frodo, Samwise, Merry and Pippin, but eager to see it accomplished.  The courtesy shown by both Master Ruvemir and Mistress Miriel. as well as that shown by their ward Ririon, has been exemplary; their skills inspiring.  Even Master Samwise has found himself not only accepting your wish to see the memorial made, but is now desirous of it coming to pass, and his suspicions appear allayed.

            I do not know you, sire, save by the love and honor shown forth toward you by my son, my nephew, my cousin, Master Samwise, and now these three.  But with the example these show, I am coming to respect you deeply.  All I hear of your caring for the least of your subjects, your service in healing as well as in leading the forces of our lands against those who would enslave or destroy us all, your wisdom, justice, mercy, and honor shown appropriately to all who come before you, and your generosity toward those who need it inspire me to honor you as they do.

            I am noting that as we seek to make these outsiders welcome to the Shire, our own people are developing a greater respect for that beyond our own borders and for our place in the world--and this extends to myself as well as to others.  I have reason to believe we will be better subjects as we continue to learn more of the outer world.

            There is one special thanks I wish to tender to you at this time--I offer you thanks for the gift of my son.  I have loved him deeply since before his birth, but over the last few years ere he came under your warding he had become increasingly a disappointment to me for his impetuous nature, his frequently thoughtless actions, his ability to become distracted by anything that passed through his awareness, and what I saw as careless attitudes.  I failed to recognize his compassion toward others, the intelligence indicated by his inquisitiveness, his capacity for living joyfully, and his deep sense of loyalty and responsibility.  Not only did your healing skills and gifts send back to us the son we nearly lost, but your example of nobility has brought to the fore all his positive gifts.  His love for you, Frodo, and Merry and his respect for Master Samwise has made of him a Hobbit himself worthy of honor, far greater honor than I have shown him at times.

            And one last benefit I have noted--I find I am finding Frodo once more.  My young cousin was one all loved when he was young, and no one understood his gradual withdrawal from society or his sudden disappearance, much less the worse changes we found in him on his return.  In what I am learning of him as we answer the questions posed to us by Master Ruvemir and as we listen to one another, I have learned that he was still there, and that he had become more and more extraordinary as time passed.  And I now appreciate more fully not only his self-effacement but what he was willing to sacrifice for all of Middle Earth, and how fully he deserved the grace offered him by the Powers.

            We are doing our best to fulfill your desires for the development of a proper monument to Frodo’s memory, and will continue to do so.  And if there is any other office we of the Shire can offer you, you have only to ask.

            And so I again offer myself and my people to your service in whatever manner you may find you need.

                                                                        Your humble servant,

                                                                        Paladin Took

                                                                        Thain of the Shire     

                                                                        Written at Brandy Hall, Buckland, the Shire

                                                                        Eriador, Arnor

                                                                        Middle Earth

*******

Dearest Lord Strider,

            Mr. Frodo wouldn’t have liked it none, I know, and I certainly wasn’t keen on it when we was in Gondor.  But now as I’ve seen your Master Ruvemir and his skill both with drawing sticks and with stone (he’s done a small statue of you that’s you to the life), and as I’ve seen he wishes to make it real like and not stiff and formal, I no longer object to a memorial of Frodo, and will even allow myself to be pictured as you wish.

            All of us are impressed with Master Ruvemir’s skill and his courtesy and his respect toward us as his subjects.  And that he speaks of us with both respect and humility has done much to earn him even more respect here.  He seems even to have convinced old Butterbur that yes, the Strider the Ranger as he knew is the King, and that, as you know, would take a powerful bit of persuading.

            Rosie and the children are well, and we’re looking forward to the birth of the third in just a few months.  Elanor still looks at the door of her Uncle Frodo’s room and the study door as if waiting for him to come forth and sweep her up and give her his Elvish greeting and his kiss.  And I find I do the same.

            We’re planning the building of a glass house at the healers’ herb garden at the Three Farthings Stone.  The herbs seem to do extraordinary well, and the athelas and other herbs as Lord Elrond sent are flourishing.  And a building is being built there not only as a shelter for them as are working on the gardens, but to house many of the notes those who help in it wish to share with one another on how each uses each herb.  Budgie Smallfoot is very much active in all this, and is organizing a guild of healers for the entire Shire.  Another gift from Mr. Frodo as is making it better for all, and I hope as it one day benefits those as are outside the Shire as it benefits those of us inside as well.

            Give the love of Rosie and myself to the Lady Arwen, and remember, both of you, that we hold you in deepest regard.

            With much love,

                                                            Your Sam

The Bathing Room

            One of the most unusual predilections to which Hobbits were prone, Ruvemir found, was their love of bathing.  It was with shock he’d first seen the men’s bathing room there in Brandy Hall on his arrival, to see a room full of several tubs, all fed by an enormous boiler with pipes leading off in several directions.  He had learned even children here appeared to like to bathe.  Nor did there seem to be a great deal of modesty, for as he’d been bathing the previous day he’d seen a group of men enter talking, who each chose and filled a tub, disrobed, bathed, and then dressed and left together, still continuing on with their discussion on how many acres of barley would be necessary in the coming year to fill the needs for the breweries their fields served.  He’d stayed a bit longer than necessary due to their arrival, in fact, being unused to dressing before others.

            After a large dinner he’d spent another two hours with the family, and then went to his room to write a letter to the King.  Having sealed this communication, he decided to take a late bath, hoping to find the room unoccupied.  He was dismayed to hear voices as he opened the door, until he realized whose voices they were.  He went in and saw, to his surprise, that these three were looking at the door with the same dismay he’d felt the day before.  Sam had his jacket and vest off, and had pulled down the straps used to support his trousers, which Ruvemir had learned were called braces, and was looking over his shoulder with a distinct air of discomfort.  Merry was down to his underthings, and Pippin had frozen just stepping into his tub.  Deciding to act as if communal bathing were a thing he was accustomed to as well, the sculptor entered the room and chose an empty tub, hung up the robe he’d brought with him, and began the ritual of filling it.  Not facing the others, he began to remove his own clothing and hang it on the provided hooks.  He turned around at last with a feeling of defiance as he prepared to climb into his own tub, and found the three of them examining him with interest.  Sam had removed his shirt and trousers, while Pippin had finally settled himself in his own tub and was peering at him over its side.  Merry blushed to be caught staring so at his guest, and said, “Please don’t be offended.  Sometimes we forget we aren’t the only ones who may not be happy to show our bodies to those we don’t know and trust very, very well.”

            As Merry turned to hang up his underthings, Ruvemir saw scars on his back, buttocks, and legs, scars from one or more whips.  And on the back of his right wrist was another scar, indicating he’d been so tightly bound the rope had cut into his flesh.  Sam displayed a similar pattern of scars on his legs and buttocks, he noted, and indications, as he turned, of wounds on his lower legs from the knees on down as if he’d fallen on or crawled over cruelly rough ground.  Both Merry and Pippin, he saw, had the nicks he’d expect to see on the arms of a swordsman, although these scars all seemed to be the same age.

            Sam settled himself in his tub, ducked under to wet his hair, then brushed the hair back from his face, revealing two overlapping scars on his forehead, and when he leaned over to pour more water over his hair, another scar near the right temple could be seen.  Ruvemir found the knowledge these did not like to display their scars somehow heartening as he now stood, his own physical imperfections, uneven hips and shoulders, disproportionately short arms and legs, powerfully developed arm and shoulder muscles looking decidedly odd on his strange body, his own scarred nicks from slipped chisels and hammers, now revealed.

            As he climbed into his tub, Ruvemir commented, “I can appreciate your desire for some privacy, at least.  I hope I have not embarrassed you.”

            Pippin gave a short laugh.  “Embarrassed?  No.  But we don’t like displaying the scars.  You wouldn’t believe how long it took for us to begin to talk openly of what we went through, and much of it is still a mystery to even our own families.  At least you understand how very bad the war was, how devastating it was on people and even the land.  For all their experiences with the Troubles, our folk simply cannot fathom most of what we saw or did, and it still hurts to talk about much of it.  You saw Merry when I talked about stabbing the Ringwraith.  Almost any time it is mentioned his right arm seems to feel numb and cold.  And when someone comments on the knots on my chest where the ribs healed, I feel as if I can’t breathe, as if that troll were still lying on me.  And I won’t allow anyone in the Great Smial to carry as much as a riding crop, and I ordered the stock whips burned.  And believe me, Sam feels exactly the same way.”  To which the gardener nodded.

            After a moment, Sam added, “Mr. Frodo was the worst hurt, and it were all he could do as to let anyone see the scars.  I could bathe them, but he hated even for Rosie to see them.  And now and then the scar where Shelob bit him would open and drain, I guess letting out more poison, and I’d have to clean it, and you could tell as he was hating it, every moment it were exposed to view.  It were a powerful sign  of just how bad he felt that he let Master Saradoc help him change into a nightshirt that time just afore he left.”

            Ruvemir gave a grim smile.  “You then can appreciate, perhaps, my hatred of stairs.  It’s hard enough to remove my shirt before others.  To let someone see how difficult it is for me to climb them--”  He shrugged eloquently, and they nodded.

            After a few moments of quiet, Ruvemir asked, “I’m told that as a child Lord Frodo loved to swim.  Did he swim after his return?”

            Sam shook his head sadly.  “No, he never did.”  He looked off into the distance as he soaped his hair.  “Afore, even as an adult he’d go swimming--not as often as when he was a child or teen or tween, but he’d still do so from time to time.  But, once he got back--he didn’t even want to bathe with no one else, or where anyone else could see.  When we was ill and the King and the healers was caring for us, if anyone was to try to touch him other than Strider or Gandalf or me, he’d grow tense.”

            Pippin said, “He hated for even us to see him without a shirt, even though we knew what he’d been through--as much as anyone can, that is, other than Sam, of course.”

            “Nobody could know what he went through, not even me.  I know a bit of what it was like to carry that--that thing, but not what it was like for him.  The brief time I carried It, It--It did things, lied to me as to what I could do with It.  Even Mr. Frodo couldn’t of mastered It, but It was telling me as I could?”

            Ruvemir looked at him with shock as Sam took the dipper to rinse his hair.  Finally, as Sam finished and handed the dipper to Merry in the next tub, he asked, “You mean that you carried It--that thing--too?”

            Sam’s face was sad, although the look hardened to something else.  What?  Regret?  Anger?  Hatred?  Desire?  All--all, or something else entirely?  Finally, he answered.  “Not long, but all too long, anyway.  It was after the spider, that Shelob creature, poisoned him.  We was running out of the tunnel at the top of the stairs.  We’d found one of her webs, and Mr. Frodo had to cut it apart with Sting.  My sword, for all the Dúnedain, Strider’s own ancestors, made it, wasn’t enough.  The Elves forged Sting, though, and Sting could cut through her web of shadows.” 

            He paused, looking off into his memories.  “He got through, then gave Sting to me, started to run ahead.  You can’t imagine how awful it was in that dark place, full of her stench.  He’d already given me the Lady’s Starglass to hold as he was cutting the web, and now he give me Sting to use.  Only as he run ahead, Shelob come out of a different crack, between us, and afore I could get there, Gollum come out of the tunnel behind me, grabbed me, tried to choke me.  I got away, but by the time I did it was too late--the spider had bit him, had him all wrapped up in her cords. 

            “I fought her, fought her with Sting.  She couldn’t get to me to poison me as she’d poisoned Frodo, and at last she tried to crush me with her body.  Couldn’t do nothin’ else--I held Sting up, and she drove herself down on it.”  He shuddered.  “Drove herself on it, and the gore fell all over me, all green ichor.  It stank and burned me.  But she finally as had enough, crawled away into a crack so small I don’t know as how she folded herself into it.

            “I ran forward, and cut the cords from around him.  But he didn’t wake up.”  He looked down.  “I called him, held him, shook him, begged him not go where I couldn’t follow.  Finally I thought as he was dead.  When I took the chain with the Ring on it from him and he didn’t move at all, I were sure he was dead.  I knew that if he was alive, he’d of never been able to bear it.  But I had to take It, had to!  I thought as I was the only one left.  I had to take it on to the Mountain.  I took Sting and the Starglass, put my sword by him, promised to come back when I was done, prayed the Valar keep him till I could come back.  And…and I started for the pass.

            “But then the orcs came, and I put...I put It on, to make myself invisible so as I could get by.  But they saw Frodo lying there, and I could hear them saying as he weren’t dead, just poisoned, and when the poison started to wear off he’d wake up.

            “I’m not sure how long it was afore I could get to him to rescue him.  May have been a full day, for all I know.  The orcs took him to their tower, then took all he had.  And they fought over his mithril shirt as Mr. Bilbo’d give him, and almost all killed each other.  One got away, with the mithril shirt and my sword and his cloak from Lorien and his clothes and all, took it to Barad-dûr.  Another was all that was left alive in the tower when I finally got to him.  He was beating Mr. Frodo with a whip when I finally found the way to him, there at the top of the tower.  And when I come up with Sting he was so surprised, he turned and fell through the trap door, and broke his neck.

            “He thought they’d took the Ring, Mr. Frodo did, only I had It.  He grabbed It away from me, thought as I was an orc, sent to torture him with the sight of It in my hands.  The Ring had took him that far at the time.  Then he were in grief.  I hated to have him take It from me, and at the same time it was such a relief.”

            Then he shook his head.  “Oh, I bore It.  Any time was too long for that thing.”

            Ruvemir lowered his own eyes, then lifted them to look into those of Samwise Gamgee.  “I’m sorry, Lord Samwise, sorry you had to bear with that.”

            “I’m no lord, Master Ruvemir.  I’m a gardener, and Mr. Frodo made me Master of Bag End.  But I’m no lord.”

            “And your Master also felt he was no lord, and no hero.  And he felt he was unworthy of the honor given him.”

            Sam looked away and said nothing.

            Merry rinsed his hair, got out and wrapped a towel around himself, came over to Sam’s tub and said, “I’ll wash your back, Sam.”  Ruvemir realized suddenly that Sam was weeping, as he turned and buried his face in Merry’s shoulder.  The artist could see a wide scar high on Merry’s face, up under the hair that ordinarily fell over his forehead, a bit more dramatic than that on Sam’s. 

            Then he heard Sam’s muffled voice, “He deserved every bit of honor he got and then some, every bit.  And he never believed it.”  And Merry rubbed his friend’s back.  Pippin quickly finished cleansing himself, and wrapping himself as had his cousin, got out and came to the other side of Sam’s tub, and wrapped his arms around him as well.  Finally Ruvemir found himself doing the same, found himself embracing the damp gardener, too, breathing in the odors of steaming water, soap made with lavender oil, clean skin.  Finally Sam straightened, and the three of them pulled away.  Ruvemir looked up to see the saddened brown eyes now examining him.  They were eyes that had seen too much, and he realized that the Ring had cost him almost as much as It had Frodo.  Finally Sam said, quietly, “You didn’t wash your hair.”

            “No, I guess I didn’t.  I did wash it just yesterday, though, and I’d really wanted mostly to soak my hip, and that I did do.”

            Sam smiled softly.  “Yes, I guess you did that.  The ride today too much for it?”

            Ruvemir nodded.  “It still has some of the colors of the bruises on it.  And the King didn’t really want me riding this soon.”

            “So that’s why you walked back from Crickhollow.”

            “Yes.”

            Sam nodded at Pippin.  “Well, he knows all the exercises, I think.  Strider was good at making sure he did them, too.”

            For a time they said nothing.  Pippin and Merry emptied their tubs and pulled nightshirts they’d brought with them over their heads and pulled on dressing gowns, and Ruvemir went back to where he’d hung his clothes and pulled on his own worn, comfortable robe, drained his own tub, gathered his clothes.  By the time he was ready to leave the room Sam was attired similarly to Pippin and Merry, and courteously they waited till he was ready and all left the room together.  And as he walked back to the room he shared with Ririon, Ruvemir realized they’d accepted him now as one who understood, at least in part, what they’d been through, as one who, like them, knew what it meant to be set apart.

To the Great Smials

            Ririon rose with better grace the following morning, and went to the privy with his guardian.  He explained all he’d seen the preceding day while Ruvemir was off with Merry and Pippin, and described the birthday celebration he’d attended, marveling that the honored host gave presents on that day instead of receiving them from others.  He’d been given a walking stick with a carved handle depicting a dragon--or at least that was what he’d been told.  And one of the girls who’d come to the library afterward had explained that as he was a late addition to the party there’d been no chance to choose a proper gift for him, so he’d been given an available mathom that it had been decided would probably interest him as one who was learning to carve wood.  When they got back to their room Ririon got it out of the corner where he’d set it between the wardrobe and the wall, and Ruvemir examined it closely.  It was indeed a dragon on the handle, carved in very low relief, and the wood was a form of willow he’d never seen before, with purple patches where branches had been attached.  When Ruvemir declared it one of the most unique examples of a walking stick he’d seen, Ririon smiled, and apparently decided that he would then carry it wherever he went.

            Certainly Merry and Pippin appeared impressed with it when they saw it, and asked if he’d decided to go into wizardry, now that he had the requisite staff.  Mistress Estella was accompanied as she had been the day before by young Arto, who immediately sat beside Ririon and began asking questions about arms and armor, having decided that he was an expert, in light of the discussions on Pippin’s helmet the preceding day.  Once the Thain, Master, Mayor, and the Master’s Lady appeared, followed closely by Sam and Miriel, and once all had observed the Standing Silence, including Mayor and Thain, they sat down to their meal.  Ruvemir had brought his sketch booklet, and soon Pippin had asked permission to look at his most recent studies and was leafing through it.  Suddenly he stopped at one of the pictures and showed it to Merry, and Ruvemir saw there was a look of deep approval of both of their faces.  He thought it must be the study he’d been doing of the two of them in the library until it was turned slightly his way and he saw it was instead the one done of Sam telling the story of the Ride to the Grey Havens to the children.  Sam craned his head to see the picture, and then flushed slightly and held out his hands to take it.  Pippin looked a bit reluctant to give it up, but passed it on, and Sam sat looking at it for several moments with great care before flipping back to the study done of the two knights in their uniforms, and the same look of pride and approval that had filled their faces looking at his portrait now filled his looking at theirs.  He looked across at Ruvemir and nodded, then passed it back to Pippin, who found Estella was now demanding the chance to examine it more closely.  The booklet then made the circuit of the table.

            During the meal Merry asked if, before the departure for the Great Smial, Ruvemir would like to examine some of the books Frodo had helped copy for the Hall’s library, and he quickly agreed.  Once the meal was over and the three guests rose to bow and curtsey to their hosts, Merry led the way to the library, and brought out several books that had been sent to the Hall from Bag End.

            Miriel was delighted to see the books, and exclaimed over the subjects as well as the quality of writing and binding.  Ruvemir was very impressed--seldom had he seen books of such quality coming from private individuals.  Most were written in the graceful script of Frodo Baggins, although some had been copied or translated directly by Bilbo, whose writing was thin and perhaps a bit wandering.  He quickly found even the one book written in Elvish script, which he recognized as Sindarin Tengwar characters, was also recognizable as being the work of Frodo Baggins.  Not only was his writing beautiful, but he realized that he could tell the difference in who did the binding of the books, also, with those done by Frodo consistently more elegant than those bound by Bilbo.  And when he leafed through a book of tales and found an illustration of a boy talking with a fox, he quickly recognized the artistry of Frodo Baggins as well--an earlier Frodo Baggins than the artist who’d produced the pictures he’d seen in Minas Anor, but still obviously the same individual.  And he’d swear the boy was modeled on a young Meriadoc Brandybuck.

            Merry suddenly said, “Frodo did that picture.  See the dragonfly?” and he pointed to a mark in the lower right corner.  “That was his signature--a backwards F and a stylized B.”  He took the book briefly and paged through it to finally find another picture, of a farmer, his wife, their son, their daughter, their baby, their pony, their cow, their dog, their cat, and a rat dancing around in a circle about a cheese.  And again, in a corner, the dragonfly.  “He copied this from a book of tales Bilbo had bought for him when he was small, and he illustrated it for me.  It was given to me for Yule when I was ten.”  He smiled.  “Many of his later pictures he did before we left he no longer did the dragonfly on, or not that I could see.  He used to do lots of pictures of me and Bilbo, and then, once he got to Bag End, of Sam and the Gaffer and so on.  Lots of pictures of Sam’s flowers.  It was like Sam taught him how to see flowers, even when Sam was just a little lad himself.”

            “Do you know if he drew much in Minas Anor?” 

            “Some, but he burned almost all of what he drew, I think.  I think he used drawing as a means of--of getting out the fears, the anger, the nightmares, sometimes.  I don’t remember him bringing any home, and he didn’t show any to me.  But I’d go in and he’d have his drawing sticks out, or his graphite--Gimli found him some graphite somewhere, I think--and he’d be feeding drawings to the fire.  One I saw was of a great tower, but not one I ever saw, so I think it may have been Barad-dûr.  Anyway, over it was a great rendition of what looked like a fiery eye like the Sun.  He had a--an intense look of disgust on his face as he put it in the fire.  No, maybe not disgust--may have been anger and horror.  I think it may have been a rendition of the Dark Lord himself, in fact, as he seemed to perceive him as he carried the Ring.  Both he and Sam spoke of being aware of an Eye searching for them.”

            “But you don’t think he burned them all?”

            “No, he did a few for Lasgon, I think--which I suspect you have seen.  The first picture you did of Sam was quite different from the one you did yesterday--the first one was--was Sam as Frodo saw him.  The one you did of Sam telling the story was quite different, although they are both definitely Sam.  I’ve been seeing Frodo’s pictures all of my life, particularly his pictures of Sam.  There’s no question both pictures are truly Sam--but that first one--it wasn’t just a matter of Frodo’s description, was it?  But probably the strongest reason we all reacted to that picture was because--because it so reminded us of Frodo’s work.”

            Ruvemir felt embarrassed and looked at the picture of the circle of creatures about the cheese.  Finally he asked, “Why did Frodo never tell the King he was an artist?”

            Merry dropped his own eyes to the book as he thought on the question.  Finally he said, “I’m not fully sure why.  He didn’t do any drawings as we traveled, of course; and if he did any in Rivendell it would have had to have been while he and Bilbo were shut up in Bilbo’s room, talking.  In Lorien Sam begged some parchment, a pen and ink to write down a poem about Gandalf Frodo had thought out so he could keep a copy, and then Frodo had him write down a poem Sam had composed about a stone troll; then when they’d been written down Sam gave the rest to Frodo.  Frodo did one picture I’m aware of, although he didn’t show it to me--I think it may have been of the Lady Galadriel.  I don’t know what he did with it, for it wasn’t in his pack before he left us at Amon Hen--I’d gone through it with him the night before looking for something.  In Sam’s when they found him were only the hithlain rope, an empty waterskin, and the poems--nothing else.  He’d even dumped his box of seasoned salt and his pots he used for cooking.  He was carrying the Phial of Galadriel and the box she’d given him in his pockets, and he wore Sting.  Frodo wore Sam’s cloak from Lorien wrapped around him, belted with a length of the hithlain rope--he had nothing else at all.  Aragorn showed the items to me, and Gandalf said they had nothing else when they were found--not even a blanket.”

            “Where did Frodo get the drawing sticks?”

            “In Minas Tirith.  We were coming up from the lower city back to the sixth level, not long after we got there, and Frodo had to stop and rest on the fourth level.  He saw a shop that sold writing and drawing materials, and he went in.  The shopkeeper insisted on giving him everything Frodo looked at.  He had found he couldn’t write properly with his finger gone, so he wanted to use a wide charcoal drawing stick to practice with.  He was given a thick stack of paper and several different drawing sticks, different thicknesses, and a ball of gum.  Then he was given a fine steel pen and a bottle of ink.  He practiced for hours at a time until his writing looked normal.  Then I realized he’d started drawing again, drawing his nightmares, it seemed.

            “Then one day, after we’d been sitting for the artists of Minas Tirith, as we went back to our lodging Sam was grumbling that Mr. Frodo as had ought to do the drawings hisself, and Frodo was horrified.  He forbade us telling Strider he could draw at all, in fact--was afraid Aragorn would have him do the pictures and do the monument after all.”

            Merry began gathering the books to replace on the shelves, Miriel assisting him.  Ruvemir took one last look at the picture of the circle of creatures around the cheese, closed the book reluctantly, and took it over to the shelves and slipped it into place.

******* 

            They arranged to leave the chest of tools and much of their other gear in their rooms at Brandy Hall, and after packing such items as they felt they needed, they carried the clothing trunk to the carriage.  Merry and Pippin helped fix it into place atop the vehicle, and the Master helped harness the two ponies they were taking with them.  A few of the kitchen staff came with the food chest ready for their journey and lifted it into the coach.  Ririon, his hat on his head and staff in hand, scrambled onto the box alongside Pippin, who was to drive it.  Sam and the Mayor came out of the smial with the Master and the Thain; and the ponies for Sam, Will Whitfoot, and the two Tooks were brought out, and all prepared to take their leave.  The Mayor looked envious of those who were to ride in the coach, and mounted his pony for his ride back to Michel Delving with distaste.  Sam greeted his Bill with pleasure, checked to see the girth was fine, the saddlebags properly fastened in place, and the bit not distressing the pony, and finally with a last pat to the animal’s head he mounted and straightened his cloak about him, and reached down and accepted a shoulder bag offered up by the kitchen staff, thanking all for their hospitality.  With final goodbyes said, these two set off on their road.  Merry opened the door to the carriage for Miriel and Ruvemir, and as they got in he surreptitiously pulled from beneath his cloak a brown envelope and slipped it to Ruvemir, winked, and after seeing to the stowing of the steps closed and fastened the door.  Lowering the windows, the two passengers also offered their thanks to all, and with a chirrup Pippin set the team in motion, Paladin Took riding behind, leading Jewel, all waving as the coach set off for Tookland.  Once on the road the Thain rode beside the coach, and they conversed as they went, their host pointing out many of the features of the Shire and telling stories of its inhabitants.  Now and then Pippin or Ririon would add to the conversation, with the Thain relaying comments from the inside of the coach to the box and back again.

            They slept that night in an inn, and the two from Gondor found themselves again a focus for attention as folk  recognized these were strangers to the Shire and began examining their clothes and hairstyles, and as people stared with fascination at their boots.  They were treated well enough, but they found some of the comments they overheard to be blunt to the point of rudeness.

            It was pleasant to finally reach their destination the following afternoon, and to finally be able to stretch the cold and stiffness out of their bodies as they were welcomed to the Great Smial.  Their welcome was warm, and as they were greeted by Pippin’s brother-in-law and cousin Ferdibrand, whom they learned had been blinded during the Troubles, they realized just why it had appeared Ririon’s near-blindness had not raised signs of concern in their hosts.  Mistress Eglantine was pleased to take her guests in hand and show them personally to their rooms, and Pippin arrived not long afterwards with their clothing chest, asking if they’d like to bathe before the next meal.  The remains of the supplies in the food chest, he informed them, had been taken to the main kitchens where it would be added to the provender for the inhabitants of the Great Smial, and it would be replenished before they left for Hobbiton three days later.  Accepting the offer of a hot bath with relief, Ruvemir gathered clean clothing to change to, informed Ririon he was to do similarly, and they followed Pippin down the passage.

            “We’re not as modern here as in the Hall,” Pippin said as they walked through passageways that were decidedly lower than those they’d seen so far.  “There’s a boiler, but you have to dip out the water into the tub by hand.  And afterwards the tubs are spilled into a central drain.  Am working to rectify the situation, but many of the older inhabitants of the Hall object.  ‘If it were good enough for the Auld Took’ is their refrain, I fear.”

            “I think we can deal with that,” Ruvemir said as Pippin opened the door and led them into the bathing room. 

            Tubs here were in bays that offered a modicum of privacy for each bather, and they were shorter than those seen in Brandy Hall.  By the time he’d filled first Ririon’s and then his own tub by hauling hot water from a central boiler, Ruvemir found himself glad for the lesser volume.  There was a lot to be said, he thought as he divested himself of his clothing and climbed in at last, for the more modern pipes and drains that were used in the Hall and Minas Anor.

            One of the bays had a curtain around it, and it was to the tub in this bay Pippin repaired.  Soon the heard a vigorous splashing and gay singing from behind the curtains, and at one point water spilled from it to the shallow trough down the center of the room.  “Water hot is a noble thing!” they heard, and at that point another gout of water ran across the floor. 

            Ririon laughed.  “Is he splashing the water out of his tub?” he asked from the next bay.

            Watching the next wave with some concern, Ruvemir answered, “Apparently he is intent on emptying the tub before he gets out of it and has to turn it on its side.”

            They had dressed and were trying to figure out how to drain their tubs when Pippin appeared from behind his curtains, also dressed and toweling his hair dry.  He demonstrated the use of the handles on one side of each tub, showed them where to put the used towels, and once all had gathered their soiled clothing they headed back for their rooms with the advice they’d be dining with the Thain and his Lady and Heir in just short of an hour. 

            As they walked Ruvemir commented on the one curtained bay, and Pippin’s face softened.  “When I came home the first time after Frodo was gone, Da had fixed that for me, so I wouldn’t have to show my scars to others.  Bless him.”  Ruvemir wondered if it was the Thain or Frodo who was being blessed, or both.

            Having disposed of their dirty garments, Ririon and Ruvemir checked out the softness of their mattresses, and finally the artist decided to check out the envelope given him by Merry as they left the Hall, which he’d stowed in his personal satchel.

            It proved to contain a stack of pictures, apparently mostly the early work of Frodo Baggins.  He looked at the comparatively crude work displayed in the earliest examples, and realized that these still indicated the one executing them was possessed of a fair amount of talent.  There was a family portrait, with “DAD, MuM, and mE” written under three figures which were surprisingly well delineated for all they appeared to have been drawn by a small child.  Attempts at a portrait of what Ruvemir was certain must be Frodo’s mother indicated a sweet-faced lady Hobbit with her hair drawn to the back of her head, braided, and pinned up the back and fastened at the end of the braid on top of her head with a bow of ribbon.  There were a few of a sleeping baby, and one definitely of a much younger Esmeralda Brandybuck holding that baby, who must be Merry, he realized.  There were many faces he did not recognize, then two Frodo must have made later of elderly Hobbits quite skillfully done, each so reminiscent of Master Saradoc the sculptor realized these must be his parents.  There were many subjects besides Hobbits as well--a landscape he recognized from his trip across the Brandywine of farmlands with a distant farmer plowing his field; the Brandywine Bridge; a flat barge lying at the edge of a river, an ancient stump, a Dwarf, an Elf in the midst of trees.  And in the middle of the stack--could he at last have found a self-portrait?

            He was not good at recognizing hobbit ages, but he felt this was the equivalent of a youth in his mid-teens.  It certainly looked very much like the drawing of Frodo laughing he’d done--dark hair, cleft chin, nose unusually straight and finely sculptured for a Hobbit, high cheekbones, large, expressive eyes with dark lashes.  The major difference, besides the fact this was a youth and the one he’d done was of an adult, was that this figure did not look as if he’d done much laughing for quite some time.  The face had an expression of frustration, wariness, and sadness that touched his heart at the same time it spoke of a level of defiance and contempt. 

            The work on this portrait was not as fine as with most of Frodo’s work, being rougher and somewhat rushed, the symmetry slightly skewed, the mouth a bit wooden.  Ruvemir looked and found the tiny dragonfly symbol had been worked into the figure’s shirt.

            The face was narrower than he’d drawn himself, the chin not as long, the brows less arched, a slight difference to the hairline.  Ruvemir carefully noted the differences, then was startled as a knock sounded at the door.  Ririon startled from a doze and sat up as the sculptor quickly replaced the pictures in the envelope and slipped them into a drawer in the bedside table, calling out that they would be ready in a moment.

            Quickly donning shoes and running a comb through first his own hair and then Ririon’s, Ruvemir led his ward into the passage and found Miriel already waiting with Pippin.  She wore a wine-colored gown he’d always loved to see on her, and she was laughing at the comments their guide was making, apparently a description of the digging of the smial being told with gross exaggeration in the most solemn tone possible, but with eyes alight with humor.  And as they walked through the low passages he continued with his solemn depictions of diggers who got lost underground, digging more and more rooms and chambers in all directions as they vainly sought to find their ways out.  “It is said they are still at it, except they are now in their twentieth generation at least--families of diggers we become aware of only when we discover new doors along the passageways to the deep larders,” he was saying as he opened a door into what was plainly a single family’s formal dining room.

            The long, narrow table was old and richly carved, as were the chairs about it and the great sideboard on the far wall and the two side tables and extra chairs ranged against the other walls.  Great candlestands stood before mirrors hung on the walls, and oil lanterns hung from the ceiling in three places.  The three guests stopped in sheer awe, even Ririon picking up on the richness of the room.  Pippin looked at them a bit bemused, then took a look about as if seeing it all from their point of view.  “I suppose it is a bit much,” he commented, “but for now I suppose it will have to do.”  Miriel started to giggle at this, and the paralysis was broken and they went on forward to be shown their places.

            The Thain sat at one end of the table and his Lady at the other.  Pippin took his place at his father’s left and Ruvemir to the Thain’s right,  Ririon on the far side of Pippin, and a strange Hobbit beside him, then a couple with a small boy between them, one of them the blind Hobbit Ferdibrand, and Miriel to the right of Mistress Eglantine.  On Ruvemir’s side were two more couples and another two children.  Ruvemir, Miriel and Ririon thanked  their hosts, then stood for the Standing Silence with Pippin, and noticed that the other adults rose to join them, some looking a bit uncertain.  The children on Ruvemir’s side of the table remained sitting, but the other boy rose with his parents.  And after taking their seats the meal began, and they were introduced to those sitting with them, Pippin’s sisters Pearl, Pervinca, and Pimpernel and their husbands and children, and their other guest, their cousin Folco Boffin. 

            Pervinca looked at her brother with amusement.  “You have finally convinced Da to join you in your Standing Silence, I see,” she commented, but he was shaking his head.

            “No, I think it was Master Ruvemir here who accomplished that,” he said, gesturing across his father’s form. 

            Flushing lightly, the Thain tried to explain.  “Our guests are from Gondor and were sent by the King himself, and this is the proper form for them to observe, my dear.  We can respect both their customs--and your brother’s--as well as the Powers, you know.”  He gave a glance around, and all seemed to think on it and then nod in agreement.  Pimpernel and Ferdibrand and son, who’d been introduced as Piper, smiled broadly at Pippin.

            “We hope you aren’t too overwhelmed by the family,” Mistress Eglantine said.  “Everard and Ferdinand and their wives also often join us, but we decided it could make it more difficult for us to keep to the subject of your visit, as the moment they join us for a meal they end up discussing family business with Paladin, no matter what is supposed to be the focus for the evening.  There will be plenty of time to meet with them over the next few days.”

            Pearl looked down the table at Ruvemir.  “We understand you have been commissioned to create a monument in memory of Frodo,” she said.

            “A memorial for all four of those who took part in the quest, actually,” Ruvemir corrected her, “although the focus of it will be the Lord Frodo.  The whole of Gondor and Arnor combined seek to honor him for his sacrifice--all four for the courage and giving nature they all showed.  Your brother is held in high regard by his Captain in the Guard of the Citadel; Lord Éomer, King of Rohan, sent special greetings to his swordthain Meriadoc through us; and all who came to know them have expressed great honor to the lords Frodo and Samwise for the saving of us all by their terrible trip into the heart of the Enemy’s land.  And our Lord King Elessar and his Lady Wife, the Queen Arwen, have sent greetings to all three of their friends who remain here in the Shire.”

            Pearl looked down, and her husband Isumbard looked at her with a mixed expression.  “You know,” he commented, “I could almost be jealous of Frodo; but I am, for my part, sorry for him as it has turned out I ended up marrying the sweetest lass the Shire ever produced.”  And at that his wife looked up and gave him a grateful smile, while their children looked at their parents with surprise.

            Pearl looked down at her daughter Pansy and said, “Yes, I once thought to marry our cousin Frodo, long ago, before I realized I loved your father.”

            “But he was so quiet, Mother,” the girl replied. “I can’t imagine you married to anyone so quiet and shy.”

            “He was not anywhere so quiet and shy when we were younger,” Pimpernel said.  “He was a bonny dancer, and I think it was that that caught your mother’s fancy.  She was always one to love to dance.”

            “You should talk,” Pervinca said wryly.  “You had your eye on him, too, and for quite some time, you know.”

            “Every lass in the Shire had her eye on him at one time or another,” Pimpernel returned.  “He was, after all, handsome and romantic and oh, so lighthearted once he moved to Bag End with Uncle Bilbo.”  Her face saddened.  “Until Bilbo left, that is.  Then he changed.  I still don’t understand what got into him.”

            Pippin, his face grave and sad, explained, “It was the Ring he inherited from Bilbo, Pimmie.  It wouldn’t let him look at lasses any more.  He couldn’t understand it until we were in Rivendell.  I remember him watching after Sam and Rosie as they danced, envy and confusion in his eyes, for he simply couldn’t fathom why he no longer seemed to see how beautiful lasses were.”  He shook his head.  “He was almost bitter when he realized how it had affected him for so long.”

            Folco looked up in interest.  “Was that it, then?  I’d always wondered.”

            Mistress Eglantine looked at him with grief in her eyes.  “You should have seen him at that last dinner we had with him, Folco, as he declared how burnt out it had left him.”

            Pippin nodded.  “I can imagine,” he responded.  After a time he added, “We had all hoped that now It was gone and destroyed, he’d be able to recover and perhaps find someone who would give him joy and comfort.  Strider tried to tell me he didn’t think Frodo had recovered that much, but I hated to think he’d been so deeply hurt by It.  Only as we left Rivendell it began to be obvious he was not over the memories of It.  When we came to the Fords of the Bruinen where he had faced all Nine of the Black Riders, suddenly his face went perfectly white as the memories hit him with the force of being struck by a sledge careening down a steep hill.”

            Ruvemir looked at him in shock.  “He faced all Nine of them?  Sweet Valar--those who heard the cries of just one of them were unmanned!” 

            Pippin nodded.  “Oh, don’t I know!  They were terrible enough as the few--still not sure how many there were following us--Black Riders who pursued us here in the Shire.  And they found us again in Bree, at least two or three there, too.  And three attacked Crickhollow where Fredegar Bolger remained, trying to keep the news we’d spirited Frodo away from becoming known too soon.  We saw one at a time here, at least two together in Bree, three attacked Crickhollow, I think four attacked the Prancing Pony that night, then there were five facing us at Weathertop, at least six as we approached the Ford, and finally all Nine together followed Frodo as Glorfindel’s horse Asfaloth carried him across the Ford.  It seemed they just would keep multiplying.  He couldn’t fully oppose all their wills combined--he turned to face them once he was across, but still defied them.  Then the water of the Bruinen rose against them, and we came up behind with burning brands to chase them into the flood, and they were washed away.  They couldn’t bear fire nor water unless they themselves were wielding it.

            “Then, after we got south and they were mounted on those horrid winged beasts of theirs, we’d feel them flying overhead, and the power of their cries, even though they were further from us, was far greater.  I’ll never forget the sound of them from on high.”  He shuddered.  “I was clutching so at my ears once I lost my helmet in the streets of Minas Tirith--someone found it days later and returned it to the Citadel, and the Captain never considered reprimanding me.  Others did far worse than just lose their helmets.  And when I saw Gandalf at the Gate of the City facing down their chieftain--it was the most unbelievable thing I could imagine.  He never wavered, just stared it down as its sword flamed against him--and then it heard the horns of Rohan blowing from the east, and it left.  I’ll never hear horns blowing in the distance again without a thrill in my heart!”

            Ruvemir nodded.  “Others who fought there alongside Mithrandir have told me of that confrontation, and all agree.  And I saw the remains of the old gate he cast down.  But the new leaves are now in place--we left a few days after they were set up, in fact.  The Dwarves worked over three years forging them, and they are mighty.”

            “Gimli promised Strider they would be,” Pippin remembered.

            “He showed them to Ririon and me just before they raised them, he and his father Gloin, and Dorlin, who did the resculpting of the figures on them.”

            Pippin smiled in surprise.  “You know Dorlin?  How wonderful!  I remember how fascinated I was in him when I was a child and he came to visit Bilbo.”  He laughed.  “I dismantled Bilbo’s mantel clock, which had been in his family for generations.  Dorlin put it back together again and let me watch, but wouldn’t allow me near it again for fear I’d just take it apart once more trying to figure out how it went together.”  All laughed.  “And then Frodo and Merry had a row over me, for Frodo accused Merry of encouraging me to run amok in Bag End, which was partially true.  Merry was using my actions as a distraction so he could read the Red Book, where he learned about the Ring for the first time.”  He shook his head.  “Frodo retreated to his room for days, writing page after page and stuffing them into the drawer of his stationery box, he was so angry at Merry and me.”  He smiled at the memories.  “I was a right terror as a child.”

            “You still are, Little Brother,” Pervinca smiled, and Pippin threw a roll at her, which she deftly caught, split, and buttered.  “See, Piper,” she said to her sister’s son, “works every time with him.”

            “What was this stationery box?” Ruvemir asked.

            “He had a wooden box with a tray on top to hold writing paper that stood on his desk in his bedroom, although after we returned and Bag End was restored and we brought the personal items and furniture back from Crickhollow he had that desk put in Bilbo’s old room, which is now Sam’s and Rosie’s room; and he put the other things from his desk onto the big desk in the study.  Whenever he was angry or upset or worried, he’d go into his room, he’d usually close his door, and he’d write--for hours at a time sometimes.  It had a drawer in it that locked with a silver key, and after Bilbo left he wore the key as a fob on his watch chain.  Sam has them now, the watch and the key, and I think the stationery box as well.”

            “So that was how he dealt with anger--writing it out?”

            Folco responded, “Uncle Bilbo insisted he had to have some way of expressing his anger or worries--that otherwise it would ‘eat his heart out.’  For Frodo hated to tell others what was bothering him--he’d just go all inside himself.  Anyone else could tell him anything and he’d keep it strictly private; but he wouldn’t confide in anyone, not even Merry or Sam, or even Bilbo, unless he were forced.”

            Ruvemir considered.  “Wise man, this Bilbo.”

            “Wise Hobbit, you mean,” Folco corrected, and Ruvemir bowed his head  toward him in response.  “Bilbo was the only one who could deal with Frodo when he’d get in one of his moods.  But you should have seen them the times the two butted heads on something.  Frodo’s look when he was truly angry was legendary--only one who never quailed at it was Bilbo.  Bilbo had his own version of that look, but his was usually accompanied by well-chosen words that would skewer you right through.”

            The Thain agreed.  “Menegilda insisted both had inherited that look from the Old Took, whose acerbic wit was even more legendary.”

            Folco continued, “When both were angry it was something to see.  A wonder it was that Bag End didn’t just crumble away trying to contain the daggers they’d look at one another.  Frodo would be standing there, white as new cloth, glaring, and Bilbo’d be pacing about, casting glares and barbed words back.  The two of them could go on for days like that, and I swear both relished it thoroughly.”  All laughed.  “Did you ever hear about the Great Waistcoat War?”

            Mistress Eglantine shook her head.  “Waistcoat?”

            Folco was grinning widely.  “Yes, they had a real set-to about a waistcoat.  It was the year Delphie married Bartolo Bracegirdle, when we all got dumped on Aunt Dora or Uncle Bilbo.  Mum and I spent a few days in Hobbiton with Auntie Dora before Mum went on to the wedding, and she and I walked over to get the present Bilbo had ready to give them--he was doing it only for Delphie’s sake, of course--Bilbo and Dora never got on any better with Bartolo than they did with his cousin Lobelia, you know.  Anyway, Mum had said she’d take the gifts to the wedding for them, so we went over to get Bilbo’s, and there the two of them were all in a temper over a waistcoat.  Bilbo’d got it into his head Frodo needed a new one, and had decided to have one made in purple silk, and Frodo was having nothing to do with it.  Didn’t need a new waistcoat, didn’t want a new waistcoat, wouldn’t have a new waistcoat, and particularly not a purple, silk one.  Then, once he’d said that, Frodo just froze up with the Look on his face, and Bilbo was giving it back with his little barbed comments about ‘ungrateful kinfolk’ and ‘preferring to look like a tramp who’d dig a shelter in any sandbank.’  Mum was shocked, and I was fascinated, and young Sam was just looking at them both and shaking his head.  He walked out with us and told me he expected it would go on for at least another four days.  Well, it didn’t.  Three days later Bilbo and Frodo came into town to go to the Ivy Bush with Gandalf, all smiling and arms around one another’s shoulders and all as if there’d been no problems ever between them.  Sam told me after that when suddenly Gandalf arrived, he’d taken a look at the two of them, each obviously enjoying being furious with the other, and started to laugh, and that got them all laughing so hard they forgot to be angry any more.”

            “Who won that one?” Ruvemir asked, fascinated.

            “Bilbo, I think.  Frodo got a new waistcoat anyway--and a new cloak as well.  Except they weren’t purple.  Frodo favored greens and golds and browns, and that’s what he got.  A green figured linen waistcoat and a green wool cloak with golden linen lining.  He wore the cloak when he left the Shire.  Don’t know what became of it.”

            Pippin thought.  “After we received our Elven cloaks in Lorien, that was what we all wore.  His woolen cloak had already been cleaned and repaired from when he was stabbed at Amon Sul, and was damaged pretty badly by the spear he took when the orcs and the cave troll caught up with us by Balin’s tomb in Moria, and then it reeked of the smoke from the Balrog and the fire they used to try to trap us.  I don’t know what fed the fire, but the smoke was especially black and greasy, and stank horribly.  Only one who I think kept his old cloak was Aragorn.  The Elves in Lothlorien cleaned his for him, although they still left in the stains.  I wonder if those stains might have been a form of camouflage or something.  After all, that was the mark of him being a Ranger--the closest, I think, the Rangers of Eriador have to a uniform.  All of our cloaks were filthy and cut by the fighting we’d done, and stained with blood--mostly orc and troll blood.  Orc blood, by the way, is black and smells awful.”

            Folco looked startled.  “He never told me about being stabbed!  He was wounded twice?”

            “The stab at Weathertop was the first one.  But he wasn’t seriously hurt by the spear--Bilbo had given him his old mithril shirt the Dwarves gave him from when they took back the Lonely Mountain, and Frodo had it on under his clothes.  It did knock the breath right out of him, though, the spear did, and we certainly thought he had been killed.  One of the rings from the shirt was driven into his skin, and he had a spectacular bruise.  How he kept from having broken ribs no one could understand.”  Ruvemir noted he unconsciously touched his own chest.  For a few moments they continued the meal in silence, Pippin looking abstractedly off into space the while.  Finally he went on.  “As for wounds, believe me, before he was through Frodo had his share--more than his share.”  He looked down at his lap.  “We all had our own share.”
            Folco’s face was concerned.  “I’m sorry, Pip--didn’t mean to bring back hard memories.”

            Pippin looked up and smiled sadly at him.  “Oh, don’t worry about it, Folco.  They just are there, the memories.  And there is a lot of good along with the bad, joy along with the sadness.  There was the day when I suddenly woke to the realization that I loved our King, and that I’d been traveling with him for months and had never realized it--who and what he was and what he’d be to us all one day, for all I’d heard it over and over and over almost the whole time.”  His smile broadened.  “You can’t believe what a great man Aragorn is, how dear Strider became to us all.”  Again, unconsciously he had straightened to attention.  “And the day Beregond’s case was brought before him, I was so proud of him, of his justice and discernment and mercy.  Anybody else would probably have just ordered Beregond executed or exiled for leaving his post and staining the Hallows with blood; but Aragorn made him Captain of the Guard for the Prince of Ithilien.  He was banned from the city of Minas Tirith, and when Faramir comes there the Lieutenant acts as his captain within the walls.  But Beregond waits down in one of the hamlets outside the walls of the City, and takes up his duties as soon as they leave, and Aragorn goes down to greet him with deepest respect.  Beregond has written to tell me of it, how much those meetings with the King mean to him.”

            Ruvemir found his curiosity roused.  “I did not hear of this.  Can you tell us?”

            Pippin looked at him with a face devoid of his usual humor.  Finally he said, “Did you hear how the Lord Denethor died?”

            “The details are not known, only that he died within the city.  There are rumors of a great fire and him being trapped in it, and of the Lord Faramir, who was reportedly gravely wounded, being rescued at the last moment.  But it must have been down in the lowest levels of the city, for I saw no signs of active fires in the upper circles of Minas Anor.”

            “It was in the Tomb of the Stewards, Ruvemir.”

            “In the Cemetery of the Lords of the City?  I heard no tale the enemy had penetrated so deeply into Minas Anor!”

            Pippin’s voice was flat.  “No, the armies of the Enemy didn’t get past the first circle, and few entered there in the end.  The will of the Enemy, however, came to the chamber of the Lord Steward himself.”  He looked straight ahead of him, seeing again that time.  “He had the Palantir of Minas Anor in his keeping, Denethor did, and he looked into it.  And the Enemy had a Palantir, too--that of Minas Ithil.  And the Enemy used that Palantir, Ruvemir.  Believe me--I know.”  He suddenly shuddered, and his father reached out to place a hand on his right shoulder.

            Finally he continued.  “The final battle of Osgiliath went badly, as I’m sure you heard.  The ruins of the old city were totally overrun by the Enemy’s forces, and Faramir, as the Captain there, ordered a retreat across the Pelennor.  He and his remaining knights acted as rearguard.  The rear guard kept in order till a Nazgul stooped on them--then they almost broke ranks--but even in the shadow of that he kept them together--until a Southron arrow took him.  Prince Imrahil’s troupes and Gandalf rode out of the city to their aid, and the Prince himself carried his nephew’s body back into the city.  He was indeed gravely wounded.

            “But Denethor wouldn’t let them take Faramir to the Houses of Healing.  Had his own healer look to him, and had us make up a pallet for him in his own chambers.  Then he went up into the tower, and apparently got out the Palantir.”  His voice dropped.  “When he came down again, he was grey with weariness and despair.  He sat by Faramir through most of the night, and about two-three hours before dawn he made up his mind.  Had his own servants get a bier and put Faramir on it as if he were already dead, and had them carry him to the Rath Dínen.  Had them lay Faramir on the embalmers’ table and he lay beside his son, and ordered them to bring wood and lay it under them and about the table, pour oil over them.  Then he ordered them to bring more oil and torches, and he released me from my service.  He was going to burn them both alive--wasn’t going to wait for the Enemy’s forces to kill the whole city.  I refused to give up my oath, but took the release he tried to grant me as permission to go get Gandalf.  I couldn’t do anything against Denethor’s will with his personal guards and servants there, but I thought Gandalf probably could. 

            “I found Gandalf just inside the great Gate as it shattered, and he was facing the Lord of the Nazgul himself.  Then the horns of Rohan sounded--” again he straightened “--and he made to ride out after the Black Rider, only I called out to him, warned of Faramir’s peril, that Denethor was now mad, and with regret he took me before him on Shadowfax and we raced to the Silent Street.

            “As I’d gone through his gate Beregond called out to ask if Faramir had indeed died, and I’d told him no, but that the Lord Denethor was intent on burning him alive.  He left his post to go to Faramir’s aid, and when we got back we found no one at the sixth gate, and the warden of the gates to the Silent Street dead and his keys gone.  At the doors to the Tomb of the Stewards Denethor’s guards were fighting with Beregond, who held the doors closed with one hand and fought those who were bringing the lit torches with the other.  When Gandalf arrived they all stopped and he took over.  Denethor wrenched the doors from Beregond’s grasp and was going to kill him, but was stopped by Gandalf.  Denethor gave way before Gandalf’s wrath, but was still intent on killing himself and his son.  Gandalf forced himself by Denethor and took up Faramir and carried him out of the tomb and put him back on the bier, and when Denethor tried to go to him Gandalf forbade it, told him he could not kill himself and his kin as do pagan lords, and he needed to do his duty and lead the city. 

            “Denethor’s laugh was crazed.  He said that the Enemy had more troupes and would keep sending them until the city was finally taken and all Gondor fell, and that our hope had failed.  And he brought out that Palantir.  I think in it he saw the Enemy had Frodo’s clothing and mithril shirt and Sam’s sword from the barrow, and thought that meant that Frodo had been captured and that Sauron had the Ring back.  Certainly he saw the Black Fleet coming up the river from the Pelargir, but not that Aragorn’s troupes and more reinforcements from the south were on them.  I wonder if even the Enemy knew that, for certainly the Nazgul seemed as caught off guard by their arrival as anyone else.

            “Finally he snatched a torch from one of the servants who’d brought them, ran back to the table and leapt upon it, dropped the torch onto the oiled wood, broke his rod of office, and lay down on the flaming pyre with the Palantir clutched in his hands.  Gandalf pushed us all out and closed the door, and left Denethor to the end he’d chosen.”  Again he shuddered, and placed a grateful hand over that of his father’s on his shoulder. 

            At last he spoke again.  “Beregond was a man at arms in the service of the Guard of the Citadel, and to leave his post at all without leave was reason for execution or banishment.  He was relieved of his rank, but allowed to go to the Black Gates leading a force of men from the city who chose to fight under the new King--he served as their captain and trainer.  I stood by him as the Black Gate opened, there in the first ranks of our group.  And when the great troll warrior came and cut him down and then picked him up, ready to bite out his throat, I stabbed it with my sword, and it fell on us both.  Gimli finally found us, saw my foot sticking out from under the troll’s body, rolled it off of us.  He thought I was dead.  Beregond and another who’d also been caught by the troll’s fall were conscious, although gravely injured, and told him what I’d done.

            “Beregond befriended me when I first came to the city.  He and his son Bergil helped me find a place in Minas Tirith, and helped me bear being apart from my kin for the first time in my life.  I felt terribly guilty that my words to him possibly sent him to his death or exile.  His face when Aragorn told him he must leave the city was paler than Frodo’s--until the King added he was now Captain of Faramir’s guard.  He and I and all those who had been in his company had been holding our breaths--and only then did we breathe again.”

            “The King hadn’t advised you of his decision?”

            “No--only Lord Faramir, I think.”

            “Did you make a plea for your friend?”

            “No.  I didn’t want to make him feel guilty had he ruled--as we’d feared.  But he spent a good hour or more questioning me about all I knew of the case, and about Beregond’s nature.  And he questioned his officers and his fellow men-at-arms.  And the King’s ruling was fair, just, within the law, and merciful.  Do you wonder I wished to continue to serve him?”

            Looking at the seated individual opposite him, his bearing straight and proud, Ruvemir smiled as he shook his head.  “No, I do not wonder.  I feel the same.”

Memories of Dinners and Captains

            After dinner Ruvemir, Miriel, and Ririon were invited to join their hosts in their private parlor, which they agreed to do after fetching their work from their rooms.  Again they were shown into a richly furnished room with a cheerful fire on the hearth and candlestands before mirrors on the wall, with several sofas and settles and comfortable chairs now arranged so the all could see one another as they talked.  About a table at one end of the room chairs were set for the children, and on the table sat a board game, glasses, and a pitcher of punch.  Again there was pipeweed offered and a choice of wine, ale, or brandy, and Ruvemir contented himself with a glass of wine, which turned out to be an excellent vintage.  Pippin sat in the full light of one of the candlestands, and as they spoke his eyes would kindle with humor and caring, although when the talk faded momentarily he would sometimes look a bit distant and thoughtful.  The talk turned to the days when Pippin, his sisters, and their cousins were still children, of spring, summers, and harvest times spent on the farm at Whitfield which his father had worked himself before he became the Thain, of the winter when he was eleven Pippin had taken to running away, again and again and again, ending up alternately at Brandy Hall and Bag End.

            “I never understood why you kept doing this,” Pervinca said.

            Pippin considered.  “I think I was running away from getting older.  I hated the idea I was growing up, and would have to become solemn and responsible.  I felt I wanted to stay a little lad and have fun forever.  I had just turned eleven, and for some reason that scared me as turning ten had not.  And Bilbo had left, too, and I was worried Frodo was all alone with no one to care about.”

            “So why did you keep ending up at Brandy Hall, too?”

            “Well, Merry was all worried about Frodo, too, and I wanted both of them to feel better and be happy.  I felt I had to make them both laugh, or they’d forget how.  And--and I hated being here in the winter then, after being at the farm the rest of the year.  I hated not having windows in most of the rooms, of feeling always I was living with the memory of the Old Took more than in a place that was ours.  I hated being shut in and having to be all formal and always on my best behavior.”  Then, after a time of silence, he added, “And I hated how Da was treated by the Thain.”

            Paladin Took colored.  “Pippin!” he said in protest.  “It wasn’t so bad!

            Pippin shrugged.  “Sorry, Da.  But it was as if he expected you wanted to be Thain instead of him, when at the time that was the last thing you wanted.  You tried so hard to please him, and it seemed it was never quite good enough.”

            There was pain in each gaze as they looked at one another.  Then the father gave his son a crooked smile.  “And when you got back it must have felt as if we’d gone back in time to those days.”  He took a sip of his ale.  “Frodo warned me not to make you live through what you saw with that Lord Denethor again.”

            “Da, believe me--nothing you ever did could have been that bad.  You might have been critical, but you were never so unjust--never.  And I never doubted for a moment you loved me more than life itself.”  And the two smiled at one another, and Ruvemir saw the same look of loving indulgence on both faces.

            Mistress Eglantine wanted to know, “How did you come here from Gondor?”

            Miriel began to describe the coach, the long journey, the stays with the Riders of Rohan, the little stone horse Ruvemir had carved, the encounter with Éomer King’s éored, the Rider who’d given Ririon a ride behind him, the sight of an Ent in the distance as they approached Orthanc....

            “Oh, I wonder if that was old Treebeard himself?” Pippin interrupted.  “Did he remind you of an oak tree?”

            “We saw him from a distance, and he was headed north toward Fangorn, so I couldn’t say, really.”

            “When you go back, would you stop at Orthanc and give him our greetings--those of Merry and me, I mean?  He is such a dear old soul.” 

            Brother and sister looked at one another, and Ruvemir shrugged.  “I can’t think of a reason we could not stop.  Would the Ents accept a visit from us, and carry your message to him if he is not there?”

            “If you don’t carry an axe and greet them courteously, the Ents should allow you to approach them, and they will carry any message freely.  Oh, and if you’d like to perhaps grow a bit, you might accept a drink of an Ent Draught.”  Pippin grinned widely.  “Of course, if you do you might need an entirely new wardrobe.”

            Folco looked at his cousin with interest.  “Is that what happened to you, Pip?”

            Pippin attempted a look of false modesty.  “Yes, dear cousin, that is the secret of our success--mine and Merry’s, that is.  We decided that if Bilbo could seek to do better than the Old Took in years, we could try our hand at besting the Bullroarer in size.  And if we got a little help from Treebeard along the way, well, why not?”

            Pimpernel asked, “What did Frodo think of your sudden growth spurt?”

            Pippin’s face grew more solemn.  “He didn’t see it until after he was rescued, and didn’t really comment on it.  Suspect he was still too distracted by trying to comprehend that he’d somehow managed to survive.  But Sam--Sam couldn’t get over it.  He must have had both of us back to back with Frodo and himself at least a half dozen times each, assuring himself we were indeed significantly taller than they were now and saying things such as ‘and at your age, too!’ and ‘uncanny, it is.’  Even had us stand back to back at least once with Gimli, until Gandalf came along to remind us Frodo and Sam had only awakened that day and needed rest, and Gimli practically forced me into bed as well.  Was going on about how much terror for our safety we Hobbits had inspired in his heart, and particularly me, and how I’d only been fully up on my feet of a couple days myself.  Seemed to think that since he was the one who found me on the battlefield he needed to stand in Da’s place for me.”  He smiled briefly into his father’s eyes.

            Ruvemir had completed a couple of studies of Pippin, and turning to a new page he turned to the Thain and his wife.  “You mentioned a dinner you had with Frodo before he left the Shire the last time.  Can you tell me more of it?”

            Mistress Eglantine stopped in her own needlework--she was edging a blanket--and looked inquiringly into her husband’s eyes.  After a few moments of wordless communication she turned to the sculptor and asked, “What particularly do you wish to know?”

            Ruvemir shrugged.  “I’m still trying to learn more about Frodo, for the only pictures I’ve seen of him so far have all been unsatisfactory.  The sculptors in the capital were not particularly good at capturing personality, and I’m told the only picture of him considered the least bit lifelike that was done at the time was given to Lord Samwise.  I hope to see it when I go to Bag End in a few days; but until then I am still trying to get a better image of him in my mind.  What was the purpose of the dinner?  What did he look like at the time?  I know you said he declared he was too burnt out to feel he had anything to offer a wife--but do you agree?  How had he changed from before?”

            Looks were being exchanged all about him by this time, and Ruvemir saw that the three daughters were as curious to hear their parents’ answers as he was.  Pippin was given a significant nod by both his parents, and he began the explanations.  “You have heard that all four of us tend to suffer from recurring nightmares.”  After Ruvemir indicated agreement, Pippin continued, “In one of mine, I--I dream I am having to look for Merry or the Lord Faramir, occasionally both, and once in a while Frodo and Sam.  I may be searching through the Citadel, or throughout Minas Tirith, or through the Old Forest or Fangorn.  I know they are suffering, can hear their cries of fear and pain.  I think that the orcs have them, are torturing them; or that they have become hopelessly lost and I must find them before they can begin to fade as Merry started to do after he stabbed the Nazgul, when he was suffering from the Black Breath, before Strider was able to call him back.

            “Da and I--we went through a difficult time when we first returned.  None of us at the time could easily talk about--about the worst times.  It’s still difficult, as I think you can tell.  I think Merry let his dad know before we left something about what was going on, a hint Frodo was needing to leave the Shire and that it was very dangerous.  Well, Merry at least was an adult when we left, not just an irresponsible tween as I was.  His dad seems to have understood Merry felt compelled to go, and when he got back Saradoc greeted him with open arms and a good deal of freedom to do what he felt he needed to do to--to find himself again.”

            Paladin continued the narrative.  “I wasn’t exactly so understanding.  Oh, I’d received a letter from Pippin telling me he’d left because he had to, that Frodo was in grave danger and could not go on alone as he’d intended, that he and Merry and Samwise Gamgee were going to do their best to support him however they could and then try to bring him home alive and whole.  But I thought it was Pippin thinking up romantic sounding excuses for going off on a meaningless adventure with Mad Baggins’s now apparently equally mad nephew.”  To Ruvemir’s confused expression he answered, “Almost the whole Shire thought Bilbo was more than a little mad, and most folk called him that--’Mad Old Baggins.’  Not exactly fair nor polite, of course.  Now we knew, Saradoc and I, that there was nothing the least bit mad about Bilbo Baggins, but we let ourselves echo popular sentiment.  And when we learned Frodo’s sale of Bag End was a ruse intended to allow him to escape the Shire, we--no, not we, but I, assumed that, in spite of our earlier feelings Frodo was the most responsible Hobbit we knew, that in the end he’d caught the wanderlust from Bilbo and that he was just off having a lark and dragging our boys after him.

            “Then they came back, and I’ll never forget my first look at Frodo, at the unbelievable change in him.  He was more responsible looking than ever, but he was also--also so burnt out.  The light-hearted soul he’d been was gone altogether.  Oh, he’d still laugh and smile, but his laughter was no longer free, no longer just from living happily.  And his smile was now tinged with a sadness we couldn’t fathom.  I could not dream, could not imagine that what he’d been through had been just a lark, just a mad adventure.  Something had hurt him, hurt him badly.

            “Pippin and Merry were full of stories of where they’d been and what they’d done, but I couldn’t believe them.  Creatures that look like tree stumps that are shepherds of the forests?  A willow tree that opens up gaps among its roots and in its trunk and tries to swallow intruders--including my son!--alive?  Barrow wights and Black Riders!  Elves and Dwarves and Men and Wizards!  Goblins and orcs, Balrogs and golden woods!  Black Riders.  I tried and failed to understand.”  He looked for a moment at his hands.  “I could see that there was more to the story than they were telling, but I never dreamed they were only telling the good parts, that they could barely speak about the bad parts even to one another.

            “I convinced myself it had been just a lark, and that Pippin was being irresponsible again.  He wasn’t of age yet, after all.  And I started treating him like a child.  When he had nightmares it frightened me-- truly frightened me.”

            His wife added, “And me, too.  Neither of us understood what had happened to the four of them.  Sam appeared the least changed, but we found that wasn’t true, either.  He was much deeper, more aware than we’d dreamed.  We both tried to convince ourselves the changes weren’t real.”

            The Thain continued.  “Pippin and Merry needed time to recover, and Frodo, who was at the time still its owner, gave them Crickhollow, although while he was assistant Mayor he had the deed written to revert back to the Master of the Hall.  All Frodo wanted, I think, was to go back home to Bag End and hopefully find himself again, but instead....”  He shook his head.  All waited patiently.  Even the children at the table were waiting for what the Thain would say next.  Only the occasional crackle of the fire could be heard, for even Ruvemir’s drawing stick was still.  Finally he shook his head to free himself of his thoughts.  “I wanted my son back, and didn’t understand this tall stranger who looked and sounded like my son.  Finally he tried to tell us why he had changed, and the more he said the more frightened we became.  And that he had a hard time speaking some of it was more frightening.”

            Mistress Eglantine took the narrative again.  “Frodo came over once to discuss the new King and what he was like and what he expected of us, his people within the Shire; and to discuss the dispatches Pippin had delivered.  We couldn’t understand why anyone would trust Pippin with anything of importance--he was still a child, after all.  We didn’t look at the fact that he delivered those dispatches promptly as soon as he saw us again, and that his attitude while he delivered them was absolutely proper for one serving as King’s Messenger.  We asked Frodo about what he’d been through, and he’d speak a bit of it, but seemed more intent on trying to explain the changes in Pippin.  We could see that to discuss what he’d been through was almost impossible for him, but when he told us he and Sam had left Pippin and Merry behind, hoping they’d be safer, we refused to accept that that only left them open to other types of dangers.  Frodo tried to tell us that this wasn’t so, but we just kept clinging to the idea they’d been safe once they were left behind, and we couldn’t understand how they’d been separated from the rest of this Fellowship of theirs.”

            Again it went quiet, and Isumbard rose to add a log to the fire.  Finally the Thain started to speak again.  “Saradoc and Esme decided, after trying to get the story from Merry and failing--or at least failing to understand the responses, that they’d try Frodo instead.  It was just barely short of three years at that point since the four of them disappeared, not quite two years since they returned.  We’d talked Pippin into a week’s stay with us, and he had another of his nightmares and woke us up, screaming the names of Merry and Faramir.  Of course, we had no idea who Faramir was.”

            Pippin gave an elaborate shrug and a sad look.  “Was having one of those nights where I was dreaming not just of one of them, but both of them.  They were lucky, I suppose, it wasn’t one where I was seeking all four of them--Merry, Faramir, Frodo, and Sam.  Merry tells me I’ve managed that at least twice.”

            “It was supposed to be a chance for all of us to start over again, but neither Paladin nor I was truly trying, I think,” Pippin’s mother said.  “And it seemed that everything Pippin did annoyed his father.  The way he’d come with a blanketroll and his cloak neatly attached to his pack; the way he cared for his pony first instead of letting the grooms take care of it; the way he seemed to be checking for enemies before he entered the smial, the way he looked defensive as he spoke to us, the way he’d avoid certain subjects, that Standing Silence of his.  The nightmare was the last straw.”

            “I ran into his room and started in on him before he was quite awake, and he was automatically reaching for his sword, which was frightening.  Then he stopped himself, and we could see him trying to shake himself awake, and he looked at me, his face totally pale, like Frodo’s had become, and suddenly he was up and throwing on his clothing, grabbing his sword, and heading out the door.

            “The next day we got the post from Frodo, asking us to come to dinner with him and Saradoc and Esmeralda three days later.  Sam let us in, and Frodo was standing, waiting for us in the parlor.  Sam warned us he’d had a bad night, and Sam’s expression was enough to let us know we’d better toe the line or he’d throw us right out again on our ears, the way I understand he, Merry, Merimac, and Freddy did with Lobelia the day after Bilbo’s last party.  Frodo was very pale, and his eyes were quite hollow.  We were shocked, for it was obvious he was in a fragile state, and he’d always done his best in the past to hide how poorly he’d been doing.  Sam came back in and caught him trying to be gracious, and would have none of it--forced him to sit down and put a rug over his lap, and went and brought a tray of wine and goblets, and a cup of tea for Frodo and a teapot under a cozy.  We could see the worry and the grief and the determination in Sam’s eyes, and we didn’t understand it.

            “Oh, there was so much we weren’t understanding!”

            “He looked pretty good the night I was there, Da,” Pippin added.  “I had little idea he was as bad as he was, myself.”

            “He told us that all four of you have terrible nightmares, and his were the worst.  If his eyes were anything to judge by, his were absolutely awful.”

            Pippin’s eyes were filled with sadness.  “They were,” he said, with a softness and a definitive note that underlined the simple statement.

            “We asked him how he was feeling and he brushed it off as unimportant.  He’d sip at his tea and try to make polite talk until Saradoc and Esme arrived, and--and we weren’t making things easy for him.  We wanted desperately to understand, but had no idea how to ask the questions that needed to be asked, and he didn’t want to have to say everything twice so was trying to fend us off until we were all there.  Sam interrupted finally and almost insisted we accept some wine and cakes, then some scones and butter, then that we tell about the journey from Tuckborough and the state of the roads.  And we could see that Frodo was both grateful and amused by what we thought was unwarranted pertness from a servant--then his sister came in to ask him to see to something in the kitchens.  Before we had time to say anything, Frodo gave us the first shock of the evening.

            “He looked after Sam with obvious fondness, then turned to me and said, ‘I’ve made him my heir, you know.  If I’m enough better, I’ll be filing the papers at Michel Delving tomorrow.’  Then, after allowing that to settle in, he added, ‘I wouldn’t be alive today if it hadn’t been for him and his determination we would both survive.  I was quite accepting of the idea that I was going to die to accomplish my task.  I was shocked to waken to find we were both still breathing.’

            “My surprise must have made me look quite ludicrous.  He just sat and sipped at his tea and looked back, with just a hint of a smile.  Finally Eglantine said, ‘But he’s just a gardener.’

            “There was a time when such a statement would have warranted the Look, but instead, his smile just faded and he looked at her with sadness, fingering that gem he wore all the time on a chain around his neck.  Finally he put down his cup, very carefully and precisely, and said, ‘He’s been my friend since he was a small child, has sought always my happiness, my comfort.  He has shown me always the deepest respect, and I’ve learned to respect him in return--his intelligence, his perception, his caring, his loyalty.  He’s been there for me, and given for me--almost died for my sake.  And he’s given himself for others as well.  If you think the Time of Troubles the Shire endured was bad, it was nothing compared to what the entire Shire would have experienced if he hadn’t been there beside me.’  Then he said, ‘The King has made him a Lord of the Realm, by the way--in case you weren’t aware of it.  I am not certain what he’s done with his circlet of honor, but mine he’s stowed away in the study.  I wouldn’t be surprised to learn one day his is being used as part of a trellis for the honeysuckle or ivy or some such.  He’s not much for ceremony, and although at the time he was flattered, he felt it should all have been for me, even though he did the greater part of the work of keeping us alive to see it through.’”

            Eglantine continued, “We certainly didn’t know what to make of such statements, and for a time we sat in what he must have seen as blessed silence.  Finally he said, ‘I asked you to join us for a special reason, but I don’t think I could go through it twice, so let us please hold on till Aunt Esmeralda and Uncle Saradoc arrive.’  Sam returned at that point, and looked to see he’d been drinking his tea, and I think checking his color.  At that point he asked Sam to see about bringing over the pony cart he’d ordered from the Green Dragon the following morning, and we could clearly see Sam was worried Frodo wasn’t going to be well enough to go anywhere the next day, and he said so out loud.  Frodo shrugged and agreed he might not be up to it, and said he might need to have the Mayor come there in that case, as he needed to have some things settled quickly.  Sam’s face was full of both grief and stubborn determination, and stated if it was that bad he’d ride over and fetch Will Whitfoot himself.

            “Then there was a knock, and Sam went to accept a message from the Quick Post and announced it was from Rosie’s dad, and excused himself.  As he headed back to the kitchens Frodo suddenly was rubbing his shoulder, commenting, ‘It seems to be starting early this year,’ and he suddenly was clutching his gem again, his face pale and concerned.  After a few minutes he gave a deep sigh and looked as if some attack or something had just let up.  And that was when the Brandybucks arrived, just as Sam came back again.”

            They went on to describe the conversation and dinner, how shocked they were to see Sam and Rosie and Marigold were included in the party at table, the revelations of how badly hurt Merry and Pippin had been, the detailing of the wounds they’d endured.  “I think at times,” Eglantine said consideringly, “he was deliberately trying to shock us, although I realize it was intended to get us to realize how serious the entire situation was.”

            “I’ll never forget him asking me if I understood what courage was,” her husband said.  “I’ve never seen anyone look so deadly serious.”

            “Then after he went through all the scars he had and how he’d come by each one, he just collapsed, and Saradoc, who was sitting by him, almost carried him to his bed.  And I asked why he’d written all this down, as it was so terrible, and Sam sat there, so very dignified, and told us it was to help deal with the terrors, and also so it would always be remembered.  We just had no real idea till then how bad it had been elsewhere.  We are isolated, here in the Shire.  Then he saw us out, and we had a long talk at the door about getting Pippin to tell us about it.  Sam had realized Frodo was leaving and wouldn’t be coming back.”

            Pippin added, “He’d realized Frodo was leaving, but thought he was going to Rivendell.  He didn’t realize Frodo was going to the Undying Lands until after they set off.  Only when he saw Elrond and the Lady riding west with Bilbo did he realize it.”  And when his parents looked at him with surprise, he added, “Sam told us all, in the library at Brandy Hall.  I heard some things then he didn’t even tell the King.” 

            Ruvemir nodded. 

            The Thain finally asked to see the drawings Ruvemir had done, and Ruvemir handed over the booklet.  The examination went on in silence.  Finally Miriel completed a pattern and carefully put the point of her needle into her bag of emery, lifted the pair of scissors she wore at her belt, and snipped the threads, then slipped the material free of the form and held it up to examine it.  The Thain’s Lady looked up in interest.  “What is it you are working on, Mistress Miriel?”

            “My commission from the Queen.  She bears their first child, and when the child is born she wishes to gift the King with a surcoat showing the White Tree as it is truly growing.  I’ve just finished the second sleeve--the yoke is complete.  Now will come the embroidering of the Tree itself on the front panel, and finally a border of niphredil along the bottom edging.  It will be very beautiful when finished.”

            Folco looked on it with wonder.  “It is very beautiful now,” he said.  On the short sleeve was a depiction of the sun in glory, and a border of white flowers.

            “This is the right sleeve.  The left one shows the moon.  This represents Anárion while the other represents Isildur, the sons of Elendil.”

            Eglantine gently touched the embroidery.  “The Lord Aragorn will wear this?”  She smiled, then looked at it more closely.  “I thought it was black, but it is really a very dark green.”

            “He looks good in green.  The gown he’s commissioned for her will be a deep wine color that will complement this well.  The Lady Éowyn was quite amused to find herself acting as go-between for both of them, as neither is aware of the other’s gift.  We chose the fabrics to go together and to best flatter each.”

            “Then you have seen him?”

            “Yes, several times while we were in Minas Anor.”  She smiled.  “The first time was in the Houses of Healing, where my brother was recovering from the lung fever.  He was wearing green then, in honor of the return of the Lady Arwen from Ithilien.  His face can look grim at times, but at the same time he is a most comely man.”  She continued the examination of her work, found and snipped another loose thread, finally nodded and allowed the other ladies to examine it while she brought out a special bag of linen to stow it in.  She then brought out her own sketch booklet to examine the pattern she was to reproduce on the front panel, then found herself showing it to the others.  “The work goes more swiftly now.  I can sew in the carriage, but it tires my eyes, and it was often too cold or dark to work.”

            “Do you have a picture of the King?” asked Pearl of Ruvemir. 

            “Several,” Pippin commented, “a few of which he did before he met him.  It’s quite remarkable.  That was why Aragorn approached him on doing the monument.  He saw the statue of himself as Captain Thorongil and, I understand from his letter, was shocked.”

            “Oh, has the King done play acting?” asked Pimpernel.

            Pippin started to laugh at the thought.  “Oh, I can just imagine him as Joco Longburrow,” referring to Pimpernel’s favorite character in Joco and the Cornfield, a perennial favorite story often acted out by young Hobbits.  “The wandering wizard would try to trick him with his magic seeds, and he’d skewer him on Anduril.”  He straightened and grew more serious.  “When he was younger, Aragorn decided he needed to learn more about the people of Gondor, where he hoped one day to rule, and of Rohan, the land of Gondor’s closest allies, so he went first to Rohan and asked Thengel their King for permission to serve among his Riders for a time, and rode with them for several years.  Then he went to Gondor with a letter of introduction from Thengel to the Lord Steward Ecthelion on how wonderful a fighter and tactician he was, and he was allowed to serve in the armies of Gondor.  Some Rohirric Rider who knew a bit of Sindarin called him Thorongil, for he would not tell them his real name, and the name stuck.  Thorongil means the Eagle of the Star, for he wore a Dúnedain Ranger’s cloak with a silver star brooch, and his face can look like that of an eagle at times.”

            “The tales of the mysterious Captain Thorongil and the great victories he won for the sake of Gondor,” Ruvemir continued the tale, “have become the stuff of legends.  No one knew from whence he came, or what motivated him to fight for Gondor as he did.  He was thought by some to be from among the Dúnedain of the North, which has been shown now to have been true; by others to be of illegitimate descent from the House of Stewards--perhaps even the son of the Lord Steward Ecthelion himself, for his resemblance to both that Lord and his son Denethor was often remarked.  A very few wondered if he was the heir of Isildur and Valandil, including in that number, apparently, the Lord Ecthelion himself, who certainly knew this was no son of his own, legitimate or illegitimate.  The King himself has told me that he was questioned by Ecthelion as to whether he was he was the rightful King, for he wished to see the throne filled ere the final fight between the free peoples and Mordor came--he thought it would hearten people to fight under their legitimate King.  But he would not accept the throne until he knew all would accept him, and the Lord Denethor was unwilling to see him as more than a captain within the hosts of Gondor.

            “Then, after winning a great victory against the forces of Umbar, which has been the enemy of Gondor for generations beyond memory, one day Captain Thorongil disappeared as mysteriously as he had come, sending a letter to the Steward that he was called to care for his own people’s interests, and that if Gondor would accept his service he would return in due time to fight for our nation again--which he did.

            “My last commission was to create a monument to the campaign against Umbar, and it was the hope of the patron for that memorial I would be able to recreate the image of Captain Thorongil, whom she remembered from the days of her own youth.  So I questioned her and others who remembered him, much as I have questioned those who remembered the four who came to Gondor from the Shire and as I have questioned so many about the Lord Frodo, and at last I felt I had the image of him in my mind.  Imagine my shock the first time I saw the face of the mysterious Strider clearly and recognized in it the visage I’d just recently finished rendering in stone.  He would not tell me his true identity, nor would he tell me how he was related to the Lord Captain Thorongil, until I awoke in the Houses of Healing and saw him sitting beside my bed, and realized he was both the King and Thorongil.  He is of almost pure descent from Númenor; he has told me he is now ninety-two years of age, although he looks to be in the prime of his manhood.  The Kings of pure Númenorean blood often lived to be two hundred years of age or more, so it is my hope my children’s children will know him.”  And he took back the sketch booklet and found within it an image he’d done of the King during the ride from Brandy Hall, and showed it to her; then an image he’d done of the King with his Lady Queen as he’d seen them in his room in Minas Anor.

            The three sisters of Peregrin Took examined these pictures closely.  Pearl looked most closely at him.  “He reminds me of a Man I remember seeing on the West Road one time when we were children and visiting at Brandy Hall.  Sometimes Men would travel that way within the Shire, although not often.  Do you remember, Pimpernel, Pippin?  You were seven, Pip, and a number of us were heading for the market at the Brandywine Bridge to spend our pocket money.  And suddenly a troupe of Men on true horses came over the Bridge, and paused to allow us to cross the Road.  And their leader looked on us and bowed to us in respect before leading them on.”

            Pippin was thoughtful for several moments, and a smile spread across his face.  “I remember that day, but I’d never considered it before.”  He looked into his oldest sister’s face with growing delight.  “You know, that may indeed be the first time I saw him.  I’ll have to write to him and ask if he ever rode across the Bridge on a day when the Bridge Market was open.  And Merry will be so jealous--no, wait, he was among us that day, wasn’t he?  Just think--our first sight of our King was when we were still so young!  Merry would have been fifteen at the time, as I was seven.”

            Eglantine took the booklet and examined the pictures, then leafed through it, stopping at the ones of her son and Merry in their uniforms, then the one of Sam seated in the library, and moving on until she came to the last three.  “This looks very much like Frodo when he was younger, when he was a young tween in Brandy Hall.  Remember, Paladin?”

            He looked at it and nodded.  “His chin lengthened as he finished growing.”  He looked at the artist with respect.  “Some of the stories you’ve heard of his younger days obviously have brought his appearance then into your mind.  But this one of him standing before the fireplace--this is so very like what he looked like that last time we saw him.”  His eyes were sad.  “Everyone loved him so, for he was such a gentle, intelligent soul.  And when he laughed or smiled it would light up the world about him.  Oh, he could get into trouble, but did so far more rarely than some I can think of,” casting a significant look at his son, who tried to look innocent.  “And it was so marvelous to see him after he went to Bilbo, obviously so very happy again, losing that cautious, almost desperate look he’d been acquiring over the last few years.  He loved Esme and Saradoc deeply, but at the same time their attempts to protect him were stifling him.  He practically lived for the summers when he could serve the Hall by teaching the children to swim and watching over them on the riverbanks.  He always wanted to feel he was useful and of service.”

            Pippin’s face was solemn, his bearing again unconsciously at attention.  “Yes, he always wished to be of service.  He got his wish at last, and was willing to die to fulfill it.  I so pray he is finding healing for his spirit in Elvenhome.”  And his eyes closed as he lowered his head.

            Pervinca surreptitiously wiped her eyes, then forced herself to look brightly about the company.  “Would anyone like some cheese and fruit before we go to bed?”

Defining the Image

            The next day after breakfast Ruvemir sat an hour with the Thain, questioning him about Frodo and his appearance, then after watching most take a second breakfast he did the same with Mistress Eglantine, then with Mistress Pearl.  And after luncheon (he couldn’t bring himself to face elevenses) he found himself with both Pervinca and Pimpernel as they sat sewing in a sunny room at the front of the Smial, and questioned them as well.  He had so many images of Frodo now, filling his booklet, but he was still trying to find one that fully fit the memorial he was to sculpt. 

            Pervinca was describing Frodo as he’d looked the first birthday he’d spent at Bag End, of his look of shock when May Gamgee had said the mushrooms he was eating were from Farmer Maggot’s farm, and how his expression had changed when Bilbo noticed his change in attitude and had come over to exchange quiet words for a few minutes, how suddenly something Bilbo’d said made Frodo laugh and look delighted, and how he’d started eating the mushrooms again, and Bilbo’s own look of satisfaction.  Then she told of how Frodo had always doted on Merry, but now he was plainly doting on both Merry and Sam.

            “Where was your brother at the time, Mistress?”

            “Oh, he wasn’t born yet.  He was born a few months later, just before Yule.  In fact, his birthday is in two days.  Will you still be here?”

            “I see--so that is why they insisted we stay three full days here, then.  Yes, we are to leave for Bag End the day after that, and will spend Yule in Bag End, I understand.”  He thought for a moment.  “What kind of gift would be appropriate to give your brother for his birthday?”

            She looked surprised.  “Oh, in the Shire we give presents to others on our birthdays.  Do they do it otherwise outside?”  At his nod, she said, “How strange!”

            “I understand, Mistress Pimpernel, Frodo and your sister Pearl thought to marry one day.  How deeply did he love her, do you think?”

            “Very deeply,” she said, thoughtfully.  “He was so shocked when suddenly she stopped returning his regard--for about two years or more following he was heartbroken and wouldn’t even look at another.  I was jealous for a time, for I was quite smitten with him as well.  Almost all the lasses who’d known him felt the same, too.  He had such a beautiful smile, he danced superbly, and in spite of his slenderness--or perhaps because of it--was seen as extraordinarily handsome.  He was very polite, and unlike most young Hobbits he spoke to us lasses as if we were intelligent folk, too, not as if we were of a different species.  And he’d listen, truly listen to you as you spoke--wasn’t always thinking of what he’d say next to you.

            “And he loved children--would tell them stories when he went to Hobbiton or Bywater to do marketing or whatever, when he came to the Smial or the Hall; would sometimes help them with a chore if they looked like they could use some help or praise them when he saw them taking responsibility.  He’d teach them to read and give them books and such.  One time when he saw a child who’d hurt herself he picked her up and comforted her, checked out the hurt and saw it wasn’t serious, went to the well and got some water on his handkerchief and cleansed the wound for her, telling her the drollest story about Bilbo and the Dragon to distract her.  She was laughing and merry when he was done and sent her in to show her mother.”  She paused.  “He’d have made a wonderful father, you know, and he told me once how he dreamed of the day he’d have children of his own.  To hear Mum and Dad tell of the pain he showed when he said he was burnt out, and that little Elanor was the closest he’d ever have to having a child of his own, that hurt me so.  He wanted to fill Bag End with children--and I suppose now he has, by giving it to Sam and Rosie.”

            Suddenly she was angry.  “To think he was treated so by the Powers, Master Ruvemir!  He gave so much to get rid of that awful Ring, and he never had the chance to father children as he so desired!  It’s just not fair!”

            Ruvemir lowered his eyes, then looked at her with pity.  “It seems to me he, in a way, did his best to make every child he met his own, to love them the way his parents apparently loved him.” 

            And he saw the novelty of this perception cleanse away the sorrow and pain.  Tears filled her eyes, but she was smiling as they slipped quietly down her cheeks.  And when she looked at the image of Frodo he’d just finished, she smiled.  “Yes, that was the Frodo I knew.”  And when Pervinca nodded agreement, he felt he’d finally found Frodo Baggins.

            That afternoon he went to the stables with Pippin, and showed him the picture he’d done while speaking with his two younger sisters.  Pippin looked at it, and smiled a gentle smile.  “Yes, you have him fully, the gentleness as he spoke to children.  He always doted on us, made us feel special, made us feel safe.  He wanted everyone to feel safe.  He always insisted we be responsible in our acts, our choices, and when I finally realized what he meant and began actively trying to think what would make others smile and so on, he was so proud of me.”  He gave the book back, and took up a fork and took it to the furthest stall where a barrow already waited.  Ruvemir watched as Pippin cleaned the stall, took fresh straw from a nearby stack and spread it, then filled manger and water bucket, then went to the next and did the same.  He began to help with the spread of the straw, although his short arms made it difficult to do much.  It took the better part of an hour to finish, and then Pippin led the way back indoors.  “I’m going to bathe.  Want to join me?”

            And this day Pippin didn’t close the curtains, and Ruvemir saw clearly the scars on the young Hobbit’s back and legs, and the bumps under the skin where his ribs had been broken, and he smiled to know he’d earned Pippin’s trust.

            Afterwards they sat in the library, a longer, narrower chamber than that in Brandy Hall, and he had Pippin describe Frodo during the quest, particularly as he’d been before the breaking of the Fellowship at Amon Hen.  He’d begun to have an inkling of what he wanted to show in the final memorial, and he began to work on that image now.  And when Pippin looked at the picture he nodded.  “It’s not him smiling or laughing, but appropriate to him with the Ring.”  And after dinner as they met in the parlor with the family and Smial business was being discussed around him, he had Pippin pose before him wearing his Elven cloak so he could see how it draped about his form.  Ririon had finished his serpent, and was now working on a clay sculpture, and had given small pieces of clay to the other children so they could have something to do.  Miriel was now working on the White Tree on the front piece of the King’s surcoat, and discussing embroidery and stitches with the women gathered and exchanging stories with Folco Boffin.  It was a pleasant time.

            The next day Ruvemir awoke to the awareness he was catching a cold, and immediately Ririon and Miriel, and then Pippin and his family, rallied around him, moving him to a sunny Great Room where he could lie on a couch with a blanket over him, bringing him chicken broth and fruit and cider and teas, fussing about him.  He finally sent Ririon to bring him his dropcloth, his finer tools, and a block of stone, and, wrapped in his blanket, he moved to a simple wooden chair and began to sculpt.  The block Ririon had chosen was long and narrow, and he found himself doing a small sculpture of Pippin in his Guard’s uniform, standing at attention, listening as he worked to the gammers and gaffers who seemed to love the room and its light as they chattered and gossiped, happily allowing him to work in his place in the sun.  Long he worked at it, gently adding details, stopping and covering it when the family came in with their food and drinks; and at last indicating he desired to sleep he went to his room, taking it with him.  Pippin entered with a basin of steaming water into which he dropped a bruised leaf of athelas-- “I thought it might help you sleep better, or at least breathe more easily.”  Ruvemir thanked him gratefully, and after carefully putting the wrapped statuette into his personal satchel, he crawled under his covers and slept.

            When he woke, Miriel was leaning over him, and Ririon was sitting on the other bed, both wanting to know how he felt.  “Much better,” he told them.  “Was wondering how we were going to handle Yule gifts.  I have few in the works.”  They spent some time deciding who would provide what; then he spent the evening in his room, working on some pictures while Miriel and Ririon went through many of the items they’d done along the way to while away the long hours.  At last they felt they had appropriate items for each person they felt close enough to to merit a gift.

            He felt much better the next day, although he learned the cold was making the rounds of the Smial.  Ferdibrand was in the Great Room when he found his way to it, a walking stick by his chair as he sat where the light of the Sun fell through one of the windows.  Hearing someone enter, he sat up straighter. 

            “A good morrow to you, Master Ferdibrand,” Ruvemir greeted him.

            “Master Ruvemir?” the blinded Hobbit returned.  “And to you I wish the same.  And how goes the work?”

            “I am told I finally have captured the Lord Frodo’s image, and now I am deciding on the final composition for the memorial.”

            “I find the idea of this memorial intriguing.  That there are those outside the Shire who wish to have the images of Hobbits where they can see them I find hard to fathom, even with such a one as my cousin Frodo.”

            “Did you know him well?”

            The Hobbit considered for several minutes.  “Not as well as Pippin or, especially, Merry, although we were far closer in age, Frodo and I.  The Brandybucks would bring him to the Great Smial with them from time to time after his parents’ deaths, but at first he was so overwhelmed at his loss he didn’t want to do much with others, and then they would keep him close.  We got to know each other better after he went to live with Bilbo.  He had, I found, a marvelous sense of humor--very subtle.  More than once when the Thain was becoming too overbearing I would ride across to Hobbiton and invite him to spend the day with me.  Bilbo I’d never come to know well--had too much of the common prejudice toward him, I suspect.  I wish now I’d let myself know him better when I was younger.  The Thain, however, thought little of him, and most followed the Thain’s lead, including, alas, myself.  Paladin and Eglantine got on with both Bilbo and the Brandybucks better, but as they spent much of the year on the farm, they had more freedom both to entertain and visit with Bilbo and Paladin’s sister’s family.”

            “So most of the time when you met with Frodo it was alone?”

            “Yes.  Actually, the first time I really got to know him it was at the Free Fair in Michel Delving, the year Bilbo adopted him.  He was so changed!  When he lived among the Brandybucks he was quiet, increasingly quiet, it seemed, each year, except for about three years after he turned sixteen.  Then he suddenly was very much out and about with the other Hall lads his age, laughing and joking, rough and ready as they were.  And then he was quiet again, his expression terribly apologetic, sad, and wary.  Once he came to Bilbo that changed--he was smiling, confident, curious.  And Bilbo had dressed him up.  In Brandy Hall most folk seem to see too much dressing up as putting on airs, and they don’t cotton to it very well.  It’s all right for the Master and the Heir and their ladies, or when they’re at a feast or something; but for everyday they prefer sensible.  Bilbo had a sense of style, however, and realized that for folk to take Frodo seriously as his heir he needed to dress the part, and he’d been working hard, trying to get Frodo to accept this understanding.

            “It was about the first time in years I’d had a chance to talk to Frodo on his own, and I found he was very intelligent and exceedingly well read.  As this was my own inclination as well, I found myself enjoying myself with my cousin.  He also turned out to be quite observant about our mutual relatives, and had a good feel for who was doing what and why as well as what was likely to follow.  I’d not enjoyed myself so much at the Free Fair in years as I did that year, wandering the fair with him.  And when Merry joined us he was well behaved for a lad of nine, not interrupting too much, and not pushing in.  He and Frodo were obviously close, more like brothers than cousins. 

            “Then a group of children from Hobbiton found him, and Frodo was being besieged to tell a story.  With a look of apology at me, he had them sit down and we sat down, too, and he began.  It was marvelous!  He had us all enthralled.  Wonderful storyteller!  Then his gardener’s son joined us, as we went on.  There was a lad who obviously worshiped Frodo, and Frodo obviously felt the same toward him.  At first I didn’t understand why, until I listened to them for a while.  That rustic talk Sam Gamgee speaks hides a keen intelligence and heightened observational skills.

            “Every once in a while Frodo would check back in with Bilbo, who seemed quite happy to see us together and watching after Sam and Merry.  Once he gave Frodo some pocket money, and after the day was over I saw Frodo return what was left, which was most of it.  Bilbo trusted Frodo, and Frodo was intent on maintaining that trust, it seemed.  It was then, for the first time, I realized Bilbo Baggins was not in the least mad, but that it pleased him to be taken as eccentric and that he used that to his advantage.

            “So I started visiting with Frodo about once every two months or so.  Usually I’d come over and we’d then go out into Hobbiton, Bywater, or maybe even Overhill, but as time went on we’d stay more often at Bag End and talk, and I finally got to know my cousin Bilbo pretty well.  When the Thain found out I was seeing Bilbo Baggins, however, he became very upset.  He seemed to think me spending time with Frodo was acceptable, mostly because he’d been raised primarily by Esme and Saradoc; but he had no use for Bilbo at all.  But even he went to Bilbo’s big party when Bilbo turned a hundred eleven and Frodo came of age, although he was one of those who felt personally insulted by Bilbo’s speech and seemed to take Bilbo’s second disappearance as a personal affront.  After that I saw Frodo only about three times a year, until the Thain died and Paladin became the new Thain.  Paladin has been a good and responsible Thain, and life here in the Great Smial has certainly relaxed a good deal.  Now, Pippin has been a trial at times, but Paladin is a fine gentlehobbit.”

            “I see.”  For a few minutes they were both quiet, and as he digested what he’d been told, Ruvemir polished his statue of Pippin.

            Finally Ferdibrand asked, “What are you doing, Master Ruvemir?”

            The sculptor explained, “Working on a small stone carving.  Would you like to see it?” 

            At the Hobbit’s assent, he placed it in Ferdibrand’s hands.  He watched with interest as the Hobbit examined it carefully, realizing which side was meant to be up, identifying face and feet.  And at last he asked, “What is this on the shirt?”

            Ruvemir smiled.  “The embroidery of the White Tree of Gondor, the image of the Crown, and the Seven Stars.”

            “What is this White Tree?  I know so little of the world of Men.”

            And so Ruvemir began to explain about the history of Gondor, of the return of the Kings of Men from the foundered land of Númenor, bringing with them seven princes of Men each with a circlet with a brilliant star gem in it, seven seeing stones, and a young tree from Elvenhome descended from the sacred Trees of the Valar.  “At first they planted the tree in Osgiliath, and it had a single fruit from which they grew a second tree, and Isildur planted it to his brother’s memory in Minas Anor, the city Anárion founded at the end of the White Mountains at Mount Mindolluin.  Later, after the fall of Minas Ithil, the city Isildur himself founded on the walls of Mordor, Minas Anor was renamed Minas Tirith, no longer the Tower of the Setting Sun, but instead the Tower of Guard.  Then with the abandonment of Osgiliath and its destruction by Sauron’s folk Minas Tirith became the new capital.  And so it has been the White Tree brought from Númenor and the seven stars have become the symbols of the realm, and the Crown indicates there is again a King, and Pippin is therefore of the King’s Guard.”

            “I never thought to hold Pippin in my hand,” laughed Ferdibrand.  “This is marvelous.  His hair?”  And with Ruvemir’s verbal explanations he again examined it carefully.  “Greatly detailed,” he said at last.  “Is this intended as a model for the memorial?”

            “Perhaps as a trial run, but more as a gift for the Thain.”

            “He will greatly appreciate it.  Pippin has grown up since his disappearance, grown up greatly.  Paladin didn’t appreciate just how much at first, but he certainly sees it now.”

            “So I’ve learned.”

            Returning the figure at last, the Hobbit asked, “Tell me of your own people.  I’ve never heard of mannikins before.”

            “There are few of us, actually.  We live scattered among the Men of Middle Earth.  Most are little regarded by the world, and are treated as oddities or as children throughout our lives.  I was fortunate to be born with great artistic talent and support to strive to perfect my skills, as was true of my sister as well.  Our father is a Master Carver of wood, while our mother was a Master Weaver.  She died when Miriel and I were still young.  Because I was found to do well with faces, I was given an excellent grounding in the history of Gondor and before so that I might depict ancient tales as well as memorialize those who walk Middle Earth at this time.

            “Our tastes tend to reflect the people among whom we live.  As there are so few we have little culture of our own, unlike Hobbits.”

            Realizing this was all Ruvemir was going to say about his people, Ferdibrand finally asked, “Then what makes you different from Hobbits?”

            “Our bodies are less in proportion than is true of Hobbits.  Our arms and legs tend to be exceptionally short, our heads look to be large and often misshapen, and our feet and hands often appear too large for our bodies, and we usually need to wear shoes.”

            “I see.”  Ferdibrand produced his pipe, filled and lit it, and drew on it.  “Now and then there will be such a child born to us, but we do not call such a different race.  You and your sister are, then, Men born simply in misshapen bodies?”

            Ruvemir felt himself flush.  Finally he said, softly, “Yes.  However, we agreed with the Thain and the Master and the Mayor not to name ourselves so.  Mannikin is simply the name given in Gondor for those born as we are.”

            “Why were you not to admit you are Men?”

            “That we not reawaken the anger and resentments caused by the Time of Troubles.”

            “I bear you no anger or resentment.  You are not one of those who blinded me.”

            “But in Brandy Hall we heard hatred expressed toward Men in general, and along the way more.”

            Ferdibrand puffed thoughtfully, then shrugged.  “I am sorry.  Is that why the Thain and all rode forth to Bree to meet you, then, that they might meet you ere deciding to allow you to be exceptions to the King’s law?”

            “You are very perceptive.”

            The Hobbit smiled.  “I suspect I am at least as intelligent in my way as Frodo was.  Were your parents mannikins also, then?”

            “No, although an uncle of my father was, but he did not live to adulthood.”

            “So it is with our own stunted children as well--very few born, mostly within the same families, and most dying in childhood.”  Then, after a moment, “It must feel odd to be among others of your own size who are your age and older.”

            “We find it pleasant, actually.”

            The Hobbit smiled.  “Good,” he said.  “Well, I, at least, welcome you for what you are--pleasant, polite folk it is an honor to know, no matter what your race.”

            “Whom may I ask for materials to make picture frames?”

            “More gifts?”

            “Yes.  You do give gifts to one another at Yule, do you not?”

            Ferdibrand laughed.  “That we do.  Well, I can help you there.  Tell me what you need, and I will obtain it for you.  I am keeper of many of the stores needed for repairs for the Smial, you see.”

            Satisfied, Ruvemir began to outline his needs, and Ferdibrand led him to the storage areas where wood was kept and helped him choose what he needed to complete his gifts.  Together they returned to the sunny great room where Ruvemir began working on a picture using his colored pencils.  Soon they were joined by Ririon, who had questions for the blind Hobbit on how he found his way about the place.

            “Oh, it’s simple enough--I was an adult when I was blinded, so I already knew how the place is set out; so it was a simple matter of learning other cues to recognize precisely where I am.  And I’ve found my walking stick is handy, especially when outside or going through a cluttered or large room.” 

            In minutes Ririon and Ferdibrand were headed outside together, each with his walking stick, where the Hobbit proposed to show the boy some of the tricks he’d taught himself to use his stick to check out the ground over which he walked and find his way.  He was quickly replaced by Pippin and Merry, who’d arrived early that morning, and they began discussing Pippin’s birthday party, which was to take place that evening.  Then when the talk grew silent they overheard a group of gammers gossiping in the corner, remembering past parties, until one of them recalled gossip she’d heard about the last party held for the Old Took, when Gandalf came, bringing fireworks to fire off.

            “My gammer said he didn’t fire them all off, that he got to the end and there was one package left, and he looked at it for some time, then carried it into the Smial and put it in one of the storerooms.”

            Ruvemir saw Merry and Pippin grow interested as they listened, then give one another significant looks.  “Want to do a bit of a hunt?” asked Pippin.

            “Shall we go looking, Cousin?” asked Merry at almost the same time, and they quickly set off on a search of the Smial’s storage rooms.

            An hour later they returned, a large package carried between them, dust in their hair and streaked across their faces, which were highly satisfied.  Pippin carefully unwrapped the bundle, and called out, “Oh, there are crackers, too!”

            Merry’s eyes were dancing with barely suppressed excitement.  “I suppose we ought to have guessed.  Bless wizards and their foresight!”  Then Pervinca came in to tell her brother he needed to bathe before guests started arriving, and leaving the bundle in Merry’s keeping, Pippin hurried off.

            “You’re certain this is a firework?” Ruvemir asked Merry.

            “Oh, yes--I helped Frodo and Gandalf empty the wagon before the Birthday Party, and all the fireworks were similar to this, complete with the G rune and the fuse, and most with sticks such as this.”

            “Are you certain it is still functional?”

            Merry looked thoughtful, then smiled.  “Gandalf made it, so I suspect it would keep a very long time.  And, that it should be found now, for Pippin’s coming-of-age--that I find significant.  Gandalf was always drawn to the Tooks, you know--liked their rather unpredictable natures, their desire to embrace the world and new experiences and all.  And during the quest he kept being drawn back to Pippin again and again, finally taking him with him to Minas Tirith.  Of course, partly that was for Pippin’s own good and protection--all right, it was all for Pippin’s own good and protection; but the fact remains I suspect that Gandalf was having some foresight in the making of this firework, and that this is why he stored it away instead of firing it then.”  His face became solemn.  “When Gandalf left, Pippin’s heart was terribly bruised.  To lose not only Frodo but Gandalf as well--it caused him great grief.  I can’t wait to see what this will become.”

            After luncheon Pippin handed out birthday presents to the denizens of the Smials, a procedure that the Gondorians watched with interest.  Merry and Pippin’s sisters assisted in locating the proper gifts for each individual.  Ruvemir and Miriel sat by Ferdibrand as he explained the process.  “Not all, of course, will be able to attend the party.  Yet, as the Thain’s son and heir he has a responsibility to make all feel they are involved, so the Smial comes to him, as it were.  Most of the gifts will be small things or old mathoms--odd items that get handed around and around and around that everyone tends to either hate because no one else wants it, either; or love because it’s such a tradition for it to be given.  Oh, I hear Toby coming up now.  Watch--Pippin will give him a bottle of Old Winyards--probably the last bottle available right now.”

            An elderly Hobbit was approaching Pippin at that moment, calling out rather loudly, as if his hearing were less than it could be, “And a pleasant birthday to you, and congratulations on coming of age at last, Pippin.”

            “Thank you, Toby.  And I have just the perfect gift for you--a bottle of Old Winyards.”

            “Old Winyards?  Oh, Pippin--how wonderful!  And from old Bilbo’s cellar, I’ll be bound?”

            “Oh, of course, Toby.  Where else?  It was the one thing I could think of that is perfect for you.”

            “And you do know how much I appreciate it, Pippin Lad.”  And the beaming old Hobbit accepted the bottle with obvious pleasure, and hobbled away with it, showing it proudly to the others waiting in line to give the Thain’s Heir their greetings.

            “How did you know it would be a bottle of Old Winyards?” Ruvemir asked.

            Ferdibrand laughed.  “That bottle was first given to Old Toby about the time Bilbo took Frodo to Bag End as his ward, and by Bilbo himself.  Now, Old Winyards came from grapes from a vineyard owned by the Baggins family--Bungo and Belladonna, Bilbo’s parents, bought it shortly after they were married, and the vintners there produced the finest wine in the Shire for over a hundred eighty years.  Anyway, Bilbo gave Toby that bottle over thirty years ago on his birthday.  Toby’s birthday is in March, and Bilbo usually went to the farm to see Paladin and his family about that time of year, and Toby was the foreman at the farm for years, until he handed the job off to his grandson Tolman about fifteen years ago.  Toby loved the idea of having a bottle of Old Winyards for his own, and always said he was saving it for a special occasion.  Then came his birthday and he found Bilbo and Frodo were both at the farm when it came along, and he couldn’t think what to give Bilbo until he saw the bottle of wine on his shelf.  He knew Bilbo loved Old Winyards, so he gave it to Bilbo.  The next fall Bilbo gave it back to him, and then in the spring he gave it back to Bilbo.  That went on till Bilbo left the Shire, and then he started exchanging it with Frodo--Frodo had it sent to the Great Smial by the Post for the birthday he sold Bag End, by the way; and when Frodo wasn’t there to give it to on his birthday he was truly distressed.  When Frodo was there the following birthday he sent it to him, and was decidedly relieved to do so.  And Frodo’s next birthday it came back to him again.”

            “And now that Frodo is no longer here, the exchange is now with Pippin?”

            “Yes, and  he appears very happy with the arrangement.  Every year he gets a bottle of Old Winyards, a fact he’s very proud of.  Of course, chances are, as he always has it sitting on a shelf in the sun where he can look at it during the time he has it in his possession, that it is most likely fine vinegar by now....”  And all laughed.

            “Do they still make wine there?” asked Miriel.

            Ferdibrand’s smile faded.  “There hasn’t been wine from that vineyard since the Troubles, although I think there may be some this year.  Sharkey had the vineyard burnt to the ground.”

            “Why?”

            “I understand the Travelers came upon him and his Worm-creature follower while they were coming home.  But they stopped several times along the way home, while Sharkey came directly here to the Shire.  For some reason he developed a hatred for Frodo, perhaps because by taking the Ring to the Mountain Frodo kept it from coming to him.  He destroyed much of what made the Shire beautiful, and seemed to take greatest pleasure at destroying things particularly dear to Frodo.  Seems to have questioned Lotho before he had him killed as to what would most distress Frodo by its loss.  I understand from what Pippin and Merry told me that he was trying to find the Ring for himself, and that was why his Orcs captured the two of them at Amon Hen.”

            “So Sharkey truly was Saruman the Wizard?”

            The Hobbit nodded.  “Yes, they tell me that was the name they knew of him by.  Vicious creature, he was.”  And his face was now quite grim.

 *******

            The North-Tooks arrived about an hour and a half after noon, allowing Ruvemir his first look at Pippin with Diamond of Long Cleeves.  Sam arrived with his family in a hired carriage in the late afternoon, and at last Ruvemir and Miriel had the chance to meet Mistress Rose and the children.  Rose was obviously pregnant and appeared quite happy about it, and on learning she was due about the same time as Queen Arwen she became even happier.  “How wonderful,” she said, “to know this one and the Queen’s child will be the same age.” 

            The birthday supper was happy and pleasant.  With the firework had been found a number of crackers, an item Ruvemir had never seen before, and they turned out to be precisely the number needed to accommodate the number of guests taking part in Pippin’s celebration.  Soon all had hats and small items pulled from the crackers, it seemed finely dressed small dolls for the little lasses, carved animals and figures for the lads, beads or rings or bracelets for the older lasses and Hobbit ladies, pipes or pocket knives for the older lads and the gentlehobbits, and in Pippin’s own cracker, a ring set with a red stone, one which brought to Pippin’s eyes a look of remembrance, while Diamond’s held a second ring set with a diamond, and Pippin’s eyes shone as he fitted it on her finger.  In Miriel’s was found a beautifully carved bone needle case in the shape of a seated cat, in Ririon’s a fine pocket knife with a number of tools and blades suitable for his carving, and in Ruvemir’s a surprisingly long case in which he found two fine graphite drawing sticks.  He looked up at the head table as Sam pulled a cracker with his wife to reveal a delicate bracelet which Sam proudly fastened around her wrist, and Merry pulled one with Estella which contained a carved green dragon figure which he took and held in his hand, his face alight with memory.  Ruvemir watched Sam as the gardener pulled a second cracker that disgorged a tiny grey ship with a swan head prow.  Sam held the tiny craft in his hand, his expression thoughtful, and the sculptor was reminded of Sam’s story told in the Library at Brandy Hall.  Sam looked up and caught his gaze, and gave a twisted smile, holding up the small ship as if in toast, and Ruvemir returned the gesture with his own pencil case, and he saw Sam start to laugh and shake his head.

            Pippin’s gifts to the invited guests at his birthday supper were fine ones, and for Miriel there was a bracelet for her to wear that had a pincushion on it, an item none of the Gondorians had seen before, but which Miriel immediately appreciated.  For Ririon there was a finely carved box to keep his tools in, and for Ruvemir a picture Frodo had done of Pippin as a child.  “I thought you’d like to see some of the work Frodo did,” he commented, and the artist just shared an amused smile with Merry.  Then, after he returned to the place of honor at the head table Pippin had Diamond close her eyes, stepped behind her, and gently fastened the White Tree pendant about her neck, and when she opened her eyes and saw what she now bore she was totally overwhelmed.  Pippin whispered in her ear, and when she turned and cried out, “Of course I’ll have you!” and kissed him, all applauded and cheered.

            At first Pippin seemed surprised by the kiss, then he suddenly warmed to it and returned it with ardor, then with gentleness, and pulled away, looking into her eyes for several moments.  Then he turned to his mother and suddenly proclaimed, “Well, I guess this means you won’t be sharing your apartments with Diamond after all!”  At which Sam, Merry, and the Thain all laughed.

            The birthday dinner was excellent, and included more dishes than Ruvemir, Miriel, and Ririon could find room to sample, and at last they went outside to light the firework.  Merry carefully set it into place far from the Smial, making sure its supporting stick was securely in the ground, and Pippin lit it, then all hurried carefully back to the front of the hill to watch.  From it sprang a great white tree full of white blossoms which grew then fell, and green leaves between, and a circle of seven stars glowed over it; and again all could see Pippin standing straight at attention as he watched with delight.  Ferdibrand stood by the sculptor, who was describing it to him, then describing the reactions of those who watched and Pippin himself, and he noted the blind Hobbit was nodding as if this all was expected. 

            “Gandalf always did have a soft spot in his heart for Pippin, from what I’ve been told,” he commented.  “Wouldn’t surprise me at all to learn his foresight led him to prepare these long ago.  Wizards are uncanny creatures, you know.”

            “Did you meet him?”

            “A few times.  Once when I was going to go with Frodo to the Ivy Bush he was there at Bag End.  He seemed so enormously tall!  I was quite amazed by him, really, with his grey robes and his long beard and his staff and all.  As Frodo finished readying himself Gandalf spoke with me, asking me about life in the Smial, and then suddenly he asked me if I were afraid of the dark, and told me that when I shut my eyes I’d be surprised at the rich world of sound about us.  I had no idea what he was speaking of.  I now think he may have foreseen my blinding--wouldn’t surprise me.  Then as I watched Frodo coming up the passage from his room I saw Gandalf watching him with troubled eyes.  I asked him quietly what was bothering him, and he whispered, as if he weren’t aware he was thinking out loud, ‘It will seek to eat the heart out of him.’  And he closed his eyes and bowed his head.  Then he shook himself and looked at me, and said, ‘I will do my best to protect him,’”

            “What did you say?”

            “I said, ‘Good, for I’ve become very fond of him, you know.’  Then he responded, ‘That seems true of all.  However, I fear he will deserve more than can be offered him here,  But I can’t allow the Enemy to destroy his Light.’  Then he straightened and asked Bilbo, who’d just come in from the other way, some inane question about the best way to deal with dragons which might have invaded the larder, and I found we were all laughing uproariously and I almost forgot completely about the extraordinarily odd conversation by the time Frodo and I left.  Last I saw of them as we went out was Gandalf bent over to get down the passage following Bilbo back to the kitchen.”

            “Destroy his Light?”

            “Yes, that was what he said.”

            “And you are certain he was speaking of Frodo?”

            “Yes.”

            “Do you have any idea what he meant?”

            “Unless he were foreseeing....”  The blind Hobbit gave an elaborate shrug.  “Certainly it did seem that there was an inner Light within Frodo at times, and we were all drawn to it.  It was that which I saw, I think, that time at the Free Fair--his inner Light starting to shine again.  Certainly the children were drawn to it.  And after I was blinded, the few times he came to the Great Smial--I could see a Light wherever he was.  I could see nothing, but could track Frodo through the Smials by the warmth of his inner Light, where he went, and not just by the sound of his steps.  He was weakening, I could tell that, but his inner Light was quite strong.  The last time he came he sat by my chair, holding my hand, remembering things we’d seen together, things we’d done together.  I could feel his pulse--it was erratic.   I realized his heart was failing him, and I wanted so to hold him in my arms and protect him.  And suddenly he said, ‘You can’t protect me, Ferdi.  No one can.  Sam is trying, and I bless him for it.  But I was too deeply hurt.  I must away soon.’  And then he changed the subject, as Gandalf did that time.”

            “How long later did he leave?”

            “A couple months, perhaps.”

            “And you miss him?”

            “Yes.  We all miss him.  I think, though, he survived the voyage, for I’ll swear when I face the West I can, when I turn my thoughts that way, too, see his Light growing stronger.  I can see nothing else, but I can still perceive his Light.  And Gandalf’s is nearby his.”

            “You feel Gandalf has a Light, too?”

            “Oh, yes, quite distinctive.  When I saw Sharkey at first I thought he was Gandalf, for he looked similarly, although perhaps taller and more slender; but it was his Light I saw most, and I saw it had become darkened, and became darker and smaller each time I was aware of it; and I knew he wasn’t Gandalf then.  He would come to the Lockups to gloat over us, to threaten us.  And when he saw my vision was darkening, he sneered at me.  But I could see him as he approached the hole in which they kept me, every time, no matter how quietly he walked, no matter I could see nothing else the last time.  And the time they’d been torturing me and I suddenly said to him, ‘You have little time left--your Light is almost gone,’ I thought he would expire with fright on the spot.”

            “When was that?”

            “Only a few days before they didn’t come to feed us, and the next day after that the Travelers came to bring us out.”

            “So, you were held prisoner by Sharkey?”

            “I was a Took found outside the Great Smial--was trying to find out what had happened to the Mayor and those in Buckland--we’d lost communications.  They accused me of being a spy, and beat me, kicked the side and back of my head, took me to Michel Delving and threw me into the old storage holes there that they called the Lockups.  My family was frantic with worry, and thought I had been killed.  I was pretty weak by the time they rescued us.  But it was Frodo’s Light I saw coming toward me through the passages, not Sharkey’s that last time, Frodo who found me and held my hand as they brought me out.  Then they found Fatty Bolger, and he was worse off than I was--they’d been starving him, and when he got food he’d try to share it with the rest of us.  He was so weak they had to carry him out on a litter.  I, at least, could still walk.”

            “No wonder so many remember the Troubles with anger in their hearts.”

            “Yes, no wonder.”

Budgeford and Bag End

            The next morning Miriel and Ruvemir and Ririon brought a number of small packages to the breakfast table.  Those seated there already looked up with surprise.

            “Since we won’t be here for Yule, we wanted to leave these for you,” Ruvemir explained as they carefully placed each gift before its intended recipient.  Along the way Miriel had embroidered a number of shawls and kerchiefs, which had become a staple item for the fairs to which her father took her wares over the summer and fall, and she had provided these for the Thain’s Lady and the daughters of the Smial and for Pippin’s bride-to-be, while Ririon and Ruvemir had done carvings and pictures for the fathers and sons.  Ferdibrand examined the lumpy package he received with curiosity and asked if anyone minded him opening his now, and exposed a carving Ririon had done, which after speaking with the blind Hobbit Ruvemir felt was one he’d appreciate. 

            “A flame,” Ferdibrand said, obviously pleased.  “A flame caught in stone!  Thank all of you!”

            Soon all the Tooks were looking at their gifts, and the Thain was holding the small sculpture of his son in his hand with obvious pride.  Diamond and Eglantine and Pippin’s sisters seemed overwhelmed with their shawls, while Pippin’s niece Pansy examined her kerchief with delight.  “It will certainly outshine anything Daisy Grubb has to wear,” she commented, and all the rest laughed. 

            Pippin opened his package to show a colored picture of Aragorn seated on his throne with Arwen standing beside him, and his eyes misted.  He looked up at the artist and smiled his thanks through his tears, as words failed him.  For Isumbard and Pervinca’s husband there were small wooden animals Ririon had carved, for Pearl’s son a wonderfully carved and elaborate spinning top created by Ruvemir, and for Piper a wooden flute which had been carved by Mardil of Lebennin but which Ruvemir had never mastered.  He’d heard the boy singing as he walked through the passages of the Great Smial, and thought it would be better disposed here.

            Ruvemir had been surprised when Miriel had announced she had a gift chosen for Folco Boffin, and he watched with interest the look on her face as she set it before him, and the look Folco returned as he accepted it, then opened it to reveal a soft, golden tunic with a finely embroidered yoke and placket.  His eyes shone with awe and a growing delight as he held it up to examine it, then looked at her.  “You decorated this, Mistress Miriel?”  At her shy nod, he smiled into her eyes.  “It is the most magnificent garment I’ve ever owned.  I thank you!”  And the delight, Ruvemir noted, seemed to be contagious as he saw Miriel’s eyes sparkle.

            There was a bundle for Merry to take back to Brandy Hall with him, but as he explained he was carrying Pippin’s gifts to his aunt and various cousins there this would add but little to his load.  “One of the problems with being born so close to Yule, I find--trying to get away for Pippin’s birthday is often difficult for them.”  But Merry agreed to open his gift, and was delighted to find the book of Rohirric tales Ruvemir had bought in Minas Anor, inside which Ruvemir had slipped a picture he’d done of Frodo wearing his Elven cloak from Lorien, a book in his hands, a slight smile on his face, which was turned as if he’d just heard someone call out to him.  Merry looked at it for several moments, his face soft with memories, then looked up and smiled.  “Thank you, Master Ruvemir,” he said, smiling.  “Both book and picture mean a good deal to me.”

            “We thought that as we will be staying with you for Yule we’d give you yours at that time,” Ruvemir said to Sam, who smiled good-naturedly.

            “Well, as we’d decided the same, we can’t complain, can we?” Sam agreed.  “Who’s to drive your carriage?”

            “I’ll be driving it,” Folco answered, rather quickly, the artist noted with amusement.  “Of course, that is if it’s acceptable to you.  I live not far beyond Hobbiton in Overhill, after all, so it’s not out of my way at all.  We’ll be stopping at Fatty’s for a few hours along the way, though, which will allow the children time to enjoy their naps before we arrive.”

            “Ah, yes, you will be seeing Mr. Fredegar, then.  That is right--I’d forgot.  Give our regards to him and Master Budgie and Missus Viola, won’t you?”

            An hour later the carriage was ready and standing at the main door, and again members of the kitchen staff brought the filled food chest and placed it again inside the carriage.  Folco looked up at the high box with interest.  “Designed for Men, then?” he asked.  “A bit high, but I’ll manage.” 

            “I climb up there all the time,” Ririon said.  “Shall I show you how I do it?” 

            “Oh, I think I can make it, young Master Ririon.  But I thank you.  Would you like to join me, Mistress Miriel?”

            Ruvemir watched his sister flush with pleasure.  “I’d be glad to join you,” she said.  Ruvemir was amazed--his shy sister who hated being cold was going to gladly join Folco Boffin on the box of the carriage?  Was the world going to exchange places with the sky as well? 

            In a few moments Miriel was wrapped in her warmest cloak and up on the box, and Ruvemir and Ririon were in the carriage, and they were ready to go.  Ririon asked his guardian, “Does Miriel like him, do you think?”

            “Apparently.  Have you noticed them speaking together while we’ve been at the Great Smial?”

            “When you were ill the other day he came into the room where she was sewing and talked with her while she worked.  And there was the other night in the parlor.”

            The ride to Budgeford wasn’t particularly long, and they came to a long, low house where the carriage came to a halt.  A couple came to the door, followed by a taller Hobbit with an intelligent face, whose eyes held a hint of pain not quite forgotten.

            “Folco!” the taller Hobbit called.  “And do you bring us guests?”

            What Folco called back couldn’t be heard clearly, but swiftly they were being helped down from the carriage and shown into a comfortable smial and introduced to Budgie Smallfoot, his wife Viola, and Fredegar Bolger.  Ruvemir gave them Sam’s greetings, and noted to himself there was little to identify Fredegar now as having once been known as Fatty.

            “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” Fredegar said, “for tales of your coming have spread throughout the Shire.  Master Ruvemir, Mistress Miriel, welcome to Budgeford.  Have a seat, and in a moment we will have some tea or mulled wine or cider to warm you.”

            A surprisingly modest (by Hobbit standards) repast was set before them along with steaming drinks.  Ririon came in with Folco from seeing to the needs of the team, and was shown into the kitchen where he could wash before joining his guardians.  As he entered the parlor, Miriel looked at him critically.  “I see it is time,” she said, “to begin making you new clothes already.  Your breeches are already well above your boot tops.  And how do your boots fit?”

            “A bit tight,” the boy admitted, reflexively looking down toward his feet.  “Am I really growing that quickly?”

            “Definitely,” Ruvemir affirmed.  “It looks as if you are well fitted to follow the King in height at this point.”

            “Wonderful,” the boy smiled, accepting a plate of vegetables and cold chicken and a mug of mulled cider.  “Our Lord Elessar is gloriously tall.”

            “He looks quite pleased with the prospect of reaching the King’s height,” Fredegar said.  “Is he truly that tall?”

            “Oh, somewhat over twice my height, which is tall for a Man,” Ruvemir said.  “Not that I am all that tall compared to most Men.”  He flipped through the second of his sketch booklets he’d brought in and displayed a picture he’d done of the King with the Lord Steward Faramir, the Dwarf Gimli and Elf Legolas standing near.

            “So,” Fredegar said, taking the booklet and examining it closely, “this is the Lord King Aragorn.  He has a face that speaks of authority and humor as well as competence.  And these must be Gimli, and Legolas.  Wondrous fair indeed!  Is this the Lord Faramir?”  He turned the page, and found a picture of Frodo done in colored pencils, of Frodo telling stories to children, and his eyes softened.  “It appears you have managed to capture his image.”

            “Yes, at last I feel I know him.  I am told that you three were among the few who knew how his heart was failing him.”

            Budgie Smallfoot nodded as he took the booklet from Fredegar and looked at the picture.  “He was on his way from Buckland to the Great Smial, and was overtaken with weakness.  He managed to make it here, helped by Merry and Pippin.  They thought it was only the heat that ailed him.  However, he had already recognized he was fading, that he was dying.  He did not wish the others to realize this, to focus so on his dying that he would not be allowed to live as he could.”  He looked at the picture with a slight, sad smile.  “As he weakened, he still did his best to live.”

            “Did he tell you of his decision to go into the West?”

            “Not to me,” said the healer.

            Fredegar considered before answering.  “He told me that both the Lady Arwen and Lord Elrond had spoken to him about the possibility of him being offered the right to go to the Undying Lands, but that he was as yet uncertain first that the Powers would permit it, and second that he wished to be separated from his friends and kin.  However, as he weakened he found the nightmares were beginning to be a constant feature of his sleep, and the pain of his wounds was also becoming more and more continuous.  Also, he was increasingly reluctant to allow Sam to see his end.  When Sam thought he’d died in the Pass of Cirith Ungol, Sam was totally overwhelmed with grief, and Frodo feared he would react similarly and do himself an injury if he were to find Frodo dead in his bed or the study, or if he were to find him actively dying.  As weak as Frodo was becoming at the last, he was finding himself uncertain he would survive to see the next dawn, even.  He was also fearful that the end might come when he was within sight of the children of the Row, of whom he’d become quite fond--or before Elanor.  The idea he might die before the eyes of children quite horrified him.”

            “Yes,” Ruvemir said, “we’ve been told of his love of children and his dedication to protecting them from harm or distress.”

            Fredegar continued the tale.  “The first year he was home he apparently corresponded with Bilbo, and some with the King, but none with Lord Elrond of Rivendell.  However, apparently once the Ring was destroyed Bilbo began to age and weaken rapidly, and there came a time when the return letter was written not by Bilbo but Elrond, explaining he should not expect more letters from Bilbo as he was unable at the time to concentrate enough to make coherent replies, and it would probably take several days for him to compose just a simple sentence.  Frodo apparently did not show this letter to Sam, but did tell me of it. 

            “He was stabbed with the Morgul blade by the Lord of the Nazgul in early October, October the sixth, only two weeks after his fiftieth birthday and the day he left Bag End.  He was poisoned by the great spider Shelob on March 13, five months later.  They had just left Rivendell for home when the first anniversary of the stabbing occurred.  He said he had been feeling unsettled since he woke that morning, and when he found himself facing the Ford of the Bruinen where the race with the Nazgul ended, suddenly the whole memories of that time, which had almost faded completely from memory save for in his nightmares, hit him.  He said he had a waking nightmare which combined the stabbing at Weathertop with the crossing of the Ford when he was aware of all nine focusing their wills on him, willing him to stop and turn back to them so they could take him prisoner and make sure the splinter he still bore completed its work.  He said the dual vision was very, very vivid, and the wound on his shoulder where he was stabbed was burning as if it had just been administered.  He was in intense physical pain, and he found it difficult to focus on what was really going on around him, as a glance toward Sam would show him Sam on the pony the King gave him at the same time he saw the white form of the pale king walking toward him at Weathertop and the black horses with their ghostly riders he saw at the Ford the last time he’d been there.  The sounds of those two days also echoed in his ears along with the real sounds of the day he was really in.  He said he could feel his heart suddenly begin to race, and he felt intensely weak and nauseous.”

            Budgie sat up.  “Neither you nor he told me these symptoms.  He may have had a seizure of his heart that day, then, and that may have been the beginning of the failure of it.”  He and Fredegar looked at one another for quite some time before Fredegar dropped his gaze. 

            Finally the taller Hobbit continued.  “On March thirteenth, on the anniversary of being poisoned, he became ill again.  He was staying at the Cotton’s farm while the restoration of Bag End was being completed, and Farmer Cotton found him huddled in his room, obviously ill that morning, and murmuring about the world being bleak now the Ring was gone from it.  He then did his best to hide how ill he was.  Rosie had been left with some athelas leaves by Sam, though, and added one to his bath water, so that may have helped.  However, he was distracted and off his food for some days after.  He was unusually quiet, I thought, on the day of Sam and Rosie’s wedding.  He officiated, as he was acting Mayor at the time, and he was obviously quite happy for them, but later I found him sitting inside with a goblet of wine when I’d have expected him to be outside basking in their happiness. 

            “He’d almost completely recovered after the first bout of the memories within a few days, although they came back again when they actually came within sight of Weathertop, which was on the anniversary of the day he’d crossed the Bruinen.  However, he was mostly back to normal when they got home to the Shire.  The second time, on the anniversary of the spider bite, he said they mostly continued until the anniversary of the day the Ring was unmade.  However, afterwards he felt weaker, somehow, and it took several weeks before he began to feel truly himself. 

            “He was here when the next bout hit him on the next October sixth, and he was obviously quite ill.  It was then that Budgie began to suspect his heart was failing.”

            The healer nodded.  “I didn’t say anything then, but he was obviously not doing well.  I treated him as I could, and he responded well enough; but I decided I’d try to keep an eye on him.”

            “What treatment did you use?” asked Ruvemir.

            “Draughts of hawthorn, nettle, and a small amount of foxglove to rid the body of excess fluids and ease the swelling about the heart, along with several glasses of water and cups of green tea each day.”  He thought for a moment.  “I wish now I’d spoken with Sam--the combination of my treatment and his together might have eased his heart far more readily, perhaps aiding him to have the strength to fight the effects of the memories.”

            “What treatment was Sam trying?”

            “Athelas steeped in teas, steeped for vapors, and in his baths, as had been used on all of them by the King as he drew them back from death.”

            “Where did he find the herb?”

            Fredegar answered, “It now grows on the Hill and outside the window of what was Frodo’s room in Bag End, and in several other gardens about the Shire, including here and at the Three Farthings Stone.  Sam brought plants back from their journey; he’d found it growing along the way from the Ford of Bruinen.  Later the Lord Elrond sent seeds for it to Sam after Sam wrote asking for them.

            “Sam and Gandalf both were concerned for Frodo’s health when the first attack happened.  However, Gandalf was bound by the strictures laid on him not to give more than mortal aid to ease him.  Sam tried to help him as he could.  The next day after the attack Sam apparently found some kingsfoil plants somewhere, and began adding it to Frodo’s tea.  I know that Aragorn had told them it could be found near where the Northern Dúnedain had lived, so I must assume they’d camped near the site of a former settlement.  This seemed to help.  Except Frodo didn’t know what plant it was--Sam had only told him it was an herb the King had told him of.

            “Sam relied heavily on the athelas leaves for easing Frodo, apparently adding one to his bath water any time Frodo was stressed, steeping a leaf in boiling water for vapors when he was having nightmares or was in pain, and making a tea of it with willow bark, chamomile, and honey, which he’d administer any time Frodo appeared ill or weakened.  He even sent the leaves with Frodo when he traveled through the Shire, such as when he visited here, with directions they were to be added to baths or a tea made with them if he seemed off-color.  He also filled water bottles with the tea he made, and I know Frodo would drink that, at least while traveling, if he felt uncomfortable.”

            “Master Budgie, did you administer the leaves as suggested by Lord Samwise?”

            The healer shook his head.  “I thought the tales of kingsfoil’s healing properties were old wives tales, and knew of no serious healer who used them for more than a mild restorative for someone recovering from a long illness or to ease headaches or the sadness.  They are sometimes made into teas or steeped in boiling water for vapors for these purposes.  That they were actually easing Frodo I wasn’t seeing.  Yet now several people have told me that Frodo would be obviously quite weak and pale, would drink the tea or breathe the vapors--or both--and would obviously be eased.  The signs of pain would lessen, his color would begin to return, he would become better able to focus on what was going on around him.  And certainly the use of the willow bark in the tea would ease him if there were blockages in the vessels of the heart, although if overused it can also cause bleeding.”

            “The gem the Lady Arwen gave him appeared to help ease him as well,” Fredegar added.  “He would finger it, and gradually the pain would be relieved.  He wore it constantly.  Perhaps the fact he was wearing it increased the effects of the athelas for him.”

            Viola sniffed.  “You are missing one important thought,” she said, “that the leaves may have been more likely to work simply because Sam was the one adding them to the tea or the vapor or the bath.”  When all looked at her, she tried to explain.  “Sam has a marked affinity for plants and growing things.  It’s almost as if he and they can talk.  When he stopped here last spring he went out to my herb garden to look at a basil plant that was refusing to grow where I’d planted it, and he knelt over it for some time, digging his fingers into the soil as if he were touching the roots.  He finally straightened and told me the plant didn’t like where it was growing, as it was too close to another plant it didn’t like much.  He dug his fingers into several places in the garden and went back to the basil plant several times before he finally indicated where it would do well.  I carefully transplanted it as he’d suggested, and within two days it was putting out new leaves.”

            Fredegar considered this.  “I know from Frodo’s book that when administered by the King the athelas leaves gave out great virtue in their vapors, and the scent of them was different for each person he healed.  Perhaps Sam has sufficient of the same nature as Aragorn that they work for him more strongly than for others.”

            Budgie shrugged.  “I no longer doubt athelas is a powerful healing herb at times--I’ve begun to hear and read of too many cases when it apparently aided people who were unresponsive to other treatments.  And having been treated with it by the King, it is likely Frodo was then sensitized to its virtues.”  He became thoughtful.  “There are some ancient folk tales told in the Shire of marvelous cures having been wrought through the use of kingsfoil, but I’d never heard anyone confirming the stories.  Of course, in most of the folk tales the person using the kingsfoil is the King of Arnor, to whom many strange powers were ascribed.  And from what Sam has told me since Frodo left, I am beginning to believe those tales now.  It appears the Lord Strider has inherited his ancestors’ gifts.”

            Ruvemir thought for several moments.  “I wonder if he used it in my case,” he said softly.  Then he began to recite:

            “When the black breath blows

            and death’s shadow grows

            and all lights pass,

                 come athelas! come athelas!

            Life to the dying

            In the King’s hand lying.

            “So has the ancient rhyme of lore of the King been quoted time out of mind.”  He sifted through his fragmented memories of his own time under the King’s care.  “I vaguely remember waking to the scent of my favorite place on our family farm--a  hollow under the larch trees, halfway to the River, which bordered the estate on one side.”  He smiled.  “Yes, I suspect he did use it on me, too, then.”

            “The King was called to care for you?” asked Budgie.

            “Yes--chills and fevers, the lung fever, and a disjointed hip.”

            “Quite a combination of ills!”

            The sculptor smiled and shrugged.

            Fredegar finally continued on.  “Each attack he would grow weaker, and could do less after.  As a tween with Bilbo he walked probably every inch of the Shire, and when he went to visit he preferred to go on foot.  Gave him a better chance of meeting or at least seeing Elves and Dwarves.  Certainly they walked most of the way to Mordor, and it was only as they were approaching that land and later going through it that he began to flag.  After the last attack he could barely make the walk into the village, and at times the trip back to his own door from the place at the turn of the lane where he met with the children of the Row was almost more than he could manage.  As he weakened, Sam increased the use of his teas, and he was apparently more soothed than previously, although it did little to strengthen him.  From what Sam told me after, it appears at this time he was beginning a serious correspondence with Rivendell, and it appears that the discussion of the going into the West was again broached, although he spoke of it to none.”

            “When did you learn he was to leave?”

            “Not until after he’d gone.  We were to go to Bag End to be with him, we thought, for the end.  As weak as he’d become, we four--we and Frodo, that is--recognized he’d probably not survive it.  But the Summons came, and he finished his preparations as quickly as he could, and was gone before the anniversary.  It was Sam’s hope that the presence of the Lord Elrond and Gandalf and the other great Elves with him would protect him on the voyage.  He left Bag End the day before his birthday, his and Bilbo’s, and Sam tells us he was very glad to be reunited with the old fellow when they met in the Woody End.  But it was quite a shock for us to arrive at Bag End and find it empty.  We had no idea where they’d gone.”

            “No one was there?”

            “None responded to our knock.  When we tried the door, it was not locked, so we entered.  We--I was beginning to be frantic, and Budgie was becoming as worried about me as about Frodo.  We began searching the smial--no one was there, no hint as to what had happened.  Then Budgie thought of looking for Frodo’s saddlebags, and they weren’t there, nor were Sam’s; and I thought to check to see if the Lady’s phial and the small book Sam, when he was a child, had written for him were gone, for he would not have left those behind.  We’d begun to hope that word had come to him that he’d been allowed to leave--or perhaps that Sam had talked him into going to Rivendell for help.  They were indeed missing from the chest by his bed, and I began to hope.  Then Rosie came in carrying Elanor.  She’d been down at Number Three visiting with Marigold and the Gaffer, and saw us going by, up the Hill, and had followed behind as quickly as possible, to let us know what had happened.”

            Budgie continued, “When Mistress Rose came in, she called out to us, and we came out of Frodo’s room, and I, at least, felt very guilty for going through Bag End without permission.  She told us that less than a week before Frodo’s birthday Lord Erestor of Rivendell had appeared near the Hill, bringing to Samwise a bundle sent by Lord Elrond, and that it contained letters and books and herbs, including herbs to be added to the special tea Sam had been brewing for Frodo.  Rosie said that almost immediately after he drank the new draught Frodo felt stronger, strong enough to go to Michel Delving, and to come home two days later and begin preparing to leave.”

            “Rosie,” continued Fredegar, “had been entrusted with a letter to us that Frodo had not had time to send.  She’d simply not thought to send it to us through the quick post, though--had merely held on to it till we arrived--they knew we were coming, after all, though not why.  It was very brief, for he was very rushed.  He said merely that he had received word to meet with them along the way to the Havens if he wished to go with them, and that he’d already made up his mind at last to do so.”

            Ruvemir asked Fredegar, “I am told your heart, too, was weakened by your ordeal during the Time of Troubles.”

            “Yes.  But my condition was different from his.”

            Budgie added, “Frodo’s heart was failing, while that of Fredegar here is merely weakened.  A serious shock could possibly cause another seizure of his heart, but it is not actively failing.”

            “Not yet, at any rate,” Fredegar commented.

            “And with your upcoming marriage to Melilot, that should not come for quite a long time.  A happy marriage has strengthened many a weak heart.”

            “About time, too,” Folco said, setting down his tankard.  “She’s a dear lass.”

            “I know,” Fredegar responded, smiling.

            Then Fredegar asked well informed questions about Gondor and the King, and Folco asked them about what their home was like in Lebennin, and Ruvemir and Ririon found themselves describing to Budgie their treatment in the Houses of Healing and what it was like to be under the care of the King, and Viola was exclaiming over the work Miriel was doing on the surcoat she was embroidering.  Suddenly the cry of a waking child rang out, and Viola hurried out of the room to bring out her son Drogo, a still sleepy toddler of two years of age.  During the last half hour they spent with their hosts, Ruvemir sketched quickly, doing a quick study of the four inhabitants of the house and Folco Boffin as they talked.

******* 

            The sight of Bag End was welcome, for during the last hour of their drive the air had cooled markedly and clouds loomed overhead.  Sam and an older Hobbit identified as Sam’s brother Hal helped them out of the carriage and into the smial and brought in the chests, and then Hal and Ririon took the carriage on to the stables at the Ivy Bush.  Even Folco Boffin was feeling stiff with the cold, it seemed, and he was the first sent into the bathing room to warm up, as Miriel had, at Budgie’s insistence, ridden inside with her brother and ward for the last lap.  He came out dressed in clean trousers and the tunic Miriel had gifted him and a smile that was shy and hopeful, and all exclaimed over the workmanship and how distinguished he looked, which he did.  Miriel had come to appreciate the subtleties of the taste of the various teas they’d been served, and she was praising the taste of the tea Sam had himself blended and now had offered them; and even Ruvemir had to admit it was well worth drinking.  Sam, meanwhile, was flushed with pleasure, and suggested she prepare to follow Folco’s example. 

            Folco was very quick to volunteer to go with her to show her how to fill the tub, and as Sam started to object that as host it would be his duty he received a sharp jab to his ribs from his wife, who was watching the glances Miriel and the bachelor Hobbit were exchanging with satisfaction.  Sam gave his wife a questioning look, but quieted and looked after the two guests bemused.  As they passed out of hearing he said in a low voice, “Now, there’s a match for the books!”

            “Folco’s not been sweet on anyone since he was a tween and thought Miss Estella Bolger was the most beautiful lass in the Shire,” Rosie laughed.  “But now he is most definitely smitten, and I think it’s well past time; and there is no question she returns the regard.  Let’s invite him to spend Yule with us, Sam.  You know Master Frodo would be well pleased to see his cousin happy.  I’ll take her some extra towels.”

            As she followed down the passage Sam looked after her with a resigned smile.  “Married lasses always seem to be trying to help matches along,” he commented.  “If’n they’re not happy in their own marriages it seems they want others to share the misery, but if’n they are, then they’re insistent all others will be as happy or more.”  And he turned to share a wide grin with Ruvemir.

            Ruvemir sipped his tea, then cast a glance down the passage.  “I can’t get over how Miriel has opened up on this trip.  She was always painfully shy as a result of the teasing we received as children, the only mannikins in our area.  I’ve met more in my travels to do commissions, but she’s never had the chance to do so, for she wouldn’t leave our home farm if she could help it.  But there is no question she is returning Folco’s attentions.”  He laughed.  “And I’ll swear that she had originally intended that tunic as my own midwinter gift, although I certainly don’t regret it.  To see her enjoying herself and finding regard and perhaps even love...I am well pleased.”

            “Wonder how a love match between a Man and a Hobbit will work out?” Sam mused.  “Seems to work out fine between Men and Elves, after all.  No problem with children or nothing like that.”  He sipped at his own tea, then continued.  “Looks like we’ll be in a position to find out, doesn’t it?”

            And Man and Hobbit smiled at one another.

*******

            Elanor appeared fascinated by Ruvemir, and quickly overcame her shyness to clamber into his lap and investigate his straight hair and short beard.  “Funny,” she said, a bit solemnly for the word.

            Ruvemir smiled.  “It’s just a difference between mannikins and Hobbits,” he said.  “We menfolk among mannikins can grow hair on our faces while you grow it on your feet.”  She looked down at her own feet, and then at his, then appeared fascinated by his shoes.  Her eyes quite large, she looked back into his face.  “No, those are not what my feet look like,” he explained.  “They look much like yours, but without the curly hair on them.  Would you like to see?  It’s just that we must protect our feet, for their soles are not as thick as yours are.”  And at her nod, he reached down and eased his shoes off, then his stockings.

            “Always wondered about the cloth between, myself,” Sam commented as he lit his pipe.

            “Called stockings.  They keep the leather from rubbing too much against the feet and legs and developing blisters,” Ruvemir explained as he rolled his together to keep from losing them as easily.  “Now, my lady, you can get down and examine them as you please.”

            Elanor smiled and slipped to the floor, and sitting cross-legged she began to rub his feet gently with her finger.  Finally she commented in a soft voice, “Do too have hair on your feet, just short.” 

            Ruvemir looked down at his feet with interest, and commented, “Well, I must say that you are correct.  But the hair on your feet is much prettier.”

            She looked up and smiled at him, then contemplated her own feet again for a few minutes.  Just then the front door opened, and Hal and Ririon entered.  “You can hang your hat over here on the hooks over the hall settle,” Hal said as they shook out their cloaks.  He called out to his brother, “It’s starting to snow.  Not too slick as yet, but soon will be if it keeps up.  I’d probably do well to head back down the lane to the Gaffer soon, but first I want warming up.  Some tea, little brother!” 

            Ririon found an empty hook and hung up his hat, and Ruvemir called out to let him know which direction the parlor was.

            “I can see the firelight,” Ririon commented.  Sliding his walking stick on the floor, the boy made his way. 

            “Settle to your right on the wall near the fire,” Sam directed, and seeing his guest find a place he rose with a last sip at his own tea, and headed off to the kitchen for a fresh pot.

            “Welcome to Hobbiton, Master Artist,” Hal said.  “Hadn’t had the chance to say it afore I took the coach off to the stables.”  Fluffing his hair away from his head, he smiled.

            “Do you live in the village?” asked Ruvemir.

            “No, in the Northfarthing.  But the missus and me are visiting our dad, as it looks like this may be one of his last Yules.”  His expression sobered.  “Gettin’ on, he is.  Just glad he’s settled back in his own place again afore the end.”

            “Did someone force him to move away?”

            The Hobbit gave a curt nod, remembered anger in his eyes.  “Yes, during the Troubles.  That fool Lotho decided the old holes along the Row was too old, so he had the Big Men to make the folks in them to move, and he dug 'em out.  Moved 'em closer toward Hobbiton in shacks them fools built.  Drafty and ugly and ready to fall back down, but they said they was modern and better than smials, only they wasn’t.”  He shook his head.  “Sam helped rebuild the Row, and there ain’t no question these holes is better.  But it ain’t quite the same as the hole as we grew up in, don’t you know.  Sam would bring the Gaffer here, if he’d come, but he loves his own place.”  Hal looked around the smial and shook his head.  “Who’d of ever thought as a Gamgee would become Master of Bag End?  Not that it’s quite as it was neither--the Big Men gutted the place, too.  Sam did his best to restore it, though.  Did a fair job of it.  Was able to give his Master back the feeling of home, at least--for a short bit.  But he were fadin’ and like to die.  Decided to leave with the Elves, I guess.  Too bad, for he were a right gentle soul, and he always felt as Sam was as his little brother.  Sam will miss him till he dies hisself, I think.”

            “So, you think the Lord Frodo is dead now?”

            “Don’t know for sure about how it could be where he went, but it’s hard to think he’d make it this long.  He was thin as a wight, he was, and right pale last time as I seen him.  Movin’ slower’n the Gaffer now.  Still aware, though, still watchful.  Loved the children as he’d always done--would walk down to the turn in the Lane, sit on the bench and tell ’em his stories.  Little Cyclamen Proudfoot would sit on his lap and hold his hand and rub as where his finger was gone as he told them tales.  And he’d smile at 'em all.  Always was a great one for stories, Master Frodo.  Like his uncle there.”  He smiled at his niece, sitting on the floor, playing with Ruvemir’s shoes.  “And he did love his little Elanorellë, he did.  Would sit and talk Elvish at her for hours, he would.  If he’s still alive, bet he misses her something awful.”

            “I bet he does,” Sam said from the passage as he carried in a tray of tea and small cakes.  “Suspect, though, he’s tellin’ his tales to Elflings now.  Wonder if he does drawings for them?”  And he gave Ruvemir a significant glance.

            The artist and the gardener looked at each other for several moments.  Finally Ruvemir admitted, “Yes, I’ve seen the pictures the Lord Frodo gave to Lasgon.”

            Sam gave a slow nod.  “You didn’t tell Strider, did you?”

            “No, I haven’t; although I’m not sure why it’s to stay a secret now.  It’s not as though he were able to make the Lord Frodo sit down and design his own memorial at this point.”  He watched as Sam set his tray on the chest and poured his brother a cup of tea.  “Nor am I sworn to keep the secret of his skill as you are.”

            Sam looked over his shoulder.  “No, I guess not.”  His face had again gone solemn.  Hal shared a look of concern for his brother with Ruvemir.

            Ririon asked, “Why did he not want the King to know?”

            “He didn’t feel he was worthy of such a memorial,” Sam said, “and really we all thought it was rather a fool idea.”

            “But not any more?”

            “He needs to be membered.  What we all did was important.  But he got It to the mountain, and nobody else could of done that.”

            “Was it bad?”

            “Which--It or the quest?”

            “Getting to the mountain.”

            Sam was quiet as he put the teapot back on the tray, held it with both hands, kept his eyes focused on it.  Finally he said in a soft tone, “Yes, it was bad.  Real bad.  Almost killed us both.”  He looked at the boy sadly.  “I don’t know what Mordor is like now--probably just dead and dry.  Then it was worse.  The Enemy filled it with his creatures and his own malice.  The air itself was a poison, full of ash and grit and vapors from the mountain.  Bad enough for me--I wasn’t carrying that--that thing.  I wasn’t hearing It all day and all night, lying, cajoling, twisting, accusing.  Except for the brief time I carried It, It didn’t bother with me.  I didn’t feel the weight of It, see It as a wheel of fire, feel It calling always to him, to Its Master, to see It and the one who carried It.  He did.  Drove him mad.”

            “Why did he go away, Master Samwise?”

            Sam looked away at the fireplace.  When he spoke, his voice was very low.  “At least partly ‘cause he didn’t want me to see him dead again.  I’d already seen him so--thought him so, at least, after the spider bit him.  I went a bit mad myself with grief, then.  Was crying, calling out to him, shaking him.  Then I stood up and started shouting and shaking Sting about, threatening the world.  Was a right fool, I was.”  He paused, then confessed, “I thought of killing myself, even.”

            Ririon said, “It must have been good to realize he was really alive after all.”

            Sam nodded slowly, then said, “Yes, it was.  But mostly to be shut of the Ring, when he took It back.  Although I’d fought It as I carried It, I don’t know as how long I’d of been able to continue, especially after we actually got into Mordor itself.  It was bad afore--once we was there--”  His face twisted with pain.  “And he just kept on, puttin’ one foot afore the other, just kept going.  Crawled when he couldn’t stand no more.”  He looked down at his hands.  “He didn’t want me to see him die, really die, after knowin’ what it did to me there in the Spider’s Pass.”

            “How did he know?”

            “I told him.  He asked, and I told him.”  Again they were quiet.  Elanor, who had sat quietly through the whole discussion, listening intently, quietly rose and approached her father, climbed into his lap, and he held her tenderly to him as she put her arms around his chest.  At last he said, “Also, only in the West, in the Undying Lands, could there be a hope of healing for him.  He wasn’t scared of dying no more, but he didn’t feel really alive no more, neither--or just in bits and spurts he did.  We all wanted for him to be able just to be happy again.  But, it’s hard to be happy when you feel your whole insides is scooped out and withered.”  He shook his head.  “The Ring had been putting out his Light, and left him scarred--scarred more inside, in his heart, than in his body.  Only the Valar could help clean away those scars.”

            “Like the King did with my eyes.  The scars were too thick, and I could see hardly anything.  He cleaned them away, and when the light’s right I can see pretty well.”

            Sam seemed intrigued by this description, and a small smile started to return.  “Yes,” he finally said, “I guess it would be a lot like that, only I hope even better.  I think the Valar are better at healing even than the King.”

            At that moment they heard Rosie coming up the passage, speaking to Frodo-Lad as she came.  “Now, we’ll get your da and your sister and our guests and we’ll eat our supper, shall we?”  And as he heard his wife’s voice, Sam’s smile broadened and the memory of pain diminished.  Ruvemir saw the transformation, and suddenly felt very glad that Sam had this blessing.

 *******

            Folco seemed overwhelmed by the invitation to stay in Bag End for Yule, but accepted gladly.  Hal gave his brother’s wife a kiss, and another to Elanor and the baby, then patted Sam on the shoulder, nodded his head to his brother’s guests, and took his leave.

            They were quite a ways through the supper when Ruvemir decided to ask the question that had been forming in his mind about Folco.  “Why weren’t you involved in the quest, Master Boffin?”

            The bachelor sat thinking for a few moments, then looked up apologetically.  “I guess mostly because of my mother,” he said.  “She’d been doing poorly for about two years at that point, and needed some care.  I think Merry thought a time or two of approaching me, but when he asked how things were at home when we met at the Green Dragon and I told him how ill Mother was and all, he decided I couldn’t truly be spared.  Oh, I helped with the removal to Buckland, but didn’t stay.  Our neighbor agreed to watch Mother while I was gone for five days, but she couldn’t do more than that.  As it was, the hole was in a terrible state when I got back, and I don’t think she’d brought Mother regular meals--maybe only three a day.”  He sighed.  “I felt horribly left out when I learned they’d all left the Shire.  And then the Troubles started; and because I was a cousin, Lotho seemed to have it in for my mother and me.  I was very glad my dad wasn’t alive to see us thrown out of our own hole and it dug up.  They couldn’t really dig it back again after, as most of the hill was torn down by the digging out.  Sam organized my neighbors to help build a house where it used to sit, a good, proper Hobbit house and not one of those horrid things the Big Men used to build, and Frodo helped refurnish it.  At least Mother was able to be in her own home again for a year before she died.”  He stopped to eat a few bites, then added, “I sometimes think he dug out Bagshot Row because Sam’s family and the Proudfoots were there, and he knew how much they’d mean to Frodo.”

            “Who are the Proudfoots?”

            “More cousins.  One of our Baggins aunts married a Proudfoot, so Sancho is a cousin of ours, too.  Frodo became quite close to little Cyclamen, his daughter, before he left.  Sancho and his family had moved into the old Baggins hole at Number Five.”

            Sam nodded.  “Yes, where Mr. Bungo was born and raised.  He dug this smial higher on the hill when he was getting ready to marry Miss Belladonna Took.  Usually a Baggins lived in Number Five.  Mr. Drogo and Missus Primula, Mr. Frodo’s folks, lived there for a while, too, till after Frodo was born.  Then they couldn’t stand being so near the Sackville-Bagginses no more, and I certainly couldn’t blame them.  Any sane Hobbit would want to stay as far away from that lot as possible.”

            Folco smiled at Sam.  “Oh, but Sam,” he said in a tone of mock-mourning, “you cannot mean that you have ill memories of the Sackville-Bagginses.”

            “Can’t I?” Sam replied.  “I certainly can!  I’ll never forget the first meeting between Missus Lobelia and Mr. Frodo.  Oh, but the sparks fair flew that day!  Not to mention the fact perhaps Mr. Frodo might of been able to know the happiness of marriage if it weren’t for her interference.”

            “Except had he married, most like he’d have left wife and children bereft once the Ring came to him.”

            Sam thought about that for a moment.  Then he nodded reluctantly.  “The Ring didn’t accept no rivals,” he replied soberly.  “Would of been most unhappy to rest in the hands of someone with a love.  Would have ruined the marriage, I suspect.”

            “Perhaps you’re right,” Folco commented.

            Sam sat thinking for a few moments, then suddenly looked into Ruvemir’s eyes.  “If’n you’d like to know about Mr. Frodo’s youngest years, the Widow Rumble as lives in Number Four could tell you.  She were their neighbor, after all, and her old mistress from when she had thought to become a midwife delivered him as a babe.”

            Ruvemir was indeed interested.  Then talk turned to the house and property Folco owned.  “I own a farm just beyond Overhill.  My cousin Rimbo lives on it and does the greatest part of working it, although I generally work alongside him most of the planting and harvesting seasons, and take over completely one month of growing season so he and his wife can go to see her family in the Marish.  Or, so it used to be.  Now her younger brother has moved nearby and assists as much as I.”

            “How about the house?” asked Miriel.

            He shrugged modestly.  “It’s a fine enough place--not so fine, perhaps, as the old smial was, but fine enough for now.  Five bedrooms, dressing room, airing cupboard, two parlors, dining room, fine kitchen, two larders and three pantries, storage rooms, cool room and large root cellar, study--not so fine a study as the one here, of course.  But we were able to save the books when Lotho threw us out of the old hole.  He doesn’t appear to have realized just how valuable the books we all had were, or they’d have all been ‘gathered for sharing,’ too by the Big Men along with the foodstuffs and much of the other valuables of the Shirefolk.  By the time Sharkey came, most of the books of the Shire had been hidden away.  Sharkey was most unhappy not to find any.  Seems he was certain many books of importance to him had to be hidden here in the Shire.  By the time he got here none of his folk could get into Buckland, so Frodo and Bilbo’s books and things were safe in Crickhollow; and they had no access to the libraries in Brandy Hall or the Great Smial.  Mum and I were living in a worker’s hut on our farm, and we’d stored most of our valuables and all the books in the old storage pit under the main barn.  The Bolgers had a stow hole near Budgeford where they put most of their most valuable possessions and their books, and no one ever betrayed it to the Big Men.  Lot of folks in Budgeford shared in the secret and hid their most valuable things there, too.  But it wouldn’t have done to try to hide food there, as the Men would have noted had folks come and gone too often from a single spot, by the time they had established themselves.  Most of the other villages had similar stow holes.  Men had no idea what to look for, and no one had ever shared the knowledge of such places with the likes of Lotho Pimple.  Here in Hobbiton and Bywater, however, there was little time to use such places.  A few managed to do so, but only a few.”

            “What did Sharkey want books for?” Ririon asked.

            “We didn’t know then, but Frodo told us he’d once been a wizard, like old Gandalf.  Many of the best books we had then had been copied from the library of Lord Elrond Halfelven or even the ancient library of the King of Eriador, for old Gerontius and Bilbo and even a few leading Hobbits from days before them had developed relationships with Elrond and received gifts of knowledge from him.  It is likely he sought the secrets of the great Elves or the Northern Kingdoms they might contain.”

            “How do you know what kinds of books there were?”

            Folco considered for a time before answering.  “My dad was close friends with old Bilbo, and used to visit him often.  He’d bring me with him when he came here to see him, and it was Bilbo who taught me to read and write, like he did so many of our cousins.  That was before he brought Frodo to Bag End as his ward.  He was corresponding with Lord Elrond of Rivendell, who would send him books, and he’d copy them and send them back.  He had asked for information on the founding of the Shire, so Elrond had sent him copies of his own journals, how his people found our ancestors traveling through the passes from the east into Eriador, brought many of them to Rivendell, how he counseled them and brought them to the King of Arthedain, who granted them this land.  But that was not all he wrote about in those journals.  As time passed Bilbo was translating the journals and ended up having me copy much of what he translated, as I had a clear hand and wrote swiftly and with few errors.  I’m certain some of what Elrond had written about the Enemy and his ways, particularly what he wrote about the making of the Great Rings, would have been of interest to a wizard.  I didn’t understand most of what I copied, but got enough from it to understand some of this was possibly dangerous information.  And I was reading a fair amount of Bilbo’s books, too, while we were here.

            “I did a lot of copying for Bilbo for about a year, and then Dad died.”

            “What did he die of, Master Folco?” asked the artist.

            “He’d just finished plowing the grain field on our farm when he suddenly stopped, clutched his chest, and fell.  He lingered for about five days before he finally died.  I’ll admit that we Boffins have a history of developing problems with our hearts, and he appears to have been that kind of Boffin.”

            “Budgie did his prenticing with one of the healers as used to work with the Boffinses,” Sam observed.

            “Yes, my cousin Otto Boffin was one of the folk he worked with as an apprentice.  We have such difficulties with our hearts many healers work with the Boffins in order to learn more about how to recognize and, hopefully, heal or control the disorders.

            “Mother didn’t have anything really against Cousin Bilbo, but neither was she particularly close to him.  After my father died, she’d take me frequently to the Great Smials, where she tried to curry favor for me from Thain Ferumbras, and he didn’t like Bilbo at all.  And if he said, ‘Have nothing to do with Bilbo Baggins,’ then my mother would follow suit--at first, at least.  Not until after Frodo came to Bag End was I allowed to begin visiting again, mostly with Fatty, for our Bolger cousins didn’t give two pins for the Thain’s opinions on much of anything, and in the end Mother found she preferred their good opinion to the Thain’s.  He and his mother Lalia were both seen by many as grasping souls, and many disliked them, including, at last, my mother.  But Mother didn’t want me copying things for Cousin Bilbo any more, for fear it would waken the Took in me I have from my father’s side.”

            “I’m afraid I don’t understand that last statement.”

            Sam laughed.  “The Tooks are the most unpredictable Hobbits in the Shire, and If’n any Hobbit were to go off on anything so disreputable as an adventure, you can count on him havin’ a fair amount of Took blood in his veins.  No one would’ve questioned Pippin goin’ off on an adventure sometime--but until Bilbo come along no one expected to see such in a Baggins.  But then he and Frodo both have a good bit of Took in 'em, being grandson and great grandson to the Old Took hisself.”

            “Oh,” said the artist, “I see.  Yes, I do think Gimli and Pippin tried to tell me something of all this.”

            “I don’t doubt we have taught that Dwarf more’n he ever wanted to know of Hobbit ways,” Sam grinned.  “Merry would go on for hours as we walked.  Bet Gimli can tell you precisely how many times removed those three are as cousins, too.”

            “How about you, Master Samwise?  Do you have any Took blood in you?”

            “Not that I know of.  Nor any Brandybuck nor Baggins.  And certainly no Stoor background.  No, think I’m just solid workin’ stock.”  He shrugged.

            “Then what led you on your own adventure?”

            The gardener looked him over for several moments, his face now solemn.  Finally he said, “Just love for my Master, nothin’ more.  Couldn’t let him go alone, not to the outside, and certainly not to the darkness Gandalf spoke of.”

            The rest of the meal they spoke of other things, Ruvemir purposely not questioning anyone at this point.  Not until they were all done eating and Miriel began helping Mistress Rose to clear away did he say anything more.  “Are you sorry you left the Shire, Master Samwise?”

            Sam thought about it, and finally answered, “No, I’m not.  If’n I hadn’t, I’d not have met Strider nor Legolas nor Gimli nor Boromir, nor have learned as much of Gandalf as I did.  Nor would I have been like to see Elves, and I so dearly wanted to see Elves.”  Then, in a quieter tone, “And, if’n we hadn’t gone, it’d be worse than the Time of Troubles for the whole world, and not just for the Shire.  I’ve seen Elves, but I’ve also seen orcs and trolls, and we certainly don’t need that what breeds such ruling Middle Earth.”  He rose and gathered more of the dishes from the table, and Ruvemir decided to follow suit.  Folco, who’d been feeding root biscuits to small Frodo-Lad, watched them.  Elanor slipped out of her chair, carrying a cup with her,  and Ririon picked up a tureen from the table and found his way to the door and turned after to the kitchen.

            Seeing the number of menfolk now filling the kitchen, Rosie laughed.  “Are you going to wash the dishes then?”

            “Be glad to, Love,” Sam said, kissing her as he set the dirty dishes on the kitchen table.  “You can go get a rest, you can, and put your feet up for a while, and sing our son to his sleep.”  He gave Ruvemir an inquiring look, and asked, “How about you, Master Ririon?  Up to cleaning a kitchen?”

            “I certainly know how,” the boy responded.  “Did it for enough years.”

            Sam straightened, and commented, “Ah, yes, you worked in an inn.  Well, Rosie Lass, off you go, then.  We’ll do what’s needed here.  You, too, Mistress Miriel.”

            In moments Ruvemir had an apron protecting his surcoat and was carrying the last of the dishes from the dining room to the kitchen.  Ririon took over washing dishes while Sam dried and put away, and the sculptor found himself cleaning surfaces and refilling the firebox for the stove.  “Cold nights like this, we need to keep a small fire going,” Sam explained.  Finally all was clean.  Elanor had sat on the small settle in the corner, singing softly as she played with a doll, and suddenly Ruvemir realized she was singing a lullaby in Sindarin that his own mother had sung to him as a child.

            “Where did she learn that song?” he asked Sam.

            “Mr. Frodo used to sing it to her, and she seems to of membered it.  We used to hear it in Minas Tirith.  The folk as lived in the next house to ours, who worked in the Citadel and the Houses of Healing, had little ones, and the mum would sing that to them.  Felt right funny, being that close to the next house and hearing what come out of it.  I mean, our homes here is close together, too, the ones on the Row, at least.  But we don’t hear things from inside them like one does in the city, not less’n you’re right under the windows like.”  He smiled at his daughter.  “She’s amazing, our Elanorellë.  She members most of what she hears, and although I don’t think she members her Uncle Frodo’s face, she members what he used to say to her and sing to her.  He’d sit on that settle with her in his arms, singin’ that to her, tellin’ her all kinds of things in Elvish.”  Then he said to her, in unaccented Sindarin, “Tell our guest what your uncle used to say to you, Elanor.”

            She stopped her singing, looked up shyly through her lashes, and said, also in Sindarin, “He told me I was the most beautiful child in the Shire.  He said I was his beloved Elanorellë forever.”

            “And you are, dearling,” Sam responded, still in Sindarin. 

            Ruvemir was strangely moved, and remembered the maid from Minas Tirith who’d served the Pheriannath when they dwelt together in the capital, and her surprise at Sam’s knowledge of Sindarin.  “I thought you told Mistress Loren you were not much good at speaking Sindarin.”

            Sam smiled.  “Begun to study it some more, ’cause I help teach it to the children in the school.  Old Mr. Bilbo had a book on pronunciation and grammar and all, and he had Mr. Frodo studying out of it, although Frodo didn’t speak all that much when we left--we’d not had that much chance to practice it, after all.  But he understood a fair amount of what he heard said about us, and while we was in Rivendell, Lothlorien, and Minas Tirith he had folk speak a lot of Sindarin to him so as he could practice more.  Now I’m using that book.  Glad as he didn’t send it to the Shire library, although I’m having a copy of it made so as they can have one in the library, too.”  He looked about him, then spoke to Ririon.  “You’ve done a fine job, youngling.  Want a bathe afore you go off to bed?”

            “All right,” Ririon said, surprising his guardian. 

            And a moment later Sam was leading the way to the bathing room and filling the tub.  “Want some lavender oil or rose oil in the water?” he asked.  “Soothing after a journey.”

            “All right,” the boy said, again surprising Ruvemir.  “But I need to get my night robe.” 

            Seeing to it that the tub wouldn’t overflow before they got back, Sam led the way to the guest room where he’d placed Ririon’s things.  “The clothes chest is in Master Ruvemir’s room though,” he said, as Ririon looked things over.  He then led the way further down the passage to a room on the side open to the outside, and together they entered and opened the clothes chest, and Ririon quickly found his night robe and clean garb for the following day and a pair of soft slippers.  “Can you find your own way back to the bathing room?” he asked.

            “Yes,” Ririon said.  “I can certainly hear the sound of the water, at least, and smell the oil.”

            “Good,” Sam said.  “Well, off with you.”  After the boy had left, Sam turned to Ruvemir.  “This was Frodo’s room.  This was the room old Mr. Bilbo give him when he came to Bag End, and where he stayed after.  From what I could tell, Lotho’s Big Men seem to of avoided using it.  There was a lot of damage, but no one stayed in it, or if so not more’n a night or two.  Mr. Lotho put his bed and all in the master bedroom as was old Mr. Bilbo’s as long as I can member.  But Frodo wouldn’t change rooms, not ever.”  He pointed to the fireplace.  “The mantel and facing was all torn up, so I had to have it all done over again.  Put a hob in it so as I could hang a kettle for steam over it.”

            Ruvemir stood breathing the air of the room.  “Smells of the Sea, somehow.  Are we that far west?”

            Sam shook his head.  “No, that’s the scent of athelas as it come out for him, almost all the time.  Seems to be different for different folk, whatever makes them most soothed, I’ve found.  When Strider’d put it near me, it always smelled of garden soil and the wind off the Water.  And Éomer King said as when Strider set it steeping for the Lady Éowyn it smelled of wind off the snowfields of a tall mountain.  But for Mr. Frodo it always smelled of the Sea.  When I did a basin for Elanor when she had a cold last month it smelled of puppies, so I fear she’ll be one to have dogs one day.  Who’d of thought she’d find puppies soothin’?  And for Rosie it’s the smell of bairns.”

            “Do you always call the King Strider?”

            He laughed softly.  “Yes, I do.  Told him in Rivendell I’m not good for changin’ names for folks, and he said as he’d be honored if I continued to call him Strider for as long as I wanted.”  He looked around the room, then back at the sculptor.  “I hope as you’ll find it comfortable.”

            “I’m honored you allow me to use it.”

            “Suspect this will be Frodo-Lad’s room when he’s older.  But for now, it’s pretty much as he left it.  Will you be wanting a bathe after young Ririon?”

            “Yes, that will be nice.”

            “Oh, and shall I help you with the exercises for your hip?  Don’t think as you’ve had much chance to do them, what with the ride and all, and I noted you’re limping more.”

            “Mostly that’s because I’m not wearing my shoes.  The thick sole of the one helps keep me from lurching as I walk.  But, yes, it is aching some.  I take it you used to help Pippin with his?”

            “We all did, one time or another.”

            After finishing with the exercises, Sam said, “I’ll go back to the parlor for a while.  Want to come?”

            “I’ll follow in a few minutes.  Need to get my booklets and a change of clothes.”  And with a nod Sam disappeared back down the passage.

            But Ruvemir found the lure of the room itself was so strong he couldn’t resist opening doors, drawers, and cupboards.

            Clothing still hung in the shallow dressing room off the bedroom, and linens and underthings still lay in the drawers.  The clothing hanging in the dressing room was typical Hobbit garb, from what Ruvemir could see--the short trousers, linen shirts, waistcoats, jackets; all of fine but sturdy materials and well made, much of it decorated with subtle embroidery often done in threads of much the same colors as the basic garment.  The more worn older clothing was in browns and greens and golds; the newer garments, which showed little sign of wear, in greys and silvers.  Underthings were of linen mostly, with a few garments of silk which Ruvemir was certain must have come from Minas Tirith.  A heavy mantle of Gondorian style in a deep blue hung in the corner of the dressing room--it looked as if it had barely been worn; nearby hung a heavy but supple knit scarf in dark green wool, and a woven one in gold, with two pairs of mittens nearby, made to match the scarves. 

            He found sleep shirts such as Hobbits wore at night in a drawer, again several apparently of Gondorian fabrics and stitching; and hanging inside the door to the dressing room was a soft and well worn dressing gown woven with stripes of blues and greens.  Studs for shirts cuffs lay in an old glass dish, and a cloak brooch of woven silver which appeared to be of Dwarven make lay in a finely carved wooden box.  Several boxes of folded kerchiefs for his pockets sat on a shelf inside the dressing room, each box decorated distinctively.  He got the feeling that such were probably commonly given gifts here in the Shire.

            A small clothes press of Gondorian make stood in one corner, and his curiosity still strong he opened it to find several shirts, tunics, and surcoats of Gondorian patterns and fabrics, clothing Frodo must have worn when in Minas Tirith, protected by sachets of balsam and cedar.  He lifted them out, and at the bottom found a packet wrapped in the same close-woven material as had protected the similar package sent to him by the King via the Elf Legolas.  Carefully he brought this out, set it on the bed, then carefully refolded those items which had fallen open when moved and replaced them in the press.  He carefully unfastened the cords, and exposed folders such as he’d seen in Minas Tirith, and inside were pictures and some writings.

            Frodo had done more portraits of his companions, but also scenes from the daily life he saw around him while he was in Gondor.  There was a picture of a woman seated inside the window of a dwelling, holding an infant to her breast, that peculiar smile common to mothers with nursing babes on her face.  There was a scene of three Guards of the Citadel seated on benches outside an inn, enjoying mugs of ale during a break in their service.  There was one of a young soldier sparring with Sir Pippin; another of Sir Meriadoc standing the honor guard for King Théoden of Rohan.  There was a lovely young woman in a market stall, selling glass beads, and an elderly man reading a book.  There was the face of a man lying asleep in a familiar bed--he realized this man was lying in the Houses of Healing, and that his face, although now calm, showed signs of grief not yet forgotten.  Could this be the raving man the Lady Ioreth had told him of?  And there was one of an Elven Lord in rich robes speaking intimately with the Lady Arwen, and he realized he was seeing a portrait of Lord Elrond of Imladris.  Then there was a joint portrait of another Elven pair, a man and a woman, both wondrously beautiful and grave, their hair fair rather than dark, their clothing graceful and regal, elaborately woven circlets on their brows.

            The writing was of several kinds, some in Tengwar script, others in Westron lettering, but not always in Westron.  There were lists, brief notes on discussions held, copies of poems as well as quotations from histories, and a few pages that described people Frodo had met.  Several of these appeared to be Frodo’s draft copies of evaluations he’d written for the King.  And there were notes such as “Ents similar to families of trees” or “orcs from Moria had protuberant eyes while those of the great Uruks tended to be squinted and Manlike” or “The fields of the Pelennor much denuded; many trenches in which obviously fires burned; ground torn up from tread of the Oliphaunts and cavalry charges.”

            One such page felt oddly thick, and he realized two pages were actually stuck together.  The bottom page, once he managed to free it, was written in a hastier hand, but clearly Frodo’s writing, and it appeared to be part of a description Frodo had written of bad nights spent facing nightmares.

            The dreams were bad last night.  Again and again I was in the tower of Cirith Ungol, the orc standing over me, his whip in hand, demanding to know why I was entering Mordor.  My left arm and shoulder felt cold and numb, as they did after I was stabbed with the Morgul blade; my right hand was in intense pain.  I felt dizzy and in shock.  I was certain Sam had been taken by the great spider, and that the Ring had been found and was on its way to its Master.  I kept begging him to finish it.  My back was burning as it did when I was beaten.  I could hear the cries I heard when they were fighting one another, although in my dream, as had been true when I was there, I thought Aragorn had followed us and tried to bring a troupe of soldiers to our rescue and that the orcs were slaughtering them.

            I was feverish, and finally Sam just crept onto the bed and pillowed my head in his lap, seeking to comfort me as he did in Mordor.  He held my hands, rubbed them.  He must have sat so through most of the night and a good part of the morning.  Gandalf returned to find things so, and he sent for Aragorn, who laid hands on me and sent me into a deep and dreamless sleep for a few hours.

            I hate it when I have such nights, when the others want to sit by me and lose their own sleep.

 *

            I saw the Balrog in my dreams last night, saw Gandalf facing him, saw the bridge break and Gandalf swept off to his death.  I felt myself being lifted up and carried away to safety.  Why should I be safe when Gandalf had been killed?  Why should they care for me when one so much more worthy was lost?  I hated them all for caring for me and letting Gandalf die.  I hated myself that Gandalf died to save me from such a thing!  Why didn’t I die then?

            Then Gandalf came, touched my brow, woke me, showed he had been sent back, assured me the fall had not been my fault, finally held me to his breast.  Sam stood by, his face white with worry.  Pippin brought me tea; I could not keep it down.

 *

            Pippin woke us all calling out the name of Faramir, crying, “He will burn him if we cannot find him!”  He calmed as I held his hand.

 *

            Sam woke looking more exhausted than when he’d gone to sleep--said he spent the entire night running up stair after stair after stair seeking me, never reaching the top, hearing my cries of pain, unable to find or save me.

            I am unworthy of such devotion.

 *

            My shoulder aches; am trying to spare Sam, as he had another bad night last night.

 *

            Merry is trying to convince us there’s nothing wrong, but I know....

            There the writing stopped at the end of the page.  Had he written more and burned the rest of the pages?  Ruvemir rather suspected that was true.

            Then Sam appeared in the doorway and looked in, started to speak but went silent as he saw the focus of the artist’s attention.  He came in.  His face paled, and he looked at the pile of folders and the paper Ruvemir was reading.  He took it up and read it through, then sighed. 
            “Always was certain we suffered more than him, which was plain foolish.  He had the worst time of all, plain and simple.  Where’d you find this?”

            Ruvemir indicated the clothes press, and Sam nodded, looking at it with an evaluative stare.  “Never got up enough courage to open it after he left, then plain forgot about it, I did.  Suspect there’s not much of this sort in it.”

            “No.  Only reason this one was there was because something was apparently stuck to it, causing it to cling to the page placed on top of it.  He must have thought this was a single sheet.”

            Sam nodded.  “He was doing some notes for his book he was to write for Mr. Bilbo, not that he needed such, really.  Probably most of it is poetry about Gil-galad and Elendil fighting Sauron afore, notes about the city and Ents and such, I suspect; and perhaps stuff about folks as we met he might want to put into the tale.” 

            “Yes, that’s about it.”  After a moment of silence, Ruvemir added, “I’m sorry that I let my curiosity get away from me.

            “Oh, I suspected you’d want to look at his things, get a feel for him.  I expected you’d need to make the statue of him truly him, if you take my meaning.  I’m not offended.  It’s why I put you in this room.”

            “Thank you for your understanding.”

            “To do what you do, it indicates you’re interested in what makes other folks what they are; got to be curious, or it wouldn’t work.  Anyway, wanted to let you know your bath is ready.  When you’re done with these, will you take them to the study and put them on the desk for me?”  And when the artist nodded, he said, “Thanks, then,” smiled sadly, and went off toward the kitchen.

Releasing Grief

            Ruvemir watched after Sam Gamgee with embarrassment and compassion.  He’d managed to bring more grief to the gardener’s heart, and certainly he’d never wanted to do that.  Consciously Sam may have expected his guest to examine his Master’s room, his master’s possessions; but still the revelation his guest had not only searched the room but had managed to find personal papers and work left by Frodo must feel like an intrusion of the most intimate kind.  He wondered how he could manage to apologize properly.  He retrieved his own night robe and slippers, started out into the passageway, and heard a call from the doorway to the bedroom just beyond his own.  He turned that way and saw that Mistress Rose stood there, holding her son Frodo-Lad in her arms.

            “Please, Master Ruvemir, won’t you come speak with me for a moment?” she asked, and she led him into the master bedroom of the smial. 

            She indicated the chair by a small desk by the window, and she sat down in the padded wooden rocking chair that stood by the fireplace, where a small fire blazed cheerfully.  “I saw you looking through the room as I passed this way, and I wondered if you would find anything,” she said.  “Apparently you did.”  He nodded.  “What he told you about his knowin’ that you’d go through his Master’s things was true--he discussed this with me last night, in fact.  But I see by your expression you realize that in his heart he would still feel it a betrayal of sorts.”

            “Yes, Lady Rose, I do recognize that, and I am heartily sorry to have brought that pain to him.”

            She smiled gently.  “At least you’re sensitive enough to realize that.  Please, don’t be too hard on yourself, Master Ruvemir. 

            “There are few as my Sam truly loves with all his heart, and the ones he loves most are me, the bairns, his sisters and brothers, his dad, and his Master--and now the King as well.  From the time old Mr. Bilbo brought Mr. Frodo here as his ward, Sam has loved him, and I’ll admit I’ve been terrible jealous of him from time to time.

            “You see, I’ve loved and wanted Sam for my own from as when I was a tiny lass and was first able to see the shinin’ of his soul.  And his soul does shine--always has.  And then I realized that when he was with his Master, his soul shone more, was brighter.   Do you understand what I mean?”

            Ruvemir looked at her for a moment, thinking.  “Ferdibrand Took commented he saw a white Light at the core of the Lord Frodo’s being,” he said.  “He says that he believes he saw it there still after he was blinded, and that he still sees it somehow when he concentrates and looks toward the West.  And when he was telling the children of Brandy Hall the story of the ride to the Havens, Master Samwise said he saw the Lights of their Being surrounding Lord Frodo and his kinsman Bilbo as the Elves do.”

            She nodded.  “Yes.  I was fifteen, I think, the first time I realized there was a shinin’ to Mr. Frodo as well.  Sam’s has always been a golden glow, but Mr. Frodo’s always been pure and white.”  She looked past him, out the window for a moment.  “I’ve long been able to see the lights about folks, but with most folk I have to look of a purpose to see them.  But I’ve never had to look to see the one about Sam; and I never looked of a purpose at Mr. Frodo--just saw it one day, and once I seen it, I was always aware after.

            “Once Old Mr. Bilbo left that Ring of his to Mr. Frodo, I could see as there was somethin’ there with him, somethin’ rubbing at his Light.  But it was almost like whatever it was a-rubbing at him, instead of wearin’ it away, was just shining it up all the brighter, if you take my meaning.”  She looked back at him, her expression begging understanding.

            Ruvemir looked at her closely.  He saw the earnest nature of her gaze, the protective hold she had on her son as the tiny child sat in her lap, also examining him.  Finally he dropped his own gaze.  “My own Ririon described the Lord Frodo as shining like a flame through a lamp of alabaster,” he said.  “I don’t perceive a light as such in your husband, but I do feel a special warmth to him which, perhaps, is my own awareness of the quality you see in terms of light.”

            “Your Ririon saw Frodo?”

            “Yes, in the capital when the four of them dwelt there before they returned here to the Shire.  And others have spoken of the special nature of Lord Frodo, of how they were drawn to him.”

            “Drawn to his Light.”

            “Yes, apparently.”

            She nodded.  After a few more moments of quiet she said, “Sam often saw the Light within his Master as well, and that it was more apparent the closer as he came to dying.”  Then, after another pause she added, “And he sees the same Light in the Lord Strider.”

            Ruvemir closed his eyes and nodded his agreement.  “Yes, I’ve seen it, too, the Light in the King.”  He opened his eyes and saw she was smiling.

            “Then you go and tell him, Master Ruvemir.  You go and tell him as how you see the Light of the King.  It will ease the grief.”  And she bowed her head in dismissal, the ruler of this small realm of Bag End.  He smiled, rose, bowed deeply to her, and left the room, went back to the one he’d been allowed to inhabit while he was there, and retrieved the bundle of papers from the bed--then, after a moment’s thought went to the clothes chest and reached down the back side to find the envelope given him by Sir Meriadoc.

 *******

            He found Master Samwise sitting in the study, neither writing nor reading the book that lay open on the slanted face of the desk before him, but looking across it out of the window at the swirling snow outside made visible by the firelight in the grate.  “Master Samwise,” Ruvemir said, softly.

            Sam straightened, turned to look at him a bit defensively, although his voice was steady enough.  “Yes, Master Ruvemir, can I help you?”

            Ruvemir noted that the tiny grey ship with the swan prow Samwise had pulled from his cracker at Pippin’s party lay on the mantel, then he looked back to the gardener’s quiet, sad face.

            “I brought you these,” he said, holding out the cloth-wrapped bundle and the envelope.  “I haven’t looked at all of them.  Those in the envelope are the pictures Lord Frodo left in the rooms his parents stayed in when they visited Brandy Hall.  I haven’t looked at all of them, either.”

            Curiosity lightened the sadness on the Hobbit’s face as he reached out to take them.  Then he noticed the robe his guest carried, and commented, “You haven’t had your bathe yet?”

            “No, not yet.  The Lady Rose asked to speak with me first.  She was trying to explain, I think, just how much you love your Master, although I don’t think anyone has to ever explain that to me.  I have heard of it from everyone who ever saw you together, and it is apparent from the way your face and voice soften every time you speak his name.  And from what I have learned of him, he deserves every bit of devotion he receives from you and the King and the rest who have come to know and love him.”

            Sam nodded, and sighed.  Finally he said, “It’s just--I miss him tonight.  I truly miss him.”  He looked at the envelope.  “Mr. Merry give those to you to look at?”

            “Yes.”

            “Then you should keep ‘em.  They’re nothing to do with me, you know.”

            “I’ll need to return them to Merry, but you have the right to look at them before I do.”

            Sam looked up at him.  “Then, shall we look at them together?”

            They sat together on the sofa, and there began to look at the pictures together, first in the envelope, then in the packet.  As they looked, if Sam knew the story of the picture he’d tell it; and as he did his mood lightened.  And as they went through the writings, now and then Sam would find one he’d comment on as well.

            When they got to the picture of the young mother and her infant Sam stopped and looked at it for quite some time.  “She lived in the house next to the one in which we lived in Minas Tirith.  We’d hear her sing to the babe and the older children.  It’s where Mr. Frodo learned the lullaby he used to sing to Elanor.  Her husband is a healer, a fair-spoken man, well loved by his patients.  Named Eldamir.  Lived with her parents, who both served the citadel.  Babe was a boychild.  Was born just after Strider was crowned.  Strider attended the birth--they almost lost both mother and bairn, but Strider called 'em back.”  Then, after a time he added, “She has a fair voice.”  And he smiled.

            “The King’s skill with healing is remarkable.”

            Sam made a noise.  “Not so remarkable,” he replied.  “It’s the Elvish in him, I think.  Also he grew up as if he were son to the Lord Elrond, and he were the greatest healer in all of Middle Earth.  He made sure the healing hands of the King were well trained to use their gift.”  He put the picture back in its packet.  “Don’t know if Mr. Frodo’d have made it to Rivendell if it hadn’t been for his healing hands, although he wasn’t strong enough to counter the Morgul wound completely.  But Elrond had him right aside him when he finally searched the wound the last time and got the splinter out.  Both said as the splinter were so close to the heart Frodo’d have succumbed to it within hours.  He bore it for seventeen days as it was.  And the wound never really healed--not while he lingered here.

            “Once he got the green stone, the Elfstone as he wears now, his healing gift was stronger.  It strengthens his gift.  And the Light of him became stronger as well.”

            “Where did he receive it?”

            Sam looked at the fair Elvish pair pictured in the next drawing, and smiled.  “From her--the Lady Galadriel.  It’s the Elessar stone, and Galadriel gave that stone to her daughter Celebrían, and the Lady Celebrían gave it to her daughter the Lady Arwen.  And the Lady Arwen left it with her grandmum to be given to her love if he come that way, which we did.  So it and a new sheath for his sword the Lady Galadriel give him when we left Lothlorien.”

            “How long ago was that?”

            “Almost five years past, now.  A thing of beauty, that sheath.  The old one was worn but also a thing of beauty.  But Anduril deserves the new sheath, now it’s reforged.  But even when it was still Narsil and still broken, the Sword that was Broken was still filled with power, and his Light would flare as he held it.”

            Ruvemir found himself nodding.  “I first saw the sheath in Casistir as Strider sat, looking at the figure of the girl I was working on.  His clothes were so old, and his cloak stained from years of use.  But his boots were fairly recent, not the wear of someone who’s poor; and the sheath was almost new, and set with silver wire and fair gems.”

            Sam shook his head.  “Not silver--mithril.”  He smiled in memory.  “At least you could tell as the boots and all was new--we hadn’t a clue when we met him in Bree.  Oh, maybe Frodo did, but not the rest of us.”

            “I bet their Lights shone together then, the first time they met.”

            Sam gave him a searching look, and then his face softened with a true smile.  “Yes, I think they did, but I’d not got used to others as having the same Light as my Master.  Gave me a right turn, I’ll tell you.”  He looked back at the picture of the Elves.  He was quiet for a time before he spoke again.  “The Lady Galadriel was the eldest of Elves in Middle Earth, I think.  Was born in Aman itself, but come here to find her own land, prove her power.  He offered the Ring to her, Mr. Frodo did, but she wouldn’t have it--knew what it would do to her--through her.  Then she could go home again, for she passed the test.  Better diminished than become another like Morgoth and Sauron.”  He looked at her image with an expression of mixed pride and loss.  “She was aside him on the deck of the ship as took him and old Mr. Bilbo to Elvenhome.”  He bowed his head with respect to the picture before he placed it, too, back in the packet.  “Don’t know when the Lord Celeborn will join her.  He remained here in Middle Earth.  At least there’s some as was in Lothlorien still lingering here, for a time.”

            Decidedly Samwise Gamgee stood up, his stance straight and proud for those he’d been granted the grace to know.  “Funny as how now the Third Age, as seen our births, is now become part of the Eldar Days.  Now, let’s go get you your bath, shall we?”

            But later, after Ruvemir had checked to see his sister slept soundly and peacefully and he’d told Ririon to put away the work he was doing and get some sleep and he’d gone to his own bed, there was a knock at the door, and Sam stood there, a great volume in his hands.  “You’ll want to read this.  Just don’t try to swallow it all in one sitting, or we’ll not pry you out to eat for days.”  And he placed the book with red covers stamped with an eight-pointed star in silver foil on the bed beside the mannikin’s form.  “Take care of it, understand?”

Memories of Honor

            “You mean you’ve been at it all night?” asked Samwise Gamgee from the doorway.  “Really, Master Ruvemir--you spent how long in the Houses of Healing with the lung sickness, and then just got over a cold at the Great Smial.  You need to give yourself rest!”

            Ruvemir looked up in surprise to see his host standing in the doorway to the room granted to his use, then looked the opposite direction to see the light of day slanting in through the window.  He was sleepy, but it was impossible to believe he’d been awake all night reading.  He checked to see how far he’d made it through the Red Book, and found he was about a fifth of the way through the huge tome. 

            He looked up at Master Samwise and saw that although he was truly concerned, he was also amused and even gratified to see how his outlands guest had spent his first night in Bag End.  “I had no idea,” Ruvemir commented, placing the ribbon bound into the volume between pages to mark his place.  “But I must say that if those who wrote the histories of Gondor had written so of Castamir and Telemnar, I’d certainly remember more of those kings than just their names.”

            “How far along are you?”

            “I’ve read all of your Mr. Bilbo’s adventures, and have reached the description of the party.”

            “Fast reader,” Sam commented, admiringly.  “Anyway, I come to tell you first breakfast will be ready in a few moments, but first you might check on Master Ririon.  I think as he also might of caught that cold that’s making its way about the Great Smial.”

            Ruvemir nodded his thanks and hurried down the hallway to Ririon’s room.  Yes, the boy definitely was congested and feeling ill, and felt as if he had a low fever.  The sculptor then made his way to the kitchen, where Sam quickly put together a tray for Ririon with toast and jam, poached eggs, and apple juice.  “I’ll bring down some mint to steep over the fireplace for him,” Sam said.  “That and some bark and leaves as Strider sent me from Gondor should help him.  And if he gets any worse, we can always steep kingsfoil for him, although I’d rather save the leaves as I have for real emergencies, it being winter and all.”  Ruvemir thanked him and took the tray back to his ward.

            As he watched the boy eat, he commented, “So this is why you didn’t fight the bath last night.”

            Ririon shrugged.  “Guess so.”

            At that moment Miriel came in, a loose robe clasped about her night robe.  “Master Samwise said that you weren’t feeling well, dearling.  But it appears you are eating, so it can’t be too bad.”

            Ririon smiled as she approached, laid her hand on his brow, and then leaned down to kiss his temple.  “Well,” she said as she sat by him carefully so as to not upset the tray, “you don’t appear to be anywhere as ill as you might be.  But today you will stay quiet and sleep as much as you can.”

            “Do I have to, Miriel?” the boy asked.

            “Yes, you have to, although we may allow you to come out to the parlor later, if it is acceptable with Lord Samwise and Mistress Rose.”

            With that Ririon had to be content.  At that moment Sam came to tell Ruvemir and Miriel that their breakfast was ready in the kitchen.  With another kiss from Miriel and a pat on his shoulder from Ruvemir, the boy was left to finish his breakfast alone.

            After eating, Ruvemir and Folco followed Samwise out the front door to evaluate the situation.  It was still snowing, but lightly now.  The snow on the ground reached halfway to Ruvemir’s knees, and was piled against the hedges, wall, and gate.  Sam sighed.  “Got to get out the shovels,” he said, “or everyone will be forced to stay home until it is melted.  But I also need to split some wood.  Ought to of done it yesterday, but had to meet with the Mayor about the blight on the root vegetables in the Northfarthing soon as I got home.”

            “I can split the wood,” Ruvemir offered.

            “And I’ll help with the shoveling and sanding,” Folco added.

            Sam gave Ruvemir an evaluative glance.  “You sure you’re up to splitting the wood?”

            The sculptor smiled.  “Remember, I’m the son of a woodcarver.  I know how to split wood with a minimum of effort.”

            Sam shrugged, then led the way back through the smial to the back door, where he pointed out a tool shed and the covered storage area for firewood.  “It’s all there,” he said.  “There’s a log to split the wood on, a couple of wedges, several different mauls, whatever you need in the shed there.  Would you like the loan of a heavy jacket?  Your cloak will be in the way, I fear.”

            A short time later, wearing the jacket supplied by Samwise and his warmest socks under his boots, Ruvemir was going through the shed, choosing a wedge and maul, checking the heft of each alternative until he found one whose balance felt right in his hand.  He then went to the woodpile and looked over the situation.  He began choosing logs from the woodpile and setting them on the block, setting the wedge, and then striking it.  The wood fell quickly into sizes appropriate for the hearths of the smial.  By the time Folco and Samwise came to replace their shovels, there was a neatly stacked pile of split wood sufficient for several days, and Ruvemir was examining several lengths and logs carefully.

            “You don’t need to do any more,” Sam said, obviously impressed by the amount of work Ruvemir had accomplished.

            The sculptor gave a small shake of his head.  “I hope you don’t mind, but this has excellent grain.  I was looking to find a few good lengths fit for Ririon’s use.”

            Sam’s eyebrows rose, and he smiled.  “Take what you want, and be welcome,” he said.  “We still have more wood than we need from the trees felled by Sharkey’s folk.  They cut down trees and just left them lie to rot.  We were able to save a lot.  Woodworkers have been overwhelmed with material, and no hole wants for firewood.  But many still lie where they was cut, for too many were hacked down for no purpose save for wanton destruction.”

            After choosing about seven good lengths, Ruvemir took them back into the smial to Ririon’s room and quietly stacked them by the wall, noting that, in spite of his earlier protests, the boy was now asleep.  A kettle hung over the hearth, and its steam was scented with mint and eucalyptus.  Ruvemir smiled, then went back to his own room, hung the borrowed jacket over the chair near the fireplace to dry, stirred the coals and added a couple logs, and after taking off his boots lay down on the bed and swiftly fell asleep himself.

            He woke not long after noon, finding a blanket had been gently placed over him while he slept.  He rose and stretched, put on his shoes, then retrieved the Red Book and wandered down to the kitchen.  Rosie was sitting on the settle peeling potatoes, and smiled up at him.

            “There’s a plate of luncheon for you there if you are hungry,” she said, indicating a covered dish that sat on the table.  He thanked her and set the book on a side table, washed his hands under the pump at the sink, offered the Standing Silence, sat down and removed the cloth that protected the food, and ate quickly.  Once he was done and had washed his dishes in the sink, Rosie sent him off to the study to join Sam and Folco.

            Samwise was seated on the small sofa while Folco sat backwards, straddling the seat of the desk chair, elbows leaning on its back.  Sam looked up and smiled.  “Up, then?  Have a nice sleep finally?”

            “Not enough of one, I’m afraid,” Ruvemir responded.  “I certainly never thought I’d be awake all night reading.”

            Sam moved to the side on the sofa, making room for his guest, who sat with a decided grunt, still clasping the book to his chest.

            “Your sister’s gone down to Number Three to spend the day with my sisters May and Daisy, who are both seamstresses.  Daisy is the closest we have, here in the Shire, to a master broiderer--certainly she’s clever with a needle, Daisy is.  Both of them are spending the day with the Gaffer, and I thought as late this afternoon we could go down for a while so as you could meet him, too.  He can tell you some tales of when Mr. Frodo was a little one, in the times his family lived in Number Five and when they come to visit from Buckland and all, afore Missus Primula refused to come no more ‘cause of Lobelia’s nastiness.”

            “Thank you, Master Samwise.  That will be fine.”

            A noise from under the desk caught Ruvemir’s attention.  He realized that a blanket had been spread on the floor there, and on it lay Frodo-Lad on his side, happily mouthing a large silver circle.  Something about that circle caught his attention, and he leaned forward as best he could over the book on his lap to give it a closer look.  There was something familiar about it....  Just then feet could be heard scuffing down the hallway, and Ririon, wrapped in a blanket, peered into the room.  “Ruvemir, are you here?”  At his guardian’s assent, he continued, “May I go lie in the parlor for a time?  It’s deadly dull in my room alone with no one to speak to.” 

            Ruvemir rose, set the book where he’d been sitting, and approached the boy.  “Let me feel if you have any sign of a fever,” he said.  Resting the back of his hand against the boy’s forehead and then his throat, he finally said, “Well, you feel cool enough.  Do you have kerchiefs to blow your nose on so you don’t cough and sneeze on all and sundry?”

            “Yes, Mistress Rose brought me a goodly number this morning, and I brought three with me.”

            “Tell you what,” Sam said, “we’ll all move to the parlor so you won’t be alone there, neither.  Why don’t you head down that way and lie down on the settle where you was last night, and we’ll join you in a moment?”

            With muffled thanks, Ririon headed toward the front of the smial, dragging the tail of his blanket behind him.

            “He’s a very nice lad,” Folco commented as he rose and moved his chair out of the way so Samwise could crouch down to retrieve his son.

            “That he is,” Samwise agreed.  “Glad the cold isn’t a nasty one.  Looks like he’ll be mostly done with it by the morning.”

            Ruvemir nodded.  “That’s about how long it took me,” he said.  He stretched and heard a place in his shoulders pop. 

            Folco shot him a look of amusement.  “That happen every time you cut wood?” the Hobbit asked.

            “Often enough,” the sculptor said.

            “Still amazed,” Sam said, straightening with the blanketed infant in his arms, “how much wood you got split this morning.  At least twice as much as I’d have done in the same time, and I can swing a heavier maul than you can.”

            “As I said,” Ruvemir commented as he hefted the book again, “you have to remember my father’s a master wood carver.  He taught me early how to tell the way of the grain and how to tell where to set the wedge so as to split a log exactly where it will do the most efficient job.  I rarely need to use more than a single blow to split a single log.”

            “Useful, that,” Sam agreed as he led the way through the doorway and down the hall.

            Once in the parlor, Sam situated his son’s blanket near his chair but sufficiently out of the way so the child wouldn’t be trodden upon by accident, settled his guests, and said, “I’ll go get us something to drink and perhaps to fill up the corners,” and headed back toward the kitchen once more.

            “But I just ate,” the Man commented to himself.  He looked at his companion.  “You Hobbits are going to have me gloriously fat if I don’t watch it, I fear.  And that will interfere with my use of chisel and hammer!”

            “How often do you eat in a day’s time?” Folco asked.

            Ruvemir shrugged.  “Usually not more than three meals a day, often with a break for some fruit and ale or juice in the afternoon.  Certainly not as many full meals as Hobbits eat.”

            Ririon commented from his position on the settle where he lay, “It’s like birds, Ruvemir.  Smaller birds need to feed more often during the day than larger ones, and so they eat more for the size of their bodies than the larger ones do.  Or, that’s what I suppose.”

            The sculptor looked at his ward with interest.  “How do you know this?”

            “Evamir Cook loved birds and kept seed always in a box he had placed in the garden outside the kitchen windows where he could watch them.  He’d often tell me what he’d learned of them.  I think that was why I did so many carvings of them, for I loved to watch them, too.  There was a pool there, too, in which there were many golden fish such as the one I carved and gave to the King.  It was a good place in which to live, the Dragon’s Claw, with much of beauty.  Evamir’s snake was quite pretty, too.  It liked to coil about its master’s arm.  It did keep down the mice, though Master Fergion disliked it and wouldn’t enter the kitchen when it was loose on the floor.  It liked for me to stroke its back.”

            Folco looked at the boy with interest.  “I’d not really thought of that before, that smaller birds eat more for the size of their bodies than larger ones, but that is true.  Perhaps that is indeed why Hobbits eat more than Men do.”

            Ruvemir shrugged.

            “What is the book you have been carrying about?” asked Folco.

            The artist smiled.  “It is the volume in which Master Bilbo and the Lord Frodo wrote of their adventures.  Master Samwise gave it to me to read last night.  I’ve finished Master Bilbo’s part of the tale, and have begun on that part written by Lord Frodo.”

            Ririon sat up with interest.  “Is it really, Ruvemir?  Will you read some of it aloud so I can hear?”

            “Why not?  It will help you to pass the time.”  He opened the book to the place marked by the ribbon, and began to read the description of the party.  None of them paid that much attention to when Sam returned with a tray, followed by Rosie and a newly awakened Elanor; intent on the story being read by Ruvemir they accepted the drinks placed by them by their host, barely noticing what they did, and sipped as they listened.  Sam, familiar with the spell woven by his Master’s words, smiled, reached down and lifted his son in his arms, and held the child as he listened.  Elanor, cradling her doll, sat leaning against her father’s legs, listening intently, her own smile reflecting that on her father’s face.

            When the description of the party was at last done, Ruvemir moved the ribbon to where he’d left off and closed the covers reluctantly.  Ririon gave a sigh of satisfaction, then asked, “Was it truly thus?”

            Folco commented, “Yes, it was.  It was the most marvelous party I’ve ever attended.”

            “I just wanted to spare my Master as much pain as possible,” Sam said.  “I feared as some there would take offense and start to pester Mr. Frodo about what Mr. Bilbo’d done and said, and so I set Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin to standin’ between Frodo and those most likely to complain.  And I was right, too.  Luckily in the case of Missus Lobelia and Mr. Otho, Lobelia decided to leave and drug her menfolk off behind her.  But Thain Ferumbras was right upset, as were a few of the Bracegirdles and several Proudfoots.  I were glad when Mr. Frodo finally was able to slip away after I had them serve cakes and ale to those as were still in the pavilion.”

            “Did you know Master Bilbo’s plans, then?”

            “I didn’t know everything that went on here in Bag End, but that was the type of plans as I couldn’t help but find out about.  And because Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin had been staying here afore the party, he told them, too, just afore the day.  It fair broke Mr. Pippin’s heart, it did; and him just a lad of eleven.”

            “I still have difficulty appreciating how Hobbits age,” Ruvemir commented.  “I’m told Lord Frodo was so much older than the rest of you, and yet the descriptions I’m given are of someone quite a bit younger in appearance than either you, Master Samwise, or you, Master Folco.”

            Sam looked down at the floor, then back into his guest’s face.  “It were the Ring,” he finally said.  “It were a Ring of Power--the Ring of Power--and such gave their bearers longer lives.  Old Mr. Bilbo still looked to be in his fifties when he left here at eleventy-one; and Mr. Frodo didn’t start to look older till we was on the edge of Mordor, when the Ring started truly weighing him down.  But even then he didn’t look so much older as worn and worn out, as if he had been bearing heavy burdens, which, of course, was true.  You can’t believe just how heavy that thing became as we approached Mordor.  It were a torture for him to walk with It.  When I crossed into Mordor carrying It, I thought as I’d fall down from the weight. 

            “Anyways, Mr. Bilbo still looked to be well under a hundred when we saw him in Rivendell as we first got there, but looked about his real age when we saw him on our way back, which was just under a year after we’d been there afore.  Once the Ring was destroyed, the aging seemed to catch up with him.  He was definitely aged and frail as we rode to the Grey Havens, as I said at Brandy Hall.”

            “And Lord Frodo?  Did it work the same with him?  Did he look his age when he left?”

            Rosie chose to answer that question.  “He was looking worn and terrible pale, for his heart was failing him.  His hair had begun to get silver threads in it, there at his temples, mostly.  But instead of losing his beauty, it sharpened it.  For he was a Hobbit as was beautiful to look at, all the time as I knew him.”

            “Why did he seem to have his strongest friendships with those of you who were so much younger?”

            Folco sniffed and rubbed the side of his nose thoughtfully.  “Well, Merry was almost like a little brother for him; and once Pippin was born, you couldn’t have Merry alone--Pippin was the little brother for Merry as Merry was for Frodo--actually, after he came here it was Merry and Samwise both who were as little brothers to Frodo.  Because we were almost the same age as Master Samwise here, Fredegar and I were both just accepted into his friendship as well.  But while he was at Brandy Hall Frodo was actively discouraged from becoming close to the lads his own age.  He later became friends with some of his older cousins, such as Ferdibrand Took and Merimac Brandybuck; but such friendships never became anywhere near as strong as those who were as little brothers to him.”

            “He were there when Mr. Merry was born--or rather, just in the next room.  He was one of the first to see Merry after he was born, in fact,” Sam commented.  “And as Mr. Saradoc and Missus Esmeralda were like as parents to him, it made even more sense he’d see Merry as if he were truly his brother, if you take my meaning.”

            “I see,” Ruvemir said.  “It helps explain things.”  He stretched.  “You know, I think I’m ready to take another nap.  And don’t think I’ll starve if I don’t join you for tea--although I’m certain Ririon here will be glad to accept my share.  He’s growing rapidly right now, and he is eating a good deal more as a result.”

            “Our teens do that as well--eating extra, that is,” Folco commented.

            “Ah, a common trait between the two races,” the artist smiled.  “Well, I’m off to my room for my second nap.”  And taking the Red Book with him, he left the room.

            When he awoke again it was dark.  He rose and stretched, and shortly went in search of his fellow residents.

            Ririon was asleep in his room.  Samwise he found once again in the study, half lying down on the sofa, asleep with a book in his lap.  Folco and Miriel he found sitting in the parlor, talking as she worked on the embroidery of the White Tree on the front of the surcoat.  He quickly noted she appeared to be almost finished.  They looked up as he entered, and he smiled as he entered the parlor.

            “Up all night and then two naps!”  Miriel said.  “The Lord Frodo’s book is that interesting, Brother?”

            “Oh, yes, and then so, Sister,” he said, giving her a small kiss on her cheek.  “That is lovely, Miriel.  And it will look so fine when Strider wears it.”

            Folco laughed.  “Sam is rubbing off on you, I see,” he commented.

            “Well, it is how he introduced himself to me as well as to the Travelers,” Ruvemir said, stretching again.  “Sam is drowsing in the study, I noted, and Ririon is back in bed.  Mistress Rose?”

            “Also taking a nap.  Elanor appears to have an earache, and went with her mother.  Seems everyone is drowsy today save the  two of us,” Miriel commented, taking her final stitches.  “There!  Now all that is left is the border.”  She examined each side carefully, thread scissors at the ready. 

            “How was your visit with Sam’s sisters?”

            “Very nice.  Both May and Daisy are quite talented with a needle, and they tell me that Marigold, the youngest sister, is also very skillful, although she prefers doing lacework.  Daisy taught me a new stitch today that I plan to use on the Queen’s gift, and I taught her two in return.  And I’m having Daisy’s husband cut out the panels for the Queen’s gown.  He is a skillful tailor.  I am most impressed.”

            “He must be good if my sister will trust him with part of one of her projects.” 

            She smiled at him as she shifted the embroidery frame to the lower hem of the garment.

            Ruvemir stretched and commented, “As odd as it may seem coming from a mannikin living temporarily amidst Hobbits, but I am starving.”

            Folco looked up at him.  “What do you say to us fixing supper tonight, then?”

            “It wouldn’t bother our hosts if we did?”

            Folco smiled.  “You are, as you said, living amidst Hobbits.  We don’t mind who fixes food in our holes as long as we get to sample it, at least.”

            And the three headed off to the kitchen. 

            Folco showed them the cold room, the larders and pantries, and within a few minutes they had decided on what they would cook for the meal.  Miriel found some beefsteak, which she decided to make into a Gondorian dish, and Folco decided he would make up a gravy with mushrooms to put over potatoes.  Ruvemir helped peel the potatoes and stirred things when directed, then set the table, once Folco showed him where everything was kept.

            Sam entered the kitchen yawning, then stopped at the sight of his guests busy about preparing a meal, and sniffed.  “Are you cooking the beef sliced thin with green onions and carrots?” he asked.  “Haven’t had that since we was in Minas Tirith, and I did find I enjoyed it.”

            “Good,” said Miriel.  “Hope your lady will appreciate it as well.”

            “I’m just sorry the green onions are not fresh but pickled,” Sam said.

            “We’re making do,” Miriel smiled. 

            Ririon appeared next, wrapped in his blanket, and was soon sitting at the table with a glass of juice and directions to use a kerchief if he felt a sneeze coming on, while Sam prepared a winter salad of fruit from the cold room.

            “Your cold room is a marvel,” Ruvemir commented.  “The use of the underground spring to keep the food cool is a masterstroke.” 

            “You can thank Mr. Bungo, I think, although it might of been Mr. Bilbo as added that.  I’ll tell you all the folks on the Row have been grateful for it during hot weather, as it keeps good meat from spoiling sooner rather than later.”

            “How thoughtful of you to share it with your neighbors.”

            “No, Mr. Bilbo always let us down in the Row to use it, so that’s not my idea, either.  That spring isn’t much good for drinking--too much chalk around it.  The water from the well out in the garden is sweet, though.”

            Soon after Rosie came out carrying Frodo-Lad and a toy horse, followed by Elanor, who had a scarf tied around her head and over her ears.  Sam paused in his work to look down on her.  “Feeling better, Elanorellë?” he asked. 

            “Yes, Sam-Dad.  Much better,” she answered, lifting her face to be kissed.  He gave her a gentle one, then held the bowl down for her to see. 

            “Anything else you can think of as ought to go in here, Lass?”

            She looked at it appraisingly.  “Grapes?” she asked at last.

            “Sorry, dearling, but there ain’t any left.”

            “Too bad,” she said.

            The meal was a pleasant one, and Ruvemir found himself describing a commission he’d received to do a statue of the Master of a town in Belfalas who had insisted he wanted to be portrayed just as he was, except for....  Soon, all were laughing at the vain old body’s imaginings of what he ought to look like.  Then Sam was telling of trying to teach Mistress Loren how to make steak-and-kidney pie, and how she’d wanted to substitute everything else for the ingredients until it was something else completely.  When Miriel described a dress she’d done for a client who insisted she was actually several measures less around than she was, and her struggle to be tactful and honest at the same time, they were all feeling very gay indeed.

            Mistress Rosie brought in the cake she’d baked for tea, but which barely anyone had touched as yet, and all agreed it was a marvelous dinner after all.

            After the meal Sam took Ruvemir and Folco down to see the Gaffer.

            “The Gaffer is your father, isn’t he?” Ruvemir asked, to which Sam nodded.  “And gaffer means grandfather, right?” 

            “Yes.”

            “Did one of your older brothers have children early, then?”

            “No, no early grandchildren.  I think they started calling him the Gaffer when he was young ’cause he was always giving advice as if he was one already.  A big one for givin’ advice, and sounding like he knows all about it, he is.  And it usually starts, ‘Now, don’t you be a ninnyhammer’.”

            “Sounds like a marvelous gentleman,” Ruvemir commented, smiling.  Sam just smiled back.

            “So, you’re a-tryin’ to find out what Mr. Frodo was like, are you?” the elderly Hobbit asked, after introductions had been made and he was back in his comfortable chair before the fire with a knit rug over his lap.

            “I’m enjoying learning about him, but hadn’t heard much of the years he lived here in Hobbiton on the Row and visited with Master Bilbo,” Ruvemir explained, wondering how he was to enjoy the marvelous-smelling apple crumble he’d been served, as full as he was still from his supper.

            “He were a bright little lad, I’ll say that fer 'im,” the Gaffer said, thinking back.  “He were still but a bairn when his mum talked his dad into moving them to Buckland.  Foolish thing 'twere to do, moving by the River as they done--understand their hole got flooded out more’n oncet.  Right ninnyhammers for doin’ that, they was.  But they’d come round at least oncet or twicet a year for to see Mr. Bilbo, and he was over there often for to see ’em back and to see his lad.  Loved that bairn, he did.  Would talk about ‘Little Frodo done this’ an’ ‘Little Frodo done that’ for hours, he would.  Bagginses’ve always been besotted with bairns, I think.  The little thing’d come out into the garden and watch me, fascinated like, and askin’ the oddest questions.  Did I know as why the sky was blue? and Why does some flowers close up at night and keep turning to the sun durin’ the daylight?  How’d they know as where the sun was?  Do some flowers have somethin’ akin to eyes?  Questions of that sort--he were full of 'em.  But he treated the plants with respect, he did, and didn’t go about just pickin’ flowers just ‘cause as many little uns’ll do.  Didn’t like it when I’d pull up a weed as has flowers, he didn’t--wanted me to plant 'em somewheres else.”  He shook his head.  “Oh, he were a decided little thing.  And even as a little un he’d give folks the Look as when he were angered, he would.  Not but that his Uncle Bilbo couldn’t give it back, a’course.  Mr. Bilbo definitely could give the Look with the best, he could.”

            “Was he of an age with any of your own children?”

            “Twas much of an age with Hal, he were.”

            “Did they play together?”

            “Play together--my Hal and Mr. Frodo?  I should say not!  'Twouldn’t of been proper, my son and 'im.”

            “Oh, did his parents think it improper?”

            “Doubt they ever give the idea much thought.”

            “Did Mr. Bilbo discourage it?”

            “Mr. Bilbo?  Not him.  He’d not of discouraged such a thing.”

            “Then who saw it as improper?”

            The old Hobbit blinked his eyes, and finally answered, “Why me, a’course.  I was Mr. Bilbo’s employee.  'Twouldn’t of done fer my son to of played with his guest’s son.”

            “If they’d remained here would you have expected them to have played together?”

            “I’d of not liked it none, but I spect they’d of done so in spite a’me.”

            Much of the logic of his host’s position escaped Ruvemir, and he looked helplessly at Sam for clarification.  Hal, who sat nearby, caught the look.

            “Well, Dad,” Hal commented, “you’d of been right as of me and Mr. Frodo undoubtedly would of played together anyway, had they stayed on the Row--Ham, too, for that matter.  It’s the way it’s always been on the Row, after all, all the childern playin’ together, great and small. 'Twouldn’t of mattered none to us whether we were Bagginses or Rumbles or Gamgees.  And I doubt as if Mr. Drogo would of cared none whether or not we played together, although I’m not so certain of Missus Primula.  It’s always been you who’s been the one who’s been class conscious, you know, worriet as to whether we was gettin’ above ourselves or not.  Mr. Bilbo’d never of cared in this life who was great nor small--he certainly played with Uncle Holman’s boys when they was lads.  That none of  'em lived to grow up was a sadness to Mr. Bilbo.  He told us enough tales on what they did together as lads, after all.  And what time Mr. Frodo spent here as a lad, we did play together, anyway.  He didn’t care no more’n his uncle if we were the gardener’s lads.  To him we was just lads.”

            The Gaffer’s daughter May shook her head.  “Look as how Mr. Frodo asked us to his birthday parties, Dad.  Didn’t matter to him who was rich nor poor.  He figgered he was earning his keep right enough, helping his uncle, teaching folks how to read, givin’ us his books and all, helpin’ those as needed a helpin’ hand.  To him we was just lads and lasses, same as him, but without his advantages.  Was full willin’ to share what he had, always.  And as we was the lads and lasses of the Row, we was asked to his parties, always, as long as we was here.”

            Their father sniffed and shrugged.  “Like I said, the childern’ve not of paid no mind as to what I wanted.”

            Ruvemir nodded.  “So I see,” he said.

            The old Hobbit shook his head.  “And my Master, he just stood there and was glad, as long as his lad was glad.  All he seemed to care about, whether or not his lad was glad, you know.”

            “What kind of tales was Mistress Lobelia telling that caused Mistress Primula to decide she wouldn’t return to Hobbiton to visit any more?”

            “Oh, that.  Was sayin’ as the wee lad wasn’t the son of Mr. Drogo, don’t you know--was sayin’ as he was Mr. Bilbo’s child in truth.  The idea she’d play false to her beloved husband, even if he were older’n she, drove the poor lass mad with fury.”

            Ruvemir was shocked.  “I see!  No matter she wished to avoid Mistress Lobelia’s gossip!”

            The Gaffer sniffed.  “As if Mr. Bilbo’d ever done anythin’ a’ the sort, oncet he come back from his adventure.  He never seemed to notice no lasses nor ladies no more, it seemed.  And although he cared deeply for Missus Primula, it were Mr. Drogo who was mostly ’is friend.  They was cousins, after all.  And 'twere due to 'im bein’ his cousin’s son Mr. Bilbo wished to care for Mr. Frodo.  Told me plenty of times it were a shame as a Baggins and 'is own cousin’s son had to grow up on t’other side of the Brandywine when he had a proper place within the Shire isself.”

            Folco snorted.  “The idea that Primula would have ever been false to Drogo is grossly offensive.  Mum was certain they were desperately in love the whole time they were married.  It was so hard on them, losing the first two children--when the third one lived, and then they lost two more once they were back in Buckland, it broke their hearts.  They’d wished to have many children, and they only managed to see Frodo survive.”

            “Did Mr. Bilbo ever have a lady love, Master Gamgee?” Ruvemir asked.

            “Oncet, a long time ago, afore he left on his adventure he did.  Lass from the Eastfarthing, I think.  But she died as a result of an accident.  He’d not recovered when that old Wizard Gandalf come rappin’ on the door with that staff of  'is and marrin’ up the paint.”

            Ruvemir looked down at his plate and realized he had somehow managed to eat his apple crumble after all.  The Gaffer noted his glance, and smiled in satisfaction.  “So, you like the apple crumble, eh?  Am so glad.  May, do get Mr. Ruvemir a secont helpin’.”

            Sam noted the look of distress, and interceded.  “We need to get back to the hole, Dad.  How about if you have May put several servings on a dish and in a basket, and we’ll eat them later after we’re back in Bag End?”

            “Will do, Son.  And give my daughter and grandchildern their gaffer’s love, you hear?”

            Sam smiled and leaned down to hug his father and plant a kiss on the dry old cheek.  “You know I will, Dad.”

            As they were headed back up the lane, Ruvemir thanked Sam for helping in the matter of the crumble, and the gardener laughed.  “You Big Folk don’t eat as much as we do, after all.  Saw your look and felt you’d appreciate havin’ it much later rather than now.  You managed to eat what you was given, but I could see as it were politeness rather than hunger.”

            Folco said, darkly, “So the Ring appears to have interfered with Uncle Bilbo’s ability to love, too.”

            Sam nodded his head, his own expression grim.  “So it appears.  I know I never saw him look at a lady nor lass that way, never in my life.  Nor at a lad nor gentlehobbit, neither.  No, if’n he ever had a love affair, it were long afore It come into his life.”

            As they approached the green door of Bag End, Ruvemir said quietly, “I know Mistress Pimpernel and Mistress Pearl both still regret not having married Lord Frodo, in spite of their happiness with the marriages they made.  One’s first love is always remembered.”

            “You ever have a first love, Master Ruvemir?” asked Sam as they went in and hung up their cloaks.

            “Oh, when I was young I fell in love with the girl down the lane.  She was so beautiful, so tall and slender.  All I ever wanted in a woman, I thought.  She’d actually speak to me, too, so I thought she was different from the other girls in our area who avoided me.  Then I saw her with the youth she eventually married, how free and easy she was with him, and how she barely nodded my way when she was with him.  And I then learned that she used his connections and wealth to find other liaisons.”

            “No better than she should be, then?”

            “Unfortunately, true.  She was willing to talk to me, I realized, only because my father was prominent in our area and because of the honor given his artistry and my own.  She had no more care for me than she did for her lapdog--probably less, in fact.  She turned out to be quite shallow.”

            “Your Elise sounds as if she were a much better catch.”

            Ruvemir smiled broadly.  “Between the shallow lady and the caring chambermaid, I’ll take the chambermaid.”

 *******

            Together all sat in the parlor and listened as Sam read the next chapter out of the Red Book, Miriel holding little Frodo, who was mouthing his large silver circle.  Ruvemir kept finding himself looking at it, for something about it seemed familiar.  After the story was done the child dropped it, and Ruvemir reached down to pick it up for him, but gave it a thorough examination before he returned it.  It was light and with no tarnish, and engraved with Tengwar characters and seven stars, the central one set with a stone of adamant in an ornamental boss.  Suddenly he looked up at Sam, his eyes wide with shock.

            “You are allowing your son to teeth on this?” he asked.

            “Won’t hurt him none--I checked with Gimli and asked when it were Elanor who was gummin’ on it.  That’s mithril, it is.”

            “I know it’s mithril!”  He looked at it amazed, then raised his eyes to those of his host, and laughed in spite of himself.  “You know, Master Paladin did tell me that Lord Frodo told him you’d probably use it to train the ivy or honeysuckle around, and instead I find your children are using your circlet of honor as a teething ring!”

            Sam shrugged helplessly, and Mistress Rose looked on him as amazed as her guest.  “That’s what that is?  Oh, my dear, dear Samwise, you foolish Hobbit!”

            Folco looked at them blankly until Ruvemir explained.  “You see, the proper title of address for Master Samwise in the outer world is Lord Samwise.  The Lord King Elessar and the Lords of Gondor and Arnor and Rohan and Imladris and the Lonely Mountain and the Forest of Green Leaves and later elsewhere all agreed on this, that he and Lord Frodo are Lords of the realm for their sacrifice and dedication to the freedom of all of Middle Earth.  That is the circlet of honor given to him on his awakening, marking his status.  It was given at the feast of honor for them on the Field of Cormallen.”

            “What does one do with it?” Folco asked.

            Ruvemir went on one knee before Sam, who was blushing furiously.  “My Lord Samwise, I return your circlet, and ask that, only once, you don it as it was meant to be worn.”  So saying, he bowed his head and held out the circlet reverently.  Slowly Sam took it, turned it, and finally placed it on his brow, holding his head up solemnly.  Ruvemir looked up and took it in, then again bowed his head in honor.  He then looked up again.  “Remember, my Lord, that you are honored in the outer world, and rightly so.  I have seen the scars you bear to that sacrifice, and have heard many tell of how close to death you and your beloved Master both were when you were found.  And I myself saw how the clouds of Mordor were torn away when the two of you made it to the Chamber of Fire.  All throughout the free lands felt that moment.”

            Rosie’s eyes were sparkling with tears of pride, and Folco was looking at the dignity of his cousin’s friend and heir with an expression of awe in his eyes.  The Hobbit murmured, “We’ve heard so many strange things.  Then, it’s true?”

            Sam lowered his eyes and nodded.  “Yes, it’s true--true enough.”

            “Neither would have made it without the other--all say so,” Miriel said gently from where she’d knelt by her brother.  Ririon had risen and had bowed deeply, one hand on his breast.

            Folco rose respectfully and bowed, too, causing his host to blush even more furiously.  “I know what the Thain said when we were at dinner with them, but somehow it means more now.  Thank you, Sam, for what you did for all Middle Earth, as well as the Shire.  Do they know how you helped replant the trees of the Shire, how you helped replant the gardens, and to rebuild the lost homes?”

            “The King knows,” Sam said softly.  “He knows, and he knows as what Mr. Frodo done for the Shire, as well as Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin.”  He hugged the book closer to him.

            “What do the letters say?” asked Folco.

            “The Lord Panthael, The Faithful,” Ruvemir explained.

            “Was supposed to be Perhael, but Gimli wouldn’t write it that way.”

            “No,” Ruvemir smiled, “I can’t imagine Gimli son of Gloin lying in his description of you.  Please accept the homage of this Man of Gondor.” 

            Elanor rose from her place by her mother’s feet, and came to her father and held up her arms to be picked up.  Once in his lap, she reached up and stroked the circlet her father wore.  “So, its a crown for my da,” she said. 

            “A circlet, dearling.  The King has a crown--your da and your Uncle Frodo have circlets.”

            “Did Lord Frodo bear his away with him to the Undying Lands?” Ruvemir asked.

            Sam shook his head.  “No, he didn’t.  Mortal honors mean nothin’ there.”

            “If his honors meant nothing there, he’d not have been allowed to go to begin with.”  Sam lowered his eyes in acknowledgment of this truth.  “May I see it?”

            Sam looked at him for a long moment, then nodded solemnly.  He rose, still with that beautiful dignity, and led the way to the study.

            In the corner a beautifully carved chest stood on a side table.  Sam went to the desk, opened a drawer and removed a key, then went to the chest.  “Mr. Drogo carved this, he did.  One of the few pieces Mr. Frodo had of his dad’s work.  Mr. Drogo did carvin’ of wood and joinin’.  I’ve seen a few pieces of his work here and there.  There’s a beautiful sideboard as he did at the Council Hole in Michel Delving.  Old Mr. Bilbo told me about it, and I seen it myself when Mr. Frodo was Deputy Mayor.”  He fitted the key in the lock and turned it.  Inside atop other items lay a velvet bag, and he lifted it gently and reverently and opened it, carefully slipping out the mate to the circlet he himself wore, and held it out to the sculptor. 

            “The Lord Iorhael, The Ringbearer,” Ruvemir read.  His eyes closed involuntarily, and he realized he was weeping.  He finally opened his eyes and looked into those of the Hobbit who’d made the dark journey alongside the one who’d worn this.  “If only, if only I could have met him, your Master.  All who saw him and who have spoken to me of him loved him so deeply.”  He looked back at the circlet, at the seven stars and the large, faintly blue stone that was set in the central star.  “A sea diamond,” he whispered, gently touching it with his index finger.  “They are very rare.”  He gave it back to Sam, who held it out for Folco to examine. 

            Sam then took from the chest another wrapped bundle, opened it gently to reveal a fine shirt of tiny links of mithril, set about the neck with glittering gems and crystals; then he pulled out the glittering belt that held a black sheath ornamented with mithril and golden wires, set with more gems.  He pulled out the Elven blade and gently held it out to Ruvemir.  “And this is Sting,” he said.  Ruvemir took it with even deeper awe than before.

            “I am holding a legend,” the sculptor said at last, his voice low.  He examined it carefully.  “It is of ancient workmanship.” 

            Sam nodded.  “It glows blue when orcs or others of the Enemy’s creatures come near,” he said softly.  “Or it did.  Don’t know as how many are left in Middle Earth now.  Like the Elves, they’ll most like all be gone in a few generations.”  After a moment’s silence, he added, “It’s so sad, really--the high and the low must go together.  Oh, we can do without the likes of orcs and trolls and goblins and all; but to lose the Elves as well....”

            Ririon came forward, and reverently accepted the sword from his guardian, while Miriel and Rose carefully examined Frodo’s circlet.  Carefully Ruvemir described the engraving on the blade, the decoration of the guard, the working of the pommel, then finally the sheath as Folco looked over their shoulders at it.  Sam had taken a cleaning cloth out of the chest, and carefully wiped the blade before returning it to the sheath.  Ririon gently fingered the glittering belt with its mithril links and the crystals and gems set along its length.  “I saw it once, at the coronation of the King.  I never saw it after.”

            “No, for he wouldn’t wear a sword after that.  He’d wear the mithril shirt under his clothes for protection as we rode, but not a sword no more.  Had seen too much of hatred and killing.  Kept giving it to me.”  Ririon returned the sheathed sword, and gently Sam wiped sheath and belt free of any fingerprints and laid it in the chest.  Ririon then took the mithril shirt and held it. 

            “It feels so beautiful,” the boy murmured. 

            “It is.  Fair and lovely.  Was made for an Elven Princeling, but never delivered--the Dragon Smaug came and took Erebor first.  The Dwarves give it to Mr. Bilbo in honor of all he’d done to help them win back their realm under the Lonely Mountain, and old Mr. Bilbo give it to Mr. Frodo.”  He watched the boy gently examining the links and jeweled placket and neck with his fingers.  “I sometimes wonder if it was intended for Legolas as when he were an Elfling.  But I also suspect he were older than that.  Maybe he has a son.  Neither Elves nor Dwarves will easily speak of their loves to mortals, I’ve found.”

            “Or his brother may have a son,” Ruvemir said.  “I’ve met his brother--he carried me, I learned, to the Houses of Healing when I was so ill.”  He smiled.  “I doubt its loss is regretted--that it served the Ringbearer would be seen as a greater need.”  Sam nodded, smiling.

            “There’s a ring here which feels bent a bit.”  Ririon indicated where the damage had been done.

            “Yes, where the spear took him,” Sam said.  “The link cut right through the leather shirt he wore under it.  The shirt was lost when they stripped him--they didn’t give it to that Mouth of Sauron creature from what I heard.  After, Gandalf gave Frodo a softly quilted shirt of silk to wear under it.  He wore that when he left.  Got right cold a good deal of the time, he did, and that silken shirt seemed to keep him warmer.  Wore it under his regular shirt.”

            “How did the spider bite him through this?”

            “Got him above it, on the back of the neck on the right side.  But it stopped the spear, Sharkey’s knife, and an arrow or two.  It did its duty.”

            Ririon gave the shirt to Folco, and received the circlet from Miriel.  He held it gently, and asked Ruvemir to describe the letters.  “I wish I could read it myself,” he whispered afterwards.  “I can feel them.”

            “I bought you a book to help you learn your letters,” Ruvemir said, “but it seems we just haven’t been able to get that far as yet.”

            “I saw him in the city several times, and there was the time he came to stop me from being hit.  I am so glad I got to meet him, Ruvemir.  So glad!”  Ruvemir, nodded, and embraced the boy.

            “Strider give him a surcoat to wear over this, a beautiful thing it was.  Think as it’s in the clothes press in his room.  Dark blue, it was.  Faramir give him a mantle to match.”

            “I saw that, hanging in the dressing room.”

            “Strider give him a fine cloak, too, though he never wore either often.  Always wore the Lorien cloak, he did, when he could.”

            “As you wear yours?”

            “And as Mr. Pippin and Mr. Merry and Strider hisself wear theirs.  Cepting Strider has to be more formal, so he has to wear mantles more often.”

            Ruvemir looked around the room.  A sword hung over the fireplace.  “That’s an interesting blade over the mantel,” he said.

            “Was the one I took from the barrow, as Tom Bombadil give me.” 

            On one end of the sword hung a portrait of Frodo.  “Is this the only one done of Frodo that was deemed lifelike, then?” 

            “Yes, it was.  The artist was an elderly Man, very wrinkled.  Didn’t do no carving hisself.  But the sculptors wasn’t interested in his work--not formal enough for them.”

            On the other side hung a different picture in blues and greens and purples.  What it was Ruvemir wasn’t sure.  He examined the furniture with interest.  “A lovely desk,” he said.

            Sam nodded.  “The Red Book was written on it, mostly, cepting for what Mr. Bilbo wrote in Rivendell.”

            On the other side of the chest in which Frodo’s mementos were kept with such honor stood a crystal case in which lay a number of odd shells.  Ruvemir looked curiously at Sam.  “What is that?”

            Sam smiled, and reached out to pick it up, then held it for Ruvemir to see.  “Shells,” he said.  “They’re made by a water worm as lives in the stream down in the wood at the foot of the Hill.  Frodo and me, when we was younger, would catch them and take their old shells away and give them different things to make new shells of, and this is what they left behind when they turned to flying things.”  He nodded to the picture Ruvemir hadn’t been able to identify.  “He did that painting of them for me, back when we was still young, afore the Ring came to him.”  He turned to the mantel, took up a tiny crystal box that lay below the picture in question.  “Frodo gave them chipped stone one time.  Here’s the shell they made of that.  Gimli sent me the crystal boxes for them.  Otherwise they might dry up and fall apart.  Some of the oldest did that.”

            Ruvemir carefully described these to Ririon, and Folco smiled.  “I remember the jars with the worms in them on the window of the dining room,” he commented.  Both Hobbits smiled. 

            Miriel took the tiny crystal case that held the single shell and looked at it with interest.  “So beautiful a thing from a water worm,” she said. 

            Sam nodded.  “Some of the smallest things give us the most in beauty and strangeness,” he said.

            Rosie placed  her free arm over her husband’s shoulders and looked at the circlet he wore.  “Now,” she said, “You put that in that box, too, you hear?  Master Frodo’s not the only Hobbit from this hole as deserves honoring, and you’d best remember that.”  Then she said in a gentler tone, “And he’d be most proud to have his circlet sharing its place with yours, you know that.” 

            Sam’s smile deepened, and gently the Lord Panthael kissed his wife.

A Study of a Hand

            Ruvemir read more temperately that night, and woke early in the morning.  Ririon was awake before him, and he found the boy in the study, feeling the chest in which Frodo’s mail, sword, and circlet of honor lay, now with Sam’s as well.  He turned as he heard his guardian’s step.  “I was looking at the work the King’s Friend’s father did, Ruvemir.  It is very pleasant to feel, and its color is warm.”

            Ruvemir nodded.  He examined it as he’d not had the chance to do the night before.  “It has a figure of a Hobbit leading a pony atop it.” 

            Ririon felt it, identified head, curly hair, round face, chest, flaring cloak, legs, bare feet, a pipe held in the right hand.  He also noted a tree and the form of the pony.  Then he felt a small symbol and asked what it was.  Ruvemir looked and realized this, like the dragonfly symbol Merry had pointed out on Frodo’s work, was a signature symbol.

            “It looks like a circle, halved and the right half cut into two again.  I believe it is a stylized DB for “Drogo Baggins,” he commented.  “Lord Frodo did similarly, making a dragonfly figure which was truly a stylized FB.”

            “I felt something similar on the box for my tools, Ruvemir.  Do you think that perhaps it, too, was made by the Lord Frodo’s father?” 

            “Shall we go look?” Ruvemir suggested.  They returned to the guest room where Ririon was quartered and Ruvemir quickly lit a candle, then brought it near the small table where Ririon had placed his box.  Ririon quickly located the symbol he’d said was similar to that on the chest in the study, and it was, indeed, the same.

            “I wonder if, then, he might have done my walking stick as well,” Ririon suggested, and he retrieved it from the corner near the door where he’d stood it.  Together they examined it, until Ririon suddenly said, “Here, Ruvemir--here is something that doesn’t feel like the dragon--but it’s not the halved and quartered circle this time.  It feels more like a signpost.”

            Ruvemir took the stick and looked where the boy had indicated, and stopped.  After a moment, he said, his voice quiet, “No, it is not the symbol of the Lord Frodo’s father this time.  It is a dragonfly.”

            Ririon smiled.  “You mean,” he said, “that the Lord Frodo carved this?”

            The sculptor nodded slowly.  “Yes, it appears he did, at least once, try his hand at carving.  It is not a superb carving, and it is low relief and not as fine as the work his father did on the chest, nor as good as your serpent.  But he did try his hand at carving, and did a creditable job.”

            Ririon fingered the symbol.  “Then I have something to remember him by--two things, to remember him and his father by.  It is wonderful, Ruvemir.”  He thought for a moment.  “I wonder what he’d think if he knew a Man would carry the walking stick and use it to find his way better, and that the same Man had his father’s box.”

            “I think as he’d be pleased indeed,” said Sam from behind them in the open doorway.  Ruvemir was totally startled, but Ririon laughed. 

            “Come and see, Lord Samwise,” he said.  “We’ve found his symbol here on the staff.”

            Sam was shown the dragonfly, and looked at it for some time.  “I’d often seen the dragonfly in Frodo’s pictures, but had no idea it was really his initials,” he said.  “Just thought as he liked dragonflies.”

            “Merry showed it to me and explained it,” Ruvemir said.

            Sam shook his head.  “If that don’t beat all,” he said.  “I keep learning about him, same as you are doing.” 

            They then looked at the box, and Ririon pointed out the circle and looked at how it was really Drogo Baggins’s initials.  “And the same symbol is on the box in the study.  I wanted to see what kind of decorations Master Drogo carved, and found it there, too.” 

            Sam looked at Ruvemir.  “Do you do a signature symbol?”

            Ruvemir nodded.  “I carve a mountain peak on all my pieces to mark it as mine, and my father does a dragon.”

            “How about you, Master Ririon?”

            “I don’t know how to write, but I usually put a star on my pieces.”

            “That’s a good symbol to use,” the gardener said.  He ran his finger over the carving of the dragonfly on the boy’s walking stick.  “I saw a star in Mordor, when it were looking mighty dark for us.  Gave me hope, it did.  Knew that even Sauron couldn’t undo all the beauty of the world, for all his trying, for much of it was beyond his reach.  And my Master carries the Starglass as the Lady Galadriel had give him as a gift, a light in dark places, she said.  It has Eärendil’s light caught in it.  It, too, give us hope in the Enemy’s land.  And he was given a star gem by the Lady Arwen herself, to help ease the pain and fears when they got bad.”

            “The Thain said he fingered it that night when they came for dinner,” Ririon said. 

            “He did?” Sam asked.

            “Yes, when you went to the kitchen.  He said that he suddenly looked as if he were in pain and was rubbing at his shoulder, then he held the star gem and the attack passed.”

            Sam looked to Ruvemir for confirmation, and the sculptor nodded.  “It’s just good he didn’t linger for the anniversary,” Sam said.  “He’d most like not of survived it again.”  He looked at the walking stick again and then gave it to Ririon to put away.  “But a bit of him lingers here, I guess, as long as we member him.”  He smiled.  “Now you got me interested, and I suspect I’ll be goin’ through every stick of furniture there is to see what his dad made.”

            “At least I know that the artistry in his own family is like to that of my own,” Ruvemir commented. 

            After breakfast Sam went down the hill to the small woods at the bottom to cut evergreen boughs for decorations for  the smial, accompanied by Ririon, Ruvemir, and Folco, finding Sam’s brother Hal already there.  All brought baskets to carry the boughs in.  Ruvemir could see now the signs of lost trees, some of them obviously old and memorable.  At last they found a holly tree that was growing well, and there Sam addressed the tree gently, then indicated which branches it would be acceptable to cut.  They took only a few boughs here, a few there, moving from tree to tree, but finally had enough to return to Bag End.  Ririon helped the two Hobbits to place the branches over doorways and windows, while Rosie set out countless red and white candles throughout the hole.  Sweet smells filled the smial, and all were growing more excited as Yule approached.

            Again in the evening Sam read from the Red Book, and all listened with interest, and then all retreated to work on their gifts for one another.

            The following day Ruvemir and Ririon went into Hobbiton with Folco, doing some shopping of their own.  Folco introduced them to several shopkeepers as well as Daisy’s husband, who looked at Ririon and his clothing, and discussed what kinds of garments were needed and took measurements.

            “I’ll do my best to suit you, sir,” he said to Ririon, “although our styles are far different from your own.  As you are growing rapidly, I will put longer hems into the pants and cuffs so they can be let out more easily, for the waist is usually the last to develop.”  He looked at the longer pants, which were intended to reach the top of Ririon’s boots.  “It will be odd to make them so long, but I see how they better fit your legs.  But I have no idea where you will find shoes for him, here in the Shire.”

            “We may need to wait until we go out again to Bree,” Ruvemir said.  “I suppose he can make do that long.”

            When they’d returned to Bag End, Ruvemir finally approached Sam with a request that had been growing in his mind for the past two days.  He was surprised that the Hobbit agreed as readily as he did, and that night Sam opened the chest again, and posed for Ruvemir, wearing his pack and his cloak from Lorien, and holding Sting at the ready.  Elanor was held in Folco’s arms behind the artist so she could look over his shoulder at his now almost-full sketch booklet as he did his best to catch what Sam had looked like as he walked the wilds of the world in the days of the quest. 

            When at last Ruvemir was content with what he’d done, he then made the second request.  Sam shook his head.  “I simply couldn’t fit in it,” he said.  “My shoulders have been wider than his since I was a teen, and my chest far broader.”  He looked at Folco and shook his head.  “And he’s too broad, too.”  Then he looked at Ririon, and he paused.  “Now, he’s a bit tall, but his chest and shoulders are still narrow enough, I think....” 

            And Ririon found himself donning the mithril shirt and kneeling, one hand outstretched, the other clasping a book, while his guardian used his lines to bring to life another’s.

            Rose watched the drawing with wonder.  “I never,” she said, at one point.  “How you can look at one and draw another is more than I can imagine.  But that’s Master Frodo, I swear, it’s Master Frodo.” 

            Sam, who’d been determinedly reading across the room, finally could stand it no longer, and rose to take his own look.  And he had to agree that the picture on the page was his Master--all except the hands.  He looked at his own hands, at the boy’s, the cousin’s, the artist’s, and realized there was nothing for it.

            Ruvemir realized there was something fundamentally wrong with the picture the moment Sam started looking at hands.  He’d been afraid it would come back to this at the end, the matter of hands.  But as they had halted the process in Brandy Hall, so they did here.  No one had yet described Frodo’s hands to him.  But before he could ask Sam to do so, that worthy soul straightened, turned, and left the study.  Troubled, Ruvemir looked after him.

            Behind him, Elanor said, “Why is Sam-Dad sad again, Mummy?”

            Rosie sighed.  “I don’t know this time, dearling, but it’s going to happen when it’s about your Uncle Frodo.  He misses his Master very much.”

            “I wish he didn’t go away.”

            “So do we all, love.  But if he hadn’t gone, he’d of died.  Either way, he’d still be gone, and your Sam-Dad would still be sad.”

            Folco shook his head.  “I don’t know what triggered it this time.  He had that proud look on his face as he was looking at the picture, and then it folded right up.”

            “It’s the hands,” the artist said sadly.  “Hands are as distinctive as faces, and no one has as yet described Lord Frodo’s hands to me.  What I drew were mostly drawn from Ririon, and apparently they are nothing like those of your cousin.”

            Ririon added, “Ruvemir did ask at Brandy Hall, but they wouldn’t tell him--just talked about how he didn’t use them telling stories after he lost his finger.”

            The Hobbit thought about that for a few moments, then said, “Oh, I see.”  He examined his own hands for several moments.  “I remember them mostly from before, of course.  His fingers were longer than mine, and more slender.”

            “Was the ring finger longer or shorter than the index finger?” asked Ruvemir.

            Folco thought over that for several moments.  “I’m not sure I remember or even paid any attention to that.”  He looked at his own fingers.  “Mine are longer, I see.  Are they different on different people?”  At the sculptor’s nod, he said, “How odd.”

            “When he held his hand palm up, would he have his fingers together or separated?”

            Again Folco examined his own hand, trying to remember that of Frodo Baggins.  Finally he looked up.  “Together.” 

            Ruvemir looked to Rosie for confirmation, and she nodded.  “His ring finger was longer,” she said.  “And there was a diamond-shaped scar on the back of the middle finger of his left hand, here,” she added, pointing to her own hand.  “The vein here,” again she pointed to the back of her own hand, “was raised a bit.  He bit his nails--I couldn’t shame him into stopping, and apparently neither could old Mr. Bilbo.  He had a callous here,” she indicated the inside of his middle finger on his right hand.

            Ruvemir nodded, smiling.  “Writer’s callous,” he commented.  “That fits.”  He’d turned to a new page, one of the last in this booklet, and was drawing multiple views as she spoke. 

            They went on for another quarter hour or so, and finally Rosie could remember no further details.  Ruvemir thanked her, then indicated he would go back to his room and do his exercises and take a nap.

            “Want me to help?” Ririon asked.

            “Gladly, son,” Ruvemir responded, and saw a dazzling smile light up the boy’s features.  Just then there was a knock at the front door, and Rosie went off to answer it.  A moment later she returned with a wide smile on her face. 

            “Ririon, the lads of the Row want to know if you’d like to play snow forts with them.”

            The boy was surprised.  Ruvemir laughed.  “I think Miriel can help me with the exercises, if I need it,” he said.  “You go on out and join the other lads.”  He clapped his hand on Ririon’s shoulder, and watched as the boy headed off to the entrance hall to retrieve his cloak and hat.  “Oh,” Ruvemir called after him, “Miriel put your gloves in the inner pocket of your cloak.  Wear them, and your hood!”  As he heard the boy’s assurances from down the passage, his smile widened.  “He’s being accepted, at least,” he commented.  “That is heartening.”

            After doing his exercises, Ruvemir lit a candle and lay down to read more from the Red Book.  He’d not read long when he heard a tap at the open door to his room, and looked up to see Sam standing there.

            “Would you mind, Master Ruvemir, coming into our room for a bit?” he asked.

            Carefully slipping the ribbon marker into place, Ruvemir closed the book, set it gently on the chest by the bed, and rose, walking barefoot to follow the gardener down the passage to the next room.  Sitting on the bed was a chest with a tray on top, the tray full of paper--writing paper, Ruvemir noted, of a soft golden hue with green threads running through it.  He vaguely remembered seeing the box sitting on the desk when he’d entered the room a few nights previously to speak with Mistress Rosie.  Sam indicated he should draw the desk chair close to the bed, and after closing the door to the room, he sat down next to the chest, took out the golden disk which was attached to the chain he wore across his chest, slipped the chain loose from a loop inside one pocket, and took the pendant key and used it to unlock the drawer that filled the chest.  Then he paused, and gave his guest a stern look.

            “No one else has ever, to my knowledge, looked at what’s in here but me and Mr. Frodo,” he said.  “One day I mean to share it with the King, but I haven’t made up my mind exactly when.  But until then, I don’t want you tellin’ others what’s in here, if you don’t mind.”

            “I promise, Master Samwise,” Ruvemir said, realizing that his host was deadly serious.

            Reassured, the Hobbit gave a brief nod and slipped the drawer open.  It was full of sheets of paper, most of it the same paper in the tray, but also much of it drawing paper.  Sam was searching through the sheets, looking for specific pages, and finally he slipped a few out of the stack, all of these, Ruvemir noted, drawings.  He kept them angled toward himself for several moments, examining each of them in turn.  He looked troubled for a moment, set them down face down, and went back to the sheets he’d replaced in the drawer, sorted through them again, and finally found what he was looking for near the bottom of the stack.  He carefully slipped it out, and added it to the others he’d removed.  He looked at them again, and finally set them in his lap.  His eye on the top one, he finally began to speak.

            “Long ago, just over a year after he brought Mr. Frodo here, old Mr. Bilbo decided Frodo was keepin’ things too bottled up, and that that wasn’t good for him.  He went out one day after they’d argued ’bout this, and came home with this stationery box and the other things you see there,” and he pointed at the desktop.  Ruvemir looked at the items--a series of items involved in writing--quill box, drying sand, blotting paper, an open box that held three bottles of ink.  “This desk used to belong to Mr. Bilbo’s mum, who kept her accounts on it.  There’s a small office off the kitchens--Rosie does her preservin’ there.  The desk come from that room.

            “After he come back with the stationery box and other things, Mr. Bilbo had me help bring the desk to Mr. Frodo’s room, and he cleaned it up hisself, cleaned and oiled it.  Then he put all the things on it, he did, and he and I went through all the extra bedrooms, lookin’ for just the right chair for it.  Then he told Mr. Frodo that he was to use the paper and ink to write down what was botherin’ him, write it out so as it wouldn’t eat his heart out.  And he did.  After that, whenever he was angry or bothered, Mr. Frodo’d shut hisself in his room and write it out, and put the papers into the drawer and lock it up.

            “After Mr. Frodo’s things was brought back here from Crickhollow, he put all this on the desk in the study, and he kept on using it.  But he had this desk put here for me and Rosie to use.  When he left, I couldn’t find the stationery box nowhere.”

            Suddenly he rose and went to the dressing room door, opened it, disappeared inside.  Apparently it was much larger than the one for Frodo’s room.  He emerged with a formal cloak of Gondorian fashion, and he carefully carried it across the room.  “The King gifted this to Frodo afore we left Minas Tirith.  It’s very beautiful.”  The artist nodded.  He’d seen such cloaks in exclusive shops in Gondor.  Such were usually purchased and worn by wealthy lords.  He reached out and caressed the sleek fabric.  “It was too wide across the shoulders for Frodo, so he wore it only a few times.  Anyway, we all preferred our Lorien cloaks. 

            “Afore he left, Frodo apparently brought this in here, and he draped it across the chair, left it for me.  Fits me well, it does.  Rosie left it there for me to take up, knowing this was a special gift for me.  Took me better’n a week to get up the spirit to take it, though.  I finally did, and put it on, and then I saw the stationery box was sitting under the desk, hid by the cloak.

            “He still wrote things out, how he felt and all, and hid those things in the drawer till they was dealt with.  Then he’d usually burn them, although a few he’d save.  Once he just tore the writing to pieces.  Think that one was about the Sackville-Bagginses, but I’m not sure.  Then, while we was in Gondor he begun drawing his nightmares, too.”

            “Yes, I know.  Lasgon told me.”

            “Bright lad, Lasgon was.  Bright, and discrete.  Saw things as they are, he did.”  Ruvemir nodded his agreement.  “Anyway, he left the drawer full of drawings and notes--I think to explain--explain why he decided to go away.”  He paused for quite a while.  Finally he said, softly, “You’d never know how angry he could get, for he did his best to hold it in.  You could only tell by how long he’d stay holed up in his room, writing.  He was angry when he realized he was dying.  He was resentful.  He was angry at how we honored him when he felt he was less than dung for lettin’ that, that thing take him at the end.  He was angry at It for robbin’ him of the ability to love a lass.  He was jealous of me ‘cause I could.  He was so glad as I could.  He was angry because he felt as we was protecting him too much.  He was angry for he couldn’t father a child hisself.”  His sad eyes looked up into those of the artist, seeking understanding.

            “You saw that picture he did of hisself as when he lived in Brandy Hall, how discontented he was.”  Ruvemir nodded.  “It’s one of only three pictures I know he did of hisself.  The other ones--the other ones are here.”  He finally handed the stack of pictures to Ruvemir.

            Ruvemir examined the top picture.  Well, he had wanted to know what Frodo’s hand looked like, and now he did.  Frodo had drawn it himself, complete with the maimed knuckle where his ring finger had been bitten off.  He gave a prolonged, painful sigh, and read the inscription, looked up at Sam for explanation.

            “How far have you got in the Red Book?” asked the gardener.

            “You’ve just met Tom Bombadil,” Ruvemir explained. 

            “You’ll find out what that--” with a nod to the inscription “--means soon, then.  It’s there.”

            “I see.”

            For your hand’s fairer without it.  He could understand the irony of the statement, the pain it indicated.  He’d seen a lot of Frodo Baggins’s writing now, and he saw this indicated a great deal of anger and frustration.  Finally he slipped it to the bottom of the stack, looked at the next picture, one of the King in formal dress, but not the dress of Gondor. 

            “That was of the day the quest was given to us.  Strider was dressed as he did in Rivendell, where he was seen as Lord Elrond’s son.  Plus he was the Heir of Isildur and Valandil and Arvedui, after all.”  The picture was a thing of beauty, and reflected the honor the Lord Frodo felt toward the tall Man.

            The next drawing was familiar, but markedly different at the same time.  “This doesn’t look like the picture of Gollum Lasgon kept,” he commented.

            Sam looked surprised.  “Frodo let him have one of that stinker?” he asked.

            “No.  He appears to have dropped it as he was feeding his nightmare drawings into the fire, and Lasgon found it on the floor.”

            He looked at the next drawing--an orc with a whip, and beyond it--beyond it lay Sam.  He looked up to catch the gardener’s gaze.  “Were you beaten by orcs while bound?”

            “No, that happened to him, in the orc tower atop the spider’s pass.  Look close at the orc’s face.” 

            He examined it, then looked back to the other picture, then held both together.  Finally he let go a long, pained breath.  “Manwë guard him,” he whispered.  He looked up at his companion.  “These are the other two self-portraits, then.” 

            Sam nodded.  “Yes, this is them.  This--” a nod at the Gollum creature “--is what he saw hisself becoming.  Maybe the same with the other, or maybe just a nightmare.”  He straightened.  “The next is another portrait of the King.”

            Ruvemir put the two he’d been examining aside, then looked at the next.  Portrait of the King?  It was of a pile of bones.  But then he saw a familiar sheath, and the brooch of the Elessar stone lying by the grinning skull.  He shuddered.

            The next page wasn’t a drawing--it had Tengwar letters on it, and Ruvemir translated the short note.  On the backside were two more notes, both brief.  The second one was obviously written later, and when Frodo was quite weak, considering the writing.  Again Ruvemir looked at Sam, sharing his grief for the one who’d written these notes.

            “Apparently you aren’t the only one who contemplated suicide,” he said, gently. 

            “I saw my pack was out, one day, and that it had been opened.  I looked inside, and the hithlain rope as I’d took from the boats the Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel had given us was missing.  That evening the pack was put away, and the rope was back in it.  He’d been out, walking, he said.  He didn’t eat much for dinner, went to bed early.  I set the kingsfoil steeping for him that night.  I’m glad it was the hithlain rope.  If it had been some as I’d twisted, I’d probably not of found his body for days.”

            “I don’t understand.”

            “You’ll understand when you get to us trying to find our way out of the Emyn Muil.”

            Ruvemir considered.  “No wonder you don’t want others to see these.”  He examined the other’s face.  “I am honored at the trust you show me.”

            “You won’t betray him, I think.”

            “Are there many of the nightmare drawings there?”

            “No.  Most is just drawings--me, old Mr. Bilbo, the Gaffer, Merry, Pippin, his folks, my flowers.  Most is what made him happy, content.  But he finally had to let us know the pain, too.  Couldn’t let us think he was special good and nothin’ more.”

            Ruvemir nodded his understanding.

 *******

            That night Sam again knocked at the door.  “I know you haven’t finished that one yet, but maybe you should read this one, too,” he said.  “This time I was writing it out, keeping my heart from bein’ et out of me.”  He held out a much thinner tome bound in green leather.

            “You bound this?”

            Sam smiled.  “Old Bilbo taught us both binding at the same time, he did.”

Yule Coming In

            He was not up all night reading Sam’s own story, but Ruvemir did finish it in one sitting, and the next morning he returned it to the study, where he found Sam was entertaining Mayor Whitfoot.

            “Master Ruvemir!” the plump Hobbit greeted him.  “A fine Yule to you!  I understand you are making excellent progress with your project now?”

            “A fine Yule to you as well, sir,” the sculptor returned.  “Yes, I am now confident I will be able to do a fitting memorial to those who came from the Shire.  And we are very grateful for the welcome and courtesy we have been shown.  If more people were like the Shirefolk, there would be far fewer woes in the world.”

            “Not sure about that,” Sam commented around his pipestem.  “More like it would be just a different sort of woes rather than fewer.  Us mortals just seem to be fit for bothering ourselves and one another, seems to me.”

            “Perhaps you are right, Master Samwise.  However, I believe our woes would be more easily and practically handled if we were more like to the Shirefolk.”

            Sam smiled and shrugged.  “You finished that all?” he asked.

            “Yes, and I thank you.”  Ruvemir realized his voice had become quieter and very respectful, and he hoped this wouldn’t trigger another bout of self-deprecation on the part of his host; but Sam just nodded with that mixture of solemnity and dignity he was coming to admire.  “And I compliment the author, whom I find to be very insightful.”  Ah, just a hint of a pleased smile.  He decided to go no further.

            “What book is that, Sam?” asked the Mayor.

            “A book I lent to Master Ruvemir to aid him in his research,” Sam replied.  He looked a moment at the sculptor as if making up his mind, then asked, “You said you was given an education in history so as to help you portray historical events?”

            “Yes.  As a sculptor I am often required to touch on historical and occasionally legendary subjects in my commissions, so it was seen as imperative that I know sufficient of the matters to do a creditable job and that I not misrepresent those I am picturing.”

            “How is education handled in Gondor?”

            He thought.  “There are open schools in most communities where all may send their children to at least learn to read, write, do practical figuring, and learn the basic history and laws of our land.  Then the guild charters for the professions and trades require certain education must be given to those who apprentice in each profession to best prepare us for the work we will do.  As a sculptor I had to have a knowledge of the history of our people and those peoples with whom we interact on a regular basis.  I have had to learn sufficient of metallurgy as well as casting to understand how metals are obtained from ores, how they are purified, mixed and heated to cast, and the proportions best suited for making bronze or pot metals.  I must be able to recognize clays and the kinds of stones we work in nature and know how they are extracted or quarried and handled safely; how the crystal structure lies so as to split or avoid splitting the stones I use; how our sculpting waxes are obtained and worked and disposed of properly; how to construct kilns and obtain and mix pigments.  I have had to learn sufficient of engineering to recognize what kinds of foundations will support the work I will produce.  I have had to learn to project the weights of different kinds of sculptures as well as projecting costs for obtaining proper materials and so on.  I have had to learn how to keep records for tax purposes.  All of this on top of the structure of the bodies of the Men and creatures I sculpt and how to use the tools of my profession.

            “Had Ririon continued to serve in the kitchens of inns, within three years he would have been required by law to be formally apprenticed, and given instruction in reading, writing, and figuring, and then given a thorough education in the science of food.  I am told the studies are very demanding.”

            “What is demanding about knowing how to cook?” asked the Mayor.

            “Those who cook for the public must know very much to best protect the public health. They must learn to recognize signs of taint in vegetables, fruits, meats and meat animals, broths, oils, and so on; how to control vermin as well knowing the taints they carry; proper storage and disposal of foodstuffs so as to not endanger the public or the water supplies.  They must know the common diseases and parasites likely to be present in animals and how to keep such from endangering the health and lives of those consuming the meats drawn from them.  They must know about the strictures for cleanliness in storage, preparing, cooking, serving, and disposal of foods and the vessels they touch in all stages.  At least five years of education and apprenticeship are required before a person may apply to become a public cook in his own right within the guild.  And those who are not part of the guild are not allowed to serve food to the public within the cities of Gondor--there is too much chance for causing widespread illness.”

            “Then,” said Sam, “education is seen as important within Gondor?”

            “Yes, and I am told within Arnor as well.  The Lord King has told me all his kin are trained to speak, read and write Westron as well as either Adunaic or Sindarin, usually both; all must know the history of their own people and their relationship to the Elves and Dwarves.  Those who guard the borders of the Breelands and the Shire and other such settlements must also know the histories of these peoples, he said, that they respect their customs and ways.  He told me that the histories of his people tell of the courage and sacrifice shown by the Shirefolk in the final battle between the armies of King Arvedui and the Witch-king of Angmar, both those who went to support the King and those within the Shire who afterward aided the refugees from Arthedain to reach safety.”

            Ruvemir noted that Sam had a small smile, as if he had already been aware of all this, while the face of the Mayor showed sheer amazement.  Will Whitfoot looked at Sam, who quickly assumed a look of innocent bewilderment.  “Then it appears,” Sam said, “that our schools are definitely in keeping with the practices of the realm--may even be a bit behind those of Arnor.”

            “Who’d have thought that reading, writing, and figuring would be seen as so important?” the Mayor commented.

            “And history and languages as well?” asked Sam, mostly, Ruvemir thought, to convince the Mayor of their importance.  “We are part of the realm again, after all.”

            The round Hobbit shook himself.  “Then it does look as if there will need to be contributions from the Shire in general to the schools,” he said.  “Never let it be said that Hobbits were less capable of learning than Men.”  He again shook his head.  “Who’d have thought?” he repeated.  “Well, then, with that settled I must be off.”

            Sam rose politely and saw his guest to the door, and returned to find Ruvemir waiting for him in the hallway.  “He and some others have been fighting the idea that all of us within the Shire owe it to our bairns to make sure as they get a good chance to learn.  I don’t know as how long the ban on Big Folk entering the Shire will hold once Strider’s gone.  Oh, he’ll be with us probably at least the next hundred years, but once he’s out of the way we’d do well to be able to take on anybody; and we won’t be able to do that less’n we can at least match them for thinking.”

            Ruvemir’s respect for the sagacity of his host rose even higher.

            “Anyways, are you hungry?  You missed first breakfast, but I have second breakfast about ready to go on.  It’ll be light, but I could give you some extra if you wish.”

            It had snowed again overnight, and Ririon joined Sam and Folco in shoveling out the lane and walkways into the holes on the Row while once again Ruvemir split wood for the stove and fireplaces.  After completing about the same amount as he’d done the last time, he went back to his room where he was working on a gift for Rosie.  He then wrote a letter to Elise, and prepared it for the quick post; and followed that with another half hour of reading from the Red Book. 

            Miriel was in the kitchen when he came out, demonstrating how to prepare battercakes filled with preserves to Rosie, who sat holding her daughter on her lap.

            As the next day was Yule, there was a good deal of preparation of food being finished, and Ruvemir and Ririon found themselves pressed into service to take some baskets to the homes on the Row, and then found the recipients of Bag End’s largess had their own baskets to return back up the lane.

            As they made their way back up the Hill with their burdens, Ruvemir saw many of the menfolk of the Hill area bringing faggots of wood down to the field below it where they were preparing for the night’s bonfire.  It was the first time Ruvemir had given his full attention to the field, and he found his eyes drawn to the tree that grew toward the center of it.  He paused at the sight of it in the early dusk of the winter day.  It still bore golden leaves, and in the gathering shadows its trunk shone silver.  Its shape was beautiful--as beautiful as the White Tree of Gondor, but markedly different.

            “What are you looking at?” Ririon asked.

            “The tree in the field,” Ruvemir responded.

            “The Mallorn tree?  It is beautiful, isn’t it?”

            “When did you examine it?”

            “When we were playing snowforts one of the lads took me to see it.  It has a different thrum to it than the White Tree, but it is fully as alive.”

            “Thrum?”

            “Yes.  The White Tree has--has a thrum to it when you touch its bark.  You can feel it is alive.  You can feel this is alive, too, but it feels different.  They call the field there the Party Field.  It was where they held the great party where old Bilbo Baggins disappeared, when Lord Frodo came of age.  There was a great oak tree, but it was cut down by Sharkey’s Big Men.  Lord Samwise received a silver nut as a gift while the Travelers were on the quest, and he planted it beside the trunk of the dead tree.  It has grown into a Mallorn tree, which is an Elven tree from the Undying Lands and Lothlorien.  So the lads have been told by Lord Samwise.” 

            The sun was setting rapidly, yet even as the day went dark, the silver radiance of the tree’s bark could still be seen.  Ruvemir remembered the letter Sam had written to his King, and the comment about the Mallorn being so beautiful it could make one weep, and he realized it was no exaggeration. 

            After a hurried supper, the smial’s fires were all put out before all bundled up warmly to go down to the field for the lighting of the bonfire.  All were singing and laughing, and many, Ruvemir noted, carried baskets of food and drink.  More families were coming from Hobbiton proper, many bringing additional faggots of wood to add to the pile.  A wagon arrived, several casks of what was probably ale and cider on it, and soon the menfolk began to gather around it.

            Rosie had insisted she would not suffer for going to see the bonfire, and after making sure she was well wrapped in a thick cloak Sam had taken her arm and conducted her down the Hill with great ceremony.  Folco carried Frodo-Lad, and Ruvemir and Ririon were each holding one of Elanor’s hands, which appeared to delight her.

            Each home had brought its Troubles List, and all were waiting with eagerness for the fire to be lit.  As the firedrill was worked by teams of Hobbits, the womenfolk and children sang songs that appeared to be ancient.  Many of the words appeared to be nonsensical, but Ruvemir sensed they probably reflected the ancient language of those who’d founded the Shire, and wondered what they’d once meant.

            It took almost half an hour for the fire to finally catch, and then Hobbits about the pile were grabbing up torches to light from the bonfire to carry home to relight the hearths of each hole or house.  As the torchbearers hurried off, those who remained sang them on their way as a chosen individual from each home set the Troubles List on the bonfire to scour away the ills of the past year.  Rosie lay that of Bag End on the fire, and Ruvemir saw that it was short.  The one line he managed to read off of it before it caught fire was Grief at Missing Him.  Apparently Sam and Rosie felt this to be the greatest ill facing them, and otherwise felt blest.  Well, Ruvemir thought as he watched Rosie’s shining face, if any family deserved the blessing of a year short on ills, it was the one belonging to Samwise Gamgee.

 *******

            On the morning of Second Yule Ruvemir was roused as small hands pulled at his blankets.  “It’s Yule, Master Ruvemir,” Elanor announced clearly.  “Wake up for Yule!”

            Soon he was in the dining room as all gathered about the table for the first meal of the New Year.  Elanor was impatient as only a small child on Yule could be, and the sculptor noted the amusement in her father’s face as he teased her that he couldn’t eat fast for he had a toothache, and it might take him all day to finish his first breakfast.

            “Sam-Dad,” she finally said, frustrated, “I don’t believe you at all.  Now, you eat or you won’t get your presents.”  And when her father laughed and caught her up to kiss her she pushed him away, then relented and kissed him back.

            Soon sleighbells could be heard as guests began to arrive.  A tent and temporary fencing had been reared in the field below as a shelter for the ponies, and a bale of hay and water had been brought out to it by Hal Gamgee soon after first breakfast.  Once the ponies were freed from their harnesses and settled in the makeshift paddock, folk began dispersing to various holes or climbing the lane to Bag End.

            Rosie’s family was much like her, Ruvemir saw, perhaps a bit more slender than the average Hobbit, he thought, and all obviously observant and intelligent.  Sam’s sister Marigold proved to be far more delicately featured than her brother, and she had a bright smile and, he learned, a quick wit.  Daisy and her husband were dragging a sled filled with gifts and two children behind them from Number Three, and Hal carried up a great basket from which steam wafted in one hand while supporting his father’s elbow with the other.  Marigold’s husband Young Tom Cotton conducted up the Widow Rumble, who proved to be a smiling lady full of comments on how beautiful it was this year with the unexpected lingering of the snow.

            Elanor and Frodo-Lad and their cousins were passed from hand to hand as all examined and kissed them and exclaimed over them and their growth over the past year; and all the elder Hobbits were enjoying prolonging the wait of the children for the important business of the day--presents!

            Miriel had crafted a doll for Elanor, sculpting the face with her stitches, and dressing it in an exquisitely detailed dress.  Elanor appeared to be in awe of it, and gently caressed it with a finger, her eyes shining.  “It is beautiful,” she said in a whisper.  Miriel smiled.  “What’s her name, Mistress Miriel?”

            “You may name her whatever you please.”

            “Can I name her after the Queen?”

            “I’m sure she would be honored, Elanor, to know you named your doll after her.”

            “Her name is Evenstar,” Elanor said as she gently cradled her gift.

            Rosie felt her package for several moments before she opened it.  “It is heavy, but still soft.”  Finally she pulled off the wrappings to reveal one of Miriel’s most beautiful shawls, inside which she found a small carving of her daughter’s face.  Her eyes shone with joy.  “Oh, but they are so very beautiful.  Thank you so very, very much.”  Her brother Tom examined the small figure, and his face shone with pride.

            Ririon had carved a chain of three wooden circles out of fruitwood for Frodo-Lad, which the boy accepted and shook delightedly, then put one into his mouth and chewed on it.

            Sam accepted the box given him by Ririon with a smile.  He opened it to reveal first a vest made for him by Miriel, and under that, the small figure of Strider.  He looked up with surprise.  “You’re giving me the figure of the King?”

            “I’d thought of giving it to Sir Pippin, but I think it will mean more to you.  You’ve seen the same Light in both of them.  And you know he’s grieving just as you are.” 

            Sam took the figure out of the box and held it tenderly.  “Between the two of them, they saved Middle Earth.”

            Ruvemir shook his head.  “From what I’ve heard, every member of the Fellowship was needed to fully defeat the Enemy.  And you and the Lord Frodo between you completed the quest.”  Sam sighed, and nodded, and ran his finger over the figure’s cheek, smiling gently.

            There was a large package for Ruvemir, and he opened it with curiosity.  In it was the blue mantle that the Lord Faramir had gifted to Frodo.  Sam smiled as Ruvemir lifted it out of the wrapping.  “He’d be very glad, I think, to see it go to someone as could wear it and would honor it, considering who had gifted it to him.”  And for Ririon, there was the surcoat that matched the mantle.  “You can wear the surcoat for a time yet, young Master Ririon, and again, he’d be glad to know the boy he saved from striking has become such a likely lad.  Now you have a couple things to member him by.”  Both sculptor and ward were totally overwhelmed.

            Ruvemir was very interested to see what gift Folco Boffin would make to his sister.  Over the past few days he and Miriel had spent a fair amount of time together, talking of their childhoods, their memories of their parents, how they had come to their professions, what they wished to do with their futures, their thoughts on children....  Yesterday afternoon Folco had ridden to his home and back, and he and Rosie had gone together into the small office off the kitchen for a short time, and then Rosie had taken a bundle off to her room.

            Miriel colored as Folco approached her, the bundle, now tied in red ribbon, in his hands.  Suddenly he appeared shy as he held it out to her.  “It’s not exactly new, I’m afraid, but I thought it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen the first time I saw it, and I thought of it when I saw you.  Sam’s mother made it for our Aunt Dora Baggins--Frodo’s and mine, that is.  When Auntie died it came to my mother, and now I’d like for you to have it.”

            Miriel accepted the bundle and carefully began teasing the knots in the ribbons until at last it was ready to fall open.  Inside was a magnificent knit shawl done in fine wools, exceedingly soft and beautifully colored.  Miriel smiled.  “Oh, it is wonderful!  Master Sam, did your mother really make this?  What a superb needlewoman she must have been!  I never learned how to craft yarn into garments, although I have sewn all my life.  But with such a work as this, your mother would have been considered a master in yarn-craft.  Oh, Folco, it is a beautiful garment, and that you should have thought of me--”  She impulsively threw her arms around him and gave him a kiss, which he surprised himself by responding to.   When Miriel started to pull away with a look of wonder on her face, he flushed, then paled.

            “That tears it,” Folco Boffin said thickly.  “Miriel daughter of Mardil of Lebennin, I love you.  Would you consider accepting my hand in marriage?”

            Miriel went quite still and pale, looking deeply into his eyes, hers searching his face.  Then suddenly she was smiling, and blushing with happiness she whispered, “I’d never thought to find love in my life--and to find it with such as you....”  She took a deep breath.  “Accept you, Folco?  I would be most honored to have you as my husband!”  Their second kiss was as sudden as the first, but full of joy.  And as they pulled apart to smile into one another’s eyes, all the company was applauding.

            After the Yule feast Ruvemir watched Folco and Miriel disappear into the study.   They would have much to speak of, much to consider.  She would have to tell him the truth of her heritage as a daughter of Men, and they would have to consider where they would live, who would be giving up the life known to now in order to cleave to the other.  At least with himself and Elise they shared the same culture.  But, he thought, either he or Elise--or both--would need to give way with the two of them as well--either they would remain in Minas Anor and settle there, or she would go into Lebennin and learn to live on the farm, or they would need to pick a new place in which to settle so that both were starting over, and not just one.  He realized that the two of them, also, had some serious discussions that needed to be worked through once he returned.

            After the children were sent off to the parlor to play watched by their Uncle Nick, the family and guests stretched as they sat around the table and drank their tea, wine, ale, or cider.  Master Cotton drank from his mug and looked at the sculptor with interest. 

            “Did you meet our Sam down there in Gondor?”

            “No, for he went through Ithilien and then to the capital, and I was further south and west in Lebennin at the time, on our family farm.”

            Master Cotton’s eyebrows rose with interest.  “What kind of crops do you raise?”

            “We raise cattle for beef, and the hay and grain to keep them through the winter.  Save for our kitchen garden, we do not raise other foodstuffs.”

            The farmer nodded his understanding.  “So, you didn’t fight in the war.”

            “No.  We did send extra meat for the needs of our troupes, however.”

            “What is this monument that the King wishes constructed?”

            “The Lord King Elessar wishes that the people of Gondor and the realm remember the courage and dedication of the four Hobbits who left your land to assist in the victory over Sauron.  He has commissioned me to create a grouping of four statues, one of each of the Travelers, as a memorial.”

            “You any good?”

            Sam answered, “Yes, sir, he is good.”  Rosie lifted from beside her plate the small plaque of her daughter’s face and passed it to her father, who took it and examined it closely. 

            Ririon asked, “Shall I fetch your sketch booklets, Ruvemir?”

            “Yes, and thank you, son,” Ruvemir responded.  “They lie on the bed on the side nearest the door, near the pillows.”  The boy rose and left the room in the direction of the bedrooms. 

            “You did this of Elanor?”

            “Yes, and the figure of the King cloaked and hooded as a Ranger of the North that we gave to Master Samwise.”

            “That was of the King, Sam?”

            Sam turned to the sideboard where he’d set the small statue before sitting down to the meal, and passed it to the farmer.  “Yes, sir, as we first saw him in at the Prancing Pony in Bree.  He came to talk to Master Ruvemir in his Ranger outfit, and this is how he looks in it.”

            The farmer examined both figures more closely, and finally set them down on the table side by side.  “Can’t speak to the likeness to the King, but that is clearly Elanor.  How will you do a figure of Mr. Baggins, seeing as he’s left Middle Earth, if what Sam tells us is true?”

            The sculptor shrugged.  “This is a part of my artistic gift--to be able to ask the questions which teach me the shape of those who are no longer here or who are now disfigured so as to depict them as they were.  Also, the King sent me the pictures done of Lord Frodo in Minas Tirith, which taught me some of the shape of his face.  What I have learned here has taught me to imagine him in most of his moods.”

            Ririon returned with the booklets, and with thanks Ruvemir accepted them, opened to the picture of Frodo laughing which had been the first to begin capturing Frodo’s nature, and showed that to Rosie’s father, then the most recent ones from the new sketch booklet.  Farmer Cotton examined them carefully, then passed them to others around him so all could examine them.  Ruvemir took back the first one, and found the picture of the King seated by his bed in the Houses of Healing.  “This is a picture of the King as he appeared when I first realized he was, indeed, the King, and that he had served Gondor in the past as a captain of its armies.” 

            The farmer examined this one equally closely, and finally looked into the face of the sculptor.  “Will you do a sculpture of him, too, one day?”

            Ruvemir smiled.  “I suspect I will do many now; but I’ve already done one of him, of him as he was when he served Gondor before--as well as that one of him in his northern Ranger garb.”  He held out his hands for the booklet, and turned back to the picture of the Lord Captain Thorongil and showed that.  “This is as he appeared when he was a captain in Gondor’s armies.”  He took back the other booklet and turned to the page of the King on his throne.  “And this is as he appears when he sits in judgment.”  He finally found one of Aragorn seated with Arwen by his side that he’d done a few days earlier.  “And this is the Lord King and his Queen, the Lady Arwen Undómiel.  Although the Lord Frodo did a better picture of the two of them together.  Lord Frodo was a better artist with drawing sticks than I am.”

            The farmer looked inquiringly at Sam.  “I didn’t realize he drew pictures, Sam.”

            Sam smiled.  “Oh, he was always doing them when we was younger, and he gave me many he’d done of the flowers of Bag End, and of the Gaffer here,” nodding his head at his father, “and of me.  Even Rosie.  He was a bonny enough artist, he was.”

            “That picture of the shells as hangs in the study he did, Tom-Dad,” Rosie said. 

            Her father looked a bit surprised, then smiled.  “Guess as I’d not even questioned as to where that came from,” he commented.  He then looked at the sculptor and meaningfully at the sketch of the King.  “So, now you’ve met him personal.”  At Ruvemir’s nod, he continued, “How is he as a king?  Is he worthy?”

            Sam and Ruvemir nodded at the same time.  Ruvemir smiled.  “Worthy as king?  Oh, I should say so indeed.  Before I realized he was the King, I was told he could not meet with me on my arrival at Minas Anor for he was busy laboring in the Houses of Healing among the children of the city who had taken ill with the pox--Ririon here being among them.  I still thought at the time he was one of the King’s own kin from the north, and both he and Gimli son of Gloin, the Dwarf who traveled with them to Gondor and has become his friend, described him as one who seeks to serve Gondor and Arnor however he can.”

            Sam was still nodding.  “Yes, that’s Strider.”

            The farmer looked at his daughter’s husband.  “If he’s a healer, any way he could of healed your Master, Sam?”

            Sam shook his head, his eyes sad.  “No, sir.  Lord Elrond said even he couldn’t heal him.  He said he could of kept him alive, but that was all.  No use being alive if it’s barely that, you know.  Both of them said as only the Valar could give him healing.”

            “But those as goes to the Undying Lands can’t come back.”

            Sam nodded once more, very solemnly.  “Yes, that’s true.”

            “Could you of gone with him, Sam?”

            Sam looked at him soberly, and shrugged.  “If you think as I’d leave Rosie, you’re mistaken.”

            “Never said that, Sam.  Never thought as you would.”

            Sam just looked at the farmer and didn’t answer further.  Finally Farmer Cotton gave a crooked smile, and gently clasped Sam’s shoulder.  “You’re a good husband to my lass, Sam Gamgee.”           

            Sam ducked his head slightly and responded, “Thank you, sir.  I love her.

            Ruvemir decided it was time to change the focus of attention.  “Lord Frodo stayed with your family, I understand, for several months.”

            The farmer and his children and wife all nodded agreement.

            “Was he as you remember before?”

            Farmer Cotton shrugged.  “He was quieter than he used to be, not that he was ever a wild one or nothing like that.  Was thinner, too, and his face pale, even when he’d been out on one of his walks.  Tired easily.  Would go out each day as he felt good enough to care for his pony what he named for the King, and would walk about some, often to Bywater or Overhill.  Wouldn’t go to Hobbiton, though, less’n it were necessary.  Too hard, I think, to look on how the Row was dug up and the garden at Bag End was destroyed.  When he had to go to Michel Delving he’d ride his pony, usually.  Tried to walk to Brandy Hall one time, but had to stop and rest on the way.  Farmer Maggot said as he found him leaning on a tree, looking pale and sick-like, and had one of his lads get the pony cart to take him to his home.  They made him to rest, but soon he was joking with them and changing the subject when they tried to find out if he was truly ill.  Master Saradoc of the Hall came looking for him with an extra pony when he didn’t show up on time, he did, and took him on to the Hall.  But Mr. Baggins never tried to walk far after that.

            “He’d always try to hide when he was feeling bad, although I think as Sam could usually tell.  The one time, however, as I found him huddled in his bed in his room, his eyes blank, his face white as chalk--no, it was maybe more bluish, even--that gave me a turn.  Was holding onto that gem as he wore on the chain about his neck like anything, looked toward me but wasn’t seeing me at all, he wasn’t.  Downright eerie.  Then he saw me, and he did his best to convince me he was just fine.  Told Rosie about it, and she put those leaves of Sam’s into his bath, and it seemed to help.”

            Ruvemir looked at Sam inquiringly.  “Athelas?” he asked, and the gardener nodded.

            “Was the one thing as seemed to help him, along with the gem the Lady Arwen gave him.  Together, they helped him a good bit.  Gandalf seemed to think the kingsfoil worked especial well for me, for some reason.  Said that it worked best for those of the children of Elros, of the line of the Kings.  But when I used it, I always said an invocation to the Valar as I’d learned as a child with it.  Gandalf said that, too, was good for me to know and use.”

            “He was always a pale one,” the Widow Rumble said.  “Mistress Doncella, who was midwife in the village when he was born, said he took quite a time to take his first breath.  She was afraid they’d lose him.  Of course, he came almost a month before his time, and such infants often are weak and sickly, and often have difficulties with breathing or their hearts--if they survive at all, of course.

            “I’d care for him from time to time when he was a babe.  Was small, but not particularly fretful, although I’d have to have him sleeping upright, almost, to help him breathe better at times.  Would smile up a storm, though, once he heard his mum or da or Uncle Bilbo coming.  Loved the three of them deeply, he did, even when he was just a wee tike.

            “When they came back to visit at Bag End he was such a quick little thing.  Full of questions and curiosity.  ‘When was the world made?  Who named the stars?  Why do folk get bigger the older they grow?  Does a child in another land see the same stars as me?’  Things like that he’d ask from day to night.  Can’t say when he began to read, but by the time he was three he was looking at books and would tell me the letters and would sound the words out.  And didn’t his Uncle Bilbo just dote on him!  If he hadn’t been the spitting image of his da, only slender, I’d almost have believed the gossip that said Bilbo was his real father.  But having seen Missus Primula and Mr. Drogo together, I’d never accept she ever played her husband false.   Certainly no one could say that the children she lost in Buckland were Mr. Bilbo’s.”

            “What was he like when he came back to Bag End as Mr. Bilbo’s ward?”

            “Shy at first, but quick to learn.  Came to dote on our Samwise here, and him just a little lad of what?  Ten?  He looked apologetic at first, as though he were always on the verge of saying he was sorry for something as he probably hadn’t of done anyways, but that passed.  Soon he was smiling, standing up straighter, obviously very happy, starting to fill out.  Became eager.  Always was eager to please, he was, even when he was tiny; but now if he got just a hint that you wanted for something he’d go out of his way to fetch it for you if he could.  When Mr. Rumble was ill at the end, he’d send down food every day, would sit with him, even, and read to him.  Found out Mr. Rumble loved strawberries, and sent to Buckland to have some sent over from their glass house there.  Of course, that was years later, but he was the same from shortly after he came to live at Bag End.

            “He and Mr. Bilbo were both much given to walking trips, they were, and would go off tramping all over the Shire.  Good thing as they didn’t keep pets, as it would have made it necessary to keep someone on hand to care for them, and then they’d most likely have taken them off with them if they could--they were always asking Sam to go along when they went off, not that his folks would spare him that often.  Must have hurt his soul not to be able to go about on his walking trips any more after he came back.  But it was all he could do some days to make it to the bottom of the lane to talk with the children and then back, there at the end particularly.  One day when I went out to the woods to pick brambleberries, I found him there, obviously angry and weeping.  I think he’d been berating the sky for how weak he’d become.  I’d heard someone shouting, and he didn’t hear me coming.  When I came on him and he realized he wasn’t alone, he looked right shamed.  Turned and left.  I picked my berries and headed home, and found he’d made it as far as the bench on the lane, and he was sitting there, all white, trying to catch his breath.  I brought him back to my place and made him lie down on the sofa for a bit, brought him some dandelion wine to drink, and he calmed as he held on to that jewel of his.  Apologized for yelling in the wood.  Said he’d come down to get some berries himself, then found every time he leaned down to pick them he could barely breathe, and his chest was aching.  Didn’t get enough to bake a pie for Rosie and Sam, which was what he’d intended.  Said it was embarrassing not to be able to do any more.  Said he didn’t know how much longer he could go on.  I checked the pulse in his neck--it was erratic.  First I truly realized how hard he was working to look as normal as he did.  First I realized he was dying, I think.  When he was rested he left, thanking me so deeply for my courtesy.  I went back out to the woods and got more berries, and sent little Cyclamen up the hill with a pie I baked the following day.  He answered the door himself, and was so very grateful.  Was always grateful for the help given him.”

            Sam smiled.  “He was so amazed as folks would do for him, he was.  Always had done so much for others--was a shock to his system to have to be on the receiving side for a change.  But I am so grateful to every soul as give to him at the end.”

            “Sam, do you think he’s still alive, there with the Elves where he is now?”

            “I’m not sure, but I do think I’d of felt it had he died on the way.  He was right weak, he was, right weak as we rode to the Havens, and Lord Elrond was keeping the draughts going into him each time we stopped to rest.  But he did rest and rest well along the way, and was warded about on all sides.”

            “Hope they’re showing him beauty, beauty all about him.”

            “Pity he never married,” Mrs. Cotton commented as Folco and Miriel rejoined the rest.  “Always loved children, he did. Would always tell stories to the children, even when he was yet a lad hisself.  Member seeing him at the Free Fair at Michel Delving--always had a group of children about him, telling them his tales, even when he lived in Brandy Hall.  And when the dancing would begin, there he’d be, in the midst of it, dancing and glad.  Was a bonny dancer always, and every girl about eager to be his partner.  And at the Party when Mr. Bilbo left--if he didn’t dance with about every lass present--everyone save Pearl Took.  Bet she was sorry as she let him slip through her fingers.  Why she ever listened to that foul Lobelia Sackville-Baggins I’ll never understand.”

            Mrs. Rumble smiled.  “I was thinking he’d finally settle on your cousin Narcissa, Mr. Folco.  I know almost every lass in the Shire had her eye on him one time or another, but Miss Narcissa was truly smitten with him, I know.  All he had to do was look halfway in her direction and she’d flush so prettily.  And at the final party he was finally beginning to notice.  Then after his uncle left, he simply didn’t look at lasses any more.  No one could understand that.”

            Ruvemir again found himself resenting the Ring and its influence, and catching Sam’s eye realized that his resentment was a pale copy of that the gardener felt.

            Singing and dancing filled much of the rest of the day, and Marigold Cotton taught young Ririon some of the simpler dances.  Folco invited Miriel to dance with him, and Ruvemir was pleased to see her face shining with simple pleasure. However, he himself felt restless, and at last he slipped out and down the lane to the bench where the lane turned and sat there, looking out at the Mallorn tree in the Party Field glowing silver in the dusk.  He was somehow not surprised when a young Hobbit lass joined him on the bench, sitting beside him and also looking out at the tree.

            “Cyclamen?” he asked.

            “Yes,” she responded.  “Yes, I’m Cyclamen.  Are you Master Rumevir?”

            “Ruvemir,” he corrected.  “Yes, I am.”

            They sat quietly for a time before she said, “I miss him still.  I only vaguely member him from before, when he was well and lived up there,” pointing up the Hill toward Bag End.  “I was only a tiny one when he left the first time.  But my older brother told me he would tell stories even then, exciting ones, mostly in Hobbiton on market days.  Sometimes he would go up to the garden at Bag End and spy on Cousin Frodo and Master Samwise--watch them work in the garden or Cousin Frodo reading to Master Samwise, or maybe they’d just be talking a lot about Elves and dragons.  Pando wanted so to see Elves and dragons himself.”

            “Master Samwise has seen some Elves, but no dragons that I know of.  Although maybe the Enemy’s fell beasts were close to being dragons.”

            “Cousin Bilbo saw a dragon,” Cyclamen said.

            “Yes, Smaug in the Dwarf caverns under the Lonely Mountain.  I’ve had two Dwarves tell me of that, and I’ve read his story as well.”

            “Oh, you’ve seen Dwarves?”

            “Yes, although the first I ever saw I saw only last summer in Minas Anor, the capital of Gondor.  Many are there helping in the reconstruction of the city.”

            “Cousin Frodo always called it Minas Tirith.”

            “It was called that for many, many years; but at last the original name has been restored--the Tower of the Setting Sun.”

            She nodded.  “Minas Tirith means Tower of Guarding.”

            “Yes.”

            “What was it on guard against?”

            “The Enemy and his folk from Mordor.”

            “And now they are gone.”

            “Yes, because of your Cousin Frodo and Master Samwise.”

            She twisted to look up at him.  “They wouldn’t talk about it much.  How did they defeat Sauron?”

            “Have you heard the story of how your cousin Bilbo Baggins met the creature Gollum in the Misty Mountains and found a magic ring which made him invisible when he wore it?”

            “Yes, everyone has heard that, I think.”

            Ruvemir sighed.  “When he decided to go on another adventure, Bilbo left the Ring to Frodo, at Mithrandir’s insistence.”

            She interrupted, “Who’s Mithrandir, and why is he called the Grey Pilgrim?”

            Ruvemir laughed and began to explain....

            Finally she stretched.  He’d taken her under his cloak as they talked and the story unfolded to the best of his knowledge.  Now he was feeling a bit stiff as he sat there.  She was holding his right hand, rubbing her fingers against his. 

            “So that’s how he lost his finger,” she said softly.

            “Yes.”

            “I’d always wondered.  How were he and Master Samwise rescued?”

            “The great Eagles of the North came at the last to fight in the battle before the Black Gate, until the Ring went into the fire and the Nazgul were drawn off and lost their shapes.  Mithrandir asked them, and they carried him as swiftly as the wind to the remains of the Mountain where they found Lord Frodo and Lord Samwise where they’d managed to crawl afterward, and the Eagles lifted their bodies up and carried them away to safety.  The Lord Aragorn Elessar himself cared for them while they were recovering.  Both were in healing sleep for weeks, they were so close to death.  The King remembers it with grief, as if it were yesterday.”

            “Then you have indeed seen the King?”

            “Oh, yes.  He is a great Man, he is, the Lord Aragorn Elessar.”

            “So Cousin Frodo used to say, and so Master Samwise says.”

            “They are right.”

            After a time of quiet, she finally said, “He was growing weaker, Cousin Frodo.”

            “Yes, so I’m told.”

            “Would he have died?”

            “Had he stayed, yes, he’d have died, and probably soon, Lord Samwise says.”

            “We have our home back because of them, Cousin Frodo and Master Samwise and Master Peregrin and Master Meriadoc.”

            “So I’m told.”

            “Master Peregrin brought archers from Tookland, and Master Meriadoc thought up the strategy, and they fought the Big Men in Bywater, and won.  And Cousin Frodo helped all the wounded, Men and Hobbits, and saw their wounds bound.  Master Samwise says that was important, too.”

            “It certainly shows that he, as a Hobbit, was a far better person than they were, as Men.”  She nodded her agreement.

            Finally she said, softly, “I member being forced to move out of our hole into that brick shack they called a house, and how drafty it was.  And I member my dad going to help Master Samwise dig the new hole for us, and how good it felt to go back home again.  Then at last the fixing of Bag End was finished and Cousin Frodo came back, too.  And after Master Samwise married Miss Rose they moved into Bag End to care for him.”

            “I’ve been told.”

            “He was better at first, but he kept getting weaker.”  She eyed the glowing silver of the Mallorn.  “That’s an Elven tree.  The Lady Galadriel herself gave Master Samwise the nut it grew from.  And Cousin Frodo’s gone to where they grow naturally, the Mallorn trees.”

            Ruvemir nodded.

            “I hope the Elves are helping him have a joyous Yule, too.”

            “I hope so, too, Cyclamen.  Now you and I’d best go back inside, I think.”  He rose and accompanied her home, where her mother was just opening to door to call  out for her, and then went back up the lane to Bag End.  Rosie was opening the door for him there, and smiling on him as she held out a cup of mulled cider for him.

After Yule

            That night Ruvemir read a great deal more of the Red Book, getting to the breaking of the Fellowship at Amon Hen.  The next day after he and Ririon went to pick up the boy’s new clothes, he read through the final confrontation with Saruman, and the day after to Frodo and Sam’s encounter with Shelob, and Sam’s desperation.  Sam nodded his acknowledgment of what Ruvemir had read.  “The next bit’s mostly about Aragorn,” he said.  “But there isn’t a lot left to read now.  Want to get out of here for a bit?”

            So they headed into Bywater to the Green Dragon, where Ruvemir found himself enjoying himself immensely.  Finally a Hobbit who seemed familiar approached their table with a mug of beer in his hand.

            “You’re the sculptor Master Ruvemir?” he asked.

            “Yes, I am.”

            “I’m Sancho Proudfoot.”  Suddenly Ruvemir recognized the likeness to both Cyclamen and to Frodo himself.  “May I join you?”  At the sculptor’s nod, he sat down.  “It’s about my son Pando—he’s taken it into his head as he wishes to become a sculptor, and I was wonderin’ if you’d find out if’n he has any talent that way.”  Then he flushed.  “Actually, he ain’t exactly my son—he’s my nephew, really.  His dad was my older brother Pulgo.  When Geli ’n’ me—put the dessert before the meal, you see, he took us in and let us live with him ’n’ Lyssa.  They were much older’n Geli ’n’ me, you understand, an’ the two of ’em already had a lad o’ their own.  No rushin’ things for those two.  Anyways, not long after Cyclamen—that’s my daughter—I think as you’ve met her?”  At Ruvemir’s nod, he continued, “Not long after she was born the catarrh went through, an’ lots o’ folks was getting’ ill.  For some reason neither Geli nor me caught it, but Pulgo and Lyssa did—an’ they both died.  Left us the hole, you see, so we live there still with Pando ’n’ our little lass.

            “Only ones what was for us marryin’ was them, Pulgo and Lyssa, an’ our Cousin Frodo.  My da Olo and Granfer Odo—they didn’t want it, o’ course—much less her da Fando.  But Cousin Frodo—he called us in to talk to us.  He’s Baggins family head, you see, an’ my Geli-love, she was a Baggins after all.  Took him some time to talk ’em round, but he managed in the end.”

            “Why didn’t your father and grandfather wish the two of you to marry?”

            “Oh, Granfer was sure as we was too young.  We wasn’t of age as yet.”  At Ruvemir’s second nod, he continued, “As for old Fando—he was always against me bein’ with Geli, you see.  Didn’t think as I was steady enough—kept sayin’ as I was flighty.  Wanted her to marry a Bolger lad from there Overhill-way.  Geli didn’t want him—we’ve known as we wanted one another since we was about twenty, don’t you see.  When he told her as he was goin’ to announce as they was betrothed, we thought as we’d best do somethin’ or he’d force her to marry in spite o’ us.  So—so we did what we did, an’ afore the party planned to announce the betrothal Geli tells her da, cool as cool, as we was expectin’ and she couldn’t marry none but the bairn’s da.  Oh, if’n that didn’t put the fox in the henhouse!”

            Fascinated, Ruvemir said, “Oh, I can well imagine.”

            Relieved not to see condemnation in the outlander’s eyes, Sancho continued, “Cousin Frodo thought as we ought not t’marry neither, I think—or at least not at first.  But as he talked to us and realized as how desperate we was and as how much forcin’ as there was from old Fando, he started gettin’ angered—for us.  He was family head for the Bagginses, Cousin Frodo was, not Fando Baggins; and Fando had no authority to force his daughters t’marry someone as they didn’t favor.  I guess when he had Fando alone he made it clear as this wasn’t never goin’ t’be acceptable.  And he talked ’em all round, he did.  Then he made certain as all knew, when Pulgo ’n’ Lyssa was gone, as he was lettin’ the hole to us.  ’Twas his, after all—had it from his folks, I think, as that was where he was born.  Although I suppose as he might have sold it to Mr. Bilbo an’ Frodo had it from him.  Either way, ’twas Cousin Frodo’s to let as he pleased once he’ was Master o’ the Hill.”

            “And your foster son wishes to become a sculptor?”

            “Oh, but he does.  Always playin’ with wax and clay—got a cousin as is a potter as gives us clay.  Cousin Frodo’s own da was a carver ’n’ joiner.  Made some beautiful pieces o’ furniture, an’ hearin’ as you’re a master artist he thought as you might be willin’ to teach him—if’n, o’ course, he’s good enough t’learn.”

            Ruvemir was taken aback, for he’d never considered such a request, but he found himself agreeing to meeting with the lad the following day.

            Pando Proudfoot was more slender than he’d seen in most Hobbits, with a defiant expression on his face as if he’d faced a great deal of opposition and was bound and determined to do what he wanted in spite of it all.  He explained he was seventeen and of more than an age to be apprenticed, but his father hadn’t been able to find any profession to apprentice him to that pleased him.

            “I started wanting to carve because of this,” he said, holding out the box he carried.  It had a carving of a Dwarf atop it, and somehow Ruvemir wasn’t surprised to see Drogo Baggins’s sign on it.  “Inside are some of the carvings I’ve done.”

            Ririon came in as they began going through the box, and soon he was feeling the items and giving his own opinions on them.  Finally Ruvemir supplied the Hobbit lad with an amount of clay and a stone plate on which to work, and asked him to shape something, and he watched as Pando began exploring the clay and then to work it.  Pando Proudfoot’s woodcarvings were nowhere near as fine as Ririon’s had been, and his stone carvings were crude at best.  But his wax and clay items showed promise; and now as he watched the young Hobbit work the clay Ruvemir realized that this was a medium at which the lad would excel.  He’d begun a sculpture of what was plainly the face of Frodo Baggins, and it showed an awareness of the planes of the face that was heartening.

            Finally the sculptor asked, “You have it in your heart to become a sculptor?”

            “Yes, I’ve wanted it for years.  Do I have any promise?”

            “Some, but it is with clay you now show your best affinity.  I have a friend who works with the plastic arts who could teach you far more than I in how to work wax and clay.  However, I could begin to teach you until we could bring you to her.”

            “A lady sculptor?”

            “Yes, unless you do not wish to work under a woman, which would be a great loss.”

            “Oh,  but I don’t mind at all, either lady nor gentlehobbit.”

            “She isn’t a Hobbit at all, but a woman among Men.  And she lives in Belfalas, far south in Gondor.  Are you willing to go so far to work under her teaching?  She is a master at her work.”

            The lad looked down at the face he’d been shaping.  Finally he looked up, a determined expression on his face.  “I’d go anywhere to learn to do this well,” he said.

            The interview with Pando’s foster parents was long and involved, but in the end they agreed.  When Ruvemir son of Mardil left the Shire to return to Gondor, he’d be taking with him a second apprentice.

 *******

            That night Ruvemir finished the Red Book, and returned it reluctantly to his host the next morning.  Samwise smiled to get it back.

            “At least I now know almost the whole story,” Ruvemir commented.

            “All we could get out at the time,” Sam agreed.

            “No wonder you love him so deeply.”

            “He was always like an older brother to me.”

            Ruvemir clasped Sam’s shoulder for several moments, then, as he pulled away, bowed deeply.  Sam colored slightly, but only dipped his own head in respectful acceptance in return.

            “Master Samwise?”

            “Yes, Master Ruvemir?”

            “When at last you come to him, bear him my respect and regards, and thanks.”

            “You think I will?”

            “I am certain you will.”

            And Samwise Gamgee smiled, smiled a brilliant smile such as Ruvemir had seen only hints of before.

            And later Rosie asked him in a whisper, “What did you say to him?  He’s not smiled like this since his Master left us.”

            Ruvemir examined her face closely before answering softly, “Only that I believe that when the time is right he will be able to see Lord Frodo again.”

            “It won’t be while I’m yet here, though,” she whispered.

            “No, not while you are here.  He’ll never leave you.”

            “He told me, before he left, he didn’t wish for Sam’s heart to be torn still in two.”  She looked westward.  “But it must be tearing his own heart in two, being the only mortal of two among the Elves and the Powers.  But most like he’s the only mortal of all, for I doubt as Mr. Bilbo has lasted this long.  Oh, he’s surrounded by Elves and by Beauty of which we see only glimpses; but he must long at times for mortal bread, and mortal love.”  She sighed.

            “I think,” she continued, “I think and I hope he’s well now, that they’ve healed him.  And I don’t doubt he’s changed.  You couldn’t stay in those lands without being changed, I think.  Probably his mortal frame is falling away by bits, and the Light within him is shining out brighter and brighter till that’s what’s mostly left.  I suspect that’s what Sam will find when at last he takes the Grey Ship meant for him.  Then they’ll both come to join me.”

            All Ruvemir could do was nod.

 *******

            He dreamt that night of sitting on the bench outside the front door of Bag End, looking down at the Party Field.  Hobbits were busily preparing for a festival, raising tents, setting in place pallets to make a bandstand, setting up tables and benches, making stacks of ale barrels near a tall, ancient oak which stood where the Mallorn stood now.  He smelled pipesmoke beside him, turned to look into the smiling face of Frodo Baggins, who held his pipe in his hand.

            “For Sam’s birthday,” Frodo said.  “He’s coming of age tomorrow.”

            “He’ll dance with Rosie and feel compassion for you,” Ruvemir said.

            “Yes.  But It would destroy any relationship I make.  It will accept no rival.”

            “So he says, also.”

            Frodo nodded.  Finally he said quietly, “He should not feel torn in two.”

            “But it’s all right for you to feel torn in two?”

            “I’ll heal.”

            “So will he, but not fully until he is reunited with you, you know.”

            Frodo looked down on the field.  “One way or the other, ship or grave, I must leave him.”  He closed his eyes and began to glow with a clear, mithril light.  “It has already eaten so much of me away.  I can have no family of my own.”

            “He will give you the whole of his, the whole of his loves, to share.”

            Shining tears fell down Frodo’s face, as he said softly, “Oh, I do know.  I do know that.”  He looked down the hill again.  “Bless him, my dear, dear Sam.”

Decisions

            Folco announced the following morning he would be selling his home and going with them to Gondor.  “I have little enough to keep me here,” he said.  “Mother is gone, and I find the woman I love is a woman indeed.  I’ll give most of the books to the Library, for those are what mean the most to me.  And, if he’ll have his son-in-love work with him, I’ll work alongside your father on his farm and learn of him, perhaps teach him a few things.  For I know more of growing crops than raising beasts.”  He looked at Ruvemir.  “I’ll bring two of my own ponies, one to ride and one to carry what I’ll take with me.  Will you have another with you for the ride home?”

            “Gladly,” Ruvemir said.  “But will you be handfasted here or in Gondor?”

            “Here, if you will.”

            Samwise and Rosie insisted that the marriage take place at Bag End in two weeks time.  Arrangements were made to bring Will Whitfoot to the smial at the appropriate time, and invitations began to flow out of Bag End to Tookland, Buckland, Tighfield, Overhill, Bywater, and Hobbiton--even one to Hardbottle.

            On a day late in January guests began to arrive, and the next day Folco Baggins took Miriel daughter of Mardil and Elainen of Lebennin to wife, and together they set off to Overhill to spend a few days alone in the house there until it went to its new owners.

            Four days later they returned and joined the party as Ruvemir and the Brandybucks began their return trip to Brandy Hall.  Ruvemir had done one more sculpture for Sam, of Frodo seated on the bench before Bag End, in keeping with his dream, holding his pipe in hand, a look of happiness and pride on his face as he looked down the Hill to the preparations for Sam’s coming of age in the Party Field.  Sam accepted it with that special dignity that Ruvemir had come so to treasure.  The two embraced and wished each other well.  Then Ririon slipped a small carving of a sleeping Hobbit babe into Rosie’s hands, and she kissed them all warmly.  Elanor lifted up her hands to be picked up and kissed, and cried when she kissed Ruvemir.  “I don’t wish you to go,” she said. 

            “I must, my lass,” he said.  “Elise is waiting for me, and I must complete the King’s commission now that I have the ability to do an image of Lord Frodo.”

            Frodo-Lad simply smiled and hugged all in turn.  He’d begun to stand alone in the past few weeks, and as they got into the coach he walked alone from his mother’s side to the wheels of the coach, where he ran his hand along the spokes.  Sam carefully retrieved him as Folco again clambered onto the box with the extra ponies tied behind, and once Pando Proudfoot had joined Ruvemir, Ririon, and Miriel inside they set out on their way, waving as they set off for the turn in the lane and the way back to Hobbiton and the road east to Buckland.

            They stopped for the night at an inn, and Folco proudly paid for a room for himself and his wife; and Ririon and Ruvemir shared a room with Pando, who was feeling decidedly homesick already.  Ririon soon had the Hobbit lad laughing, and Ruvemir found he was grateful that Ririon would no longer be the only young one in the group.

            At Brandy Hall they were again warmly welcomed.  Merimac quickly thanked Ririon for the gift of the serpent about the branch that had been his Yule gift, and the other family members all thanked them for their gifts as well.  Merry accepted the return of the pictures with joy, and saw to it that that first night Ruvemir, Miriel, and Ririon opened their own Yule gifts.  “We didn’t want to bring them to the wedding and distract from the newlyweds, so we saved them till now.”  For Ririon there was a warm Hobbit cloak that he seemed to love and a wooden puzzle, for Miriel a bolt of woolen material in a dark blue and one of light green linen, for Folco a cloak from Gondor that Merry had brought back but rarely wore, and for Ruvemir a box that Merry insisted he was not to open till he was back in Gondor again. 

            Ruvemir quickly recovered more blocks of soapstone from the large chest as well as a good-sized block of clay for Pando, and he began to do models for the final statue.  He did Sam’s first, working from the picture he’d done of Sam with his Elven cloak and Sting in his hand, and soon all were exclaiming at how well it was done.  Then he did the one of Pippin, standing on guard with Troll’s Bane in his hand, then one of Merry leaning on his sword, although he replaced the sword he’d received from Éomer and Éowyn with as close as he could come to the one he’d used against the Nazgul, modeled both on Troll’s Bane and Sam’s Dúnedain blade, which hung in Bag End.  Finally he began that of Frodo, standing, left foot slightly forward, his right hand, finger missing, raised, the Ring held out on its palm, the Phial of Galadriel held in his left hand against his breast.  He’d held long discussions during the days between the wedding and the leaving with Sam, Merry, and Pippin on which had been taller before they left on the quest, and how each would have stood at the time.  Now as he finished the models and set them as he intended the final memorial to stand on a base with small tufts of grass to represent the flowers he intended to see planted around them, all began to share in the vision of what the final grouping would look like.  Master Saradoc nodded, the Thain, who came for three days to see the finished model, looked on it with pride, and the Mayor, who’d come with the Thain, looked on it with wonder.

            “It is so like them all,” he whispered again and again.  “It is so like!”

            The last day of January, with them ready to leave the following day, Sam arrived, and he brought with him a slim volume.  “My Master had done some notes for the Red Book afore he wrote it all down that he never burned after or that he misplaced.  I’ve bound them for you, along with some of the pictures he did, and hope they’ll bring you pleasure.”

            Ruvemir was overwhelmed.  “Once you get the Red Book copied, I’d love to have a copy for my own,” he said. 

            “It’ll take a while, particularly as you’re taking one of the best copyists in the Shire with you,” Sam commented, “But I’ll see it done.”

            He then looked at the model for the memorial, and his eyes misted, and his head raised proudly.  “Yes,” he said at last, “I’ll accept that.”  And with similar sentiments from Merry and Pippin, Ruvemir realized his design was set at last.  Now, if only the Lord King would accept it.  “Oh,” Sam said sagely, “Strider’ll like it just fine.  Just you watch and see if he don’t.”

Setting Out

            On the first day of February they set off for Bree.  Dorlin was to return there within the first week of the month, and they were to set off southwards as soon as possible so as to be there for the birth of the Queen’s child in mid-April.  They were a party of two mannikins, one Man-child, two Hobbits, and five ponies, two pulling the coach and one behind, a puppy gifted to Ririon for Yule by the children of Brandy Hall, then Folco's two ponies, with Ririon and Pando up on the box with the Boffin.

            Early that evening they arrived in Bree, and they were warmly welcomed by Nob and Butterbur, who gladly provided them with two rooms for Hobbits and promised to hold one for Dwarves for Dorlin on his arrival.  Butterbur looked on the newlyweds with interest.  “Now,” he said with interest, “this is a happy event.  Who’d of thought?”  And he had his own wife, who was doing the night’s cooking, prepare a special cake for their guests to celebrate the marriage, and all were brought to the Common Room where the wedding was celebrated a second time with a great deal more noise than the first time.  Folco and Miriel stood embarrassed in the midst of the crowd, yet smiling and obviously blissfully happy.

            Ruvemir was sitting at one of the lower tables designed for Hobbits when a figure cloaked in the grey-green of the northern Rangers sat next to him, a silver star on his left shoulder.  “Welcome, Master Ruvemir,” said the man as he thrust back his hood.  “I’m the Lord Aragorn’s cousin Halladan, and am the Steward of the Kingdom of Arnor.  We’ve been keeping watch for your arrival for the past week, although we were warned today would most likely be when you would come.”

            Ruvemir rose and bowed deeply.  “It is an honor, my Lord,” he said.

            The Man was looking at the wedding couple with a wide smile on his face.  “A woman from among Men married to a man from among Hobbits.  A first to my knowledge.  We will see to what it comes.”  He looked again at the sculptor.  “I am looking forward to seeing your sketches.  The Lord King speaks well of your artistic abilities.  And tell me of these two additions to your party.”

            So Ruvemir found himself explaining about the growing love between Folco Boffin and his sister, and the decision of Sancho Proudfoot to send his son to Gondor to have his talent properly trained.

            “So,” Halladan said at last, “both are kin to the Ringbearer, eh?  Perhaps this marks the breakdown of the tendenciesjtoward isolation exhibited by Hobbits.”

            “Perhaps, although I will tell you probably most of the Shire look on them as more than half mad.”

            The Man shrugged.  “I do doubt, however, that any of your party will be asked to sing or dance upon tables,” he commented.

            Ruvemir laughed.  “I will wager you are correct, my Lord.”  And he led the Steward of the Northern Kingdom back to the private parlor they’d again been given to show him the model he’d made and his sketch booklets.

            Halladan smiled gently at the model, touched it gently with one finger.  “Yes,” he said, “this is indeed like them all.”

            “You were there, then?”

            “Yes, I rode south with my brothers Halbarad, who was Steward before me, and Hardorn to follow our cousin through the Paths of the Dead.  We were at the coronation and the wedding, and saw the four of them several times.”

            “I’ve met Lord Hardorn.  I’m told he is very good with that bow he carries.”

            “Yes, for the Lords Elrohir and Elladan of Rivendell both taught him its use.”

            “So I’ve also been told.  Did you see the Ringbearer when he left the Shire?”

            “No, although we had brief warning he was leaving.  When the party from Lothlorien and Rivendell rode through Eriador to the Shire we were aware of it, and one of our Rangers met briefly with them and heard word.  We’d thought we’d need to send word to Aragorn, but instead he came himself, although too late to bid the Lord Frodo farewell.  He was much grieved.”

            “So I gathered from what he would tell me of it, and what the Travelers have told me as well.”

            “When you are done with this commission, would you consider doing another for the Kingdom of Arnor?”

            “Of what, my Lord?”

            “Of the Fellowship of the Ring traveling through Eriador.  We would like it as our own memorial.”

            “Gladly, my Lord.  Although when I come north to sculpt it, I will be accompanied most likely by my own bride.”

            “Another Hobbit?”

            “No, a woman among Men, taller than I but not tall among our kind.”

            “We will be glad to welcome her, Master Sculptor.  Now, show me your sketches.”

 *******

            Ririon was able to get new boots the next day, a set made for a farmer who’d changed his mind before taking delivery, the pair providentially fitting the youth.  Dorlin arrived two days later, spent the night, and indicated he was now ready to head south.  They loaded the coach and left just ere noon, the party provided with a veritable feast to eat as they rode by the staff from the Prancing Pony.  They were accompanied along the road by a grey-clad Ranger, a young man named Eregiel who explained that he was a second cousin to the King, twice removed.  Eregiel rode a great horse he named as Rohel and was accompanied by a hound he named Artos, and he carried a sword and bow and quiver as well as a number of knives of various sorts.  Dorlin looked on his armament with approval.  “I could give you a throwing axe as well, although I have not time now to properly school you in its casting.”

            “I thank you for the offer,” the young Ranger said, “and may take you up on it if we have time to rest and practice.  It is always good to learn to use another weapon, I’ve found.” 

            Not far south of Bree they met a party of Elves, led by two so similar in face, form, and coloring Ruvemir realized he must be looking on the brothers Elladan and Elrohir of Rivendell themselves.  Ruvemir alighted from the coach and joined in the mutual bows of respect and honor.  These two indicated a pavilion they’d raised and asked if Ruvemir’s party would confer with them for a time, and all agreed.  With Eregiel joining those Elves serving on watch, the rest of Ruvemir’s party entered the pavilion carrying much of the food provided in Bree and offering it for the refreshment of all.  Ruvemir had also brought the model, which he guessed rightly the sons of Elrond would wish to see.  Ririon behaved with proper respect toward their new hosts, and Pando was so obviously overwhelmed to meet with a party of Elves that he could barely be brought to smile, much less speak.  The puppy and Artos lay down together within the doorway of the pavilion, happily chewing on bones given them by Bob from the stable at the Prancing Pony.

            With the brothers were Lord Glorfindel of Rivendell and Lord Celeborn of Lothlorien and a number of others who had remained in Middle Earth when the Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel took ship to Tol Eressëa.  They all examined the model for the memorial, and agreed that the sculptor had come up with a design which did its subjects credit and would meet the desires of the King.  And all gave the model of Frodo himself solemn respect.

            “When you have finished the completion of the memorial in Minas Anor, what will you then do?” asked Elrohir.

            “I have then been asked to return to Arnor to do a grouping of the entire Fellowship as a second memorial to all.”

            The Elves nodded, then looked to one another.  “Then we will have a third memorial we would wish made, of the riding of the Elves with the Ringbearer and the Ring-finder.”

            Ruvemir was surprised.  “You would wish a mortal sculptor to do such a memorial?” he asked.

            Lord Celeborn answered, “You have shown yourself to be both competent and able to show the spirit of your subjects.  Yes, we would have this of you.”

            With a great sigh, the sculptor thought on the subject.  “I will most like need the aid of others who are better able than I to sculpt horses, for this has never been one of my great gifts.”

            “That is acceptable, if you will do the faces of the subjects.”

            “I will need to meet with those of you who best know those you wish shown, for I know little of those whose images you would have me sculpt except for the pictures I’ve seen done by the Lord Frodo.”

            Lord Celeborn stilled.  “So, Master Samwise has shown you the work of his Master.  I’d not thought he would share it with others.”

            “You knew of Frodo’s work?”

            “He did two pictures in Lothlorien during their sojourn there.  He gave both to me, one of my Lady Galadriel and one of Samwise himself looking into her Mirror.  I gave the latter back to him when we parted on our homeward journey.”

            “Ah, then that explains how it came back into the possession of Lord Frodo.  Neither Lord Samwise nor his cousins understood how it came to be missing before they reached Amon Hen, nor how he recovered it.”

            “Then I have added to the mysteries of Middle Earth.  My Lady will be amused, I think, when I tell her.”

            “I hope you will not wait long to rejoin her, my Lord.  Lord Samwise spoke warmly of your love for one another.”

            “When the time is right, I myself will take ship; but now my heart remains here, I fear,” the Elven Lord said slowly. 

            Ruvemir bowed deeply.  “Forgive me, Lord, for prying where I have no right to do so.”

            Celeborn merely smiled sadly and made a dismissive gesture.

            Elladan was examining Ririon’s eyes.  “I see Estel did a fair job at clearing away the scars,” he commented.

            Elrohir gestured his brother aside and made his own examination.  Finally he looked up and commented, “He makes a competent healer, for a mortal.”

            Glorfindel laughed.  “High praise indeed from the two of you.  Master Ruvemir should remember to carry the report of it to Aragorn.”

            “Who is Estel?” asked Ririon.  “Only the King touched my eyes.”

            “Our father gave to your Lord King the child’s name of Estel,” explained Elrohir.  “And so we and our sister call him more often than not.”

            “Oh.  It is hard for me to think of him as a child.”

            Elladan shrugged.  “We have watched so many in his line grow from infancy to old age.  He is merely the latest, and we will most likely see his children through their lives as well--and his grandchildren.”  Ruvemir noted the consideration sparked by this exchange in Pando’s eyes.

            After all had eaten their fill, those continuing on the road south returned to the coach, and having received the blessing of the party of Elves, they started again on their way.

 *******

            “You said nothing while we were among the Elves,” Ruvemir commented to Dorlin when they stopped to camp for the night. 

            “Neither did I notice Mistress Miriel nor Master Folco saying anything,” the Dwarf returned with no sign of distress.  “Their wish was to speak with you, and so they did.”  He smiled.  “They treated me with sufficient courtesy for all that, you know.  However, things are changed much in Rivendell now that the Lord Elrond has gone beyond the Sundering Seas.  How long these will remain no one will be able to say.  The days of Elves within Middle Earth are coming to a close, particularly with so few of the great Elves remaining.  The greatest still here are the Lords Glorfindel and Celeborn.”

            Ruvemir nodded solemnly.  “Even the Silvan Elves of King Thranduil are not as great, although I believe more of his people linger than remain in the Havens and Rivendell together.  As Lord Celeborn appears to have settled now in Rivendell I am not certain any remain in the Golden Woods any more.”

            “Why are they leaving Middle Earth?” asked Pando.

            “The three Rings of Power borne and wielded by the Great Elves were shorn of their powers when the Enemy’s Ring was destroyed, and the protections wrought by them over the secret Elven Lands are no more,” the Dwarf explained.  “Now Lothlorien and Rivendell and the ancient city about the Havens will deteriorate as do the mortal lands, and this is a distressing development to the immortal Elves.  Their proper place within Arda was ever the Undying Lands, where there is no death or corruption, and now more and more take the Straight Path to Tol Eressëa.”

            “You seem well advised about the ways of Elves,” commented Folco wryly. 

            Dorlin laughed.  “You must remember, Master Folco, that I have worked closely for the past few years with Lord Gimli son of Gloin, who is that remarkable thing among Dwarves--an Elf-Friend.  The folk of Rivendell have ever been courteous to our folk, but few of us have ever felt we had true friends there.  For Gimli to not only become friends with an Elf but with the son of King Thranduil of Mirkwood has been an unprecedented occurrence, and is as much a matter of marvel for the folk of the Forest of Green Leaves as it is for the folk of the Iron Hills and the Lonely Mountain.”

            Eregiel and Ruvemir took the first watch on the small camp, and the tall Ranger showed the mannikin how to blend into shadows and listen for coming dangers.  Finally Eregiel woke Folco and sent the sculptor to bed, and hours later woke Pando.  As Dorlin and Folco would do the lion’s share of the driving of the wagon, he did not wish to keep them up that much of the night.  For several days they made good time.  Eregiel would sometimes sleep during the day within the coach while the boys sat on the box, and occasionally Folco, Pando, and Ririon would ride behind on the extra ponies.  Artos would go between running behind Rohel and riding in the coach with Ririon’s puppy, a young bitch so far unnamed.  Eregiel would go out early in the morning or in the evening as they were starting or finishing their drive for the day and would come back with game with which they would replenish their supplies and feed the dogs, and Miriel and Ruvemir both were learning to dress such meat.  Folco seemed to have no difficulty with such things to begin with, and Pando appeared to be an accomplished camp cook already.  When Miriel commented on this, the youth flushed and Folco laughed. 

            “He is a teen, after all,” the Hobbit explained.  “When we are teens our appetites are at their highest, and that’s the age when we seem to do our most raids on farms and smoke houses and pantries and so on.  We all become adept at cooking over open fires at such an age, it seems.  That he’s not raiding the food chest is testimony to several things--to his realization that we all depend equally on the food we carry, to the fact he’s getting larger portions when we do eat, and to the fact the food chest is watched fairly well even at night.”  If anything, Pando went even redder, and the others smiled, and Ruvemir clapped him on the shoulder.

            Ruvemir had begun teaching Ririon how to read while they were staying at Bag End, and now as the coach rumbled down the Greenway the lessons continued, using both the book with raised letters and an amount of clay on a large slab of board obtained from stores at Bag End.  It was slow and laborious work creating words on the clay, but Ririon was learning fairly quickly.  Pando was learning different techniques with the clay, and seemed content to return what he’d done during the day to the main block at night, although two small figures which were particularly pleasing Ruvemir set to dry so that when they returned to Minas Anor he could have them fired.

            Ruvemir, Dorlin and Eregiel now shared one of the two tents; Miriel and Folco shared the other, while Pando and Ririon spent most of their sleeping times within the coach.  Had it not been for Eregiel’s apparently tireless constitution and hunting skills they would not have made it far, even with the gift of a waybread made them by the sons of Elrond, for Ruvemir was seeing now firsthand how much more food Folco and Pando--especially Pando--needed.

            On the fourth day the weather turned wet, and it seemed that the coach rode quite a bit heavier and sank deeper into the roadway than it had on the way north.  Eregiel watched its progress with concern from beneath his hood.  That night they found a small settlement and stopped there for the night, but although they were given the freedom to sleep in a barn and were able to purchase a few supplies, it offered little to their comfort and they found themselves feeling uncomfortable with their hosts.  They all found themselves sleeping with one eye open, the two youths insisted on sleeping in the carriage to keep a watch on things there, which Eregiel approved, and neither dog seemed to rest well at all.  Early in the morning they were harnessing the ponies chosen for the first run, and shortly after daybreak they were already on their way.  It was not till afternoon they began to feel as if they had left the oppression of the place behind them, although Eregiel remained vigilant even then.

            In late afternoon Eregiel, who’d been riding far behind the coach, came riding up swiftly to tell the others they were being followed.  Folco, who’d been driving while Dorlin slept inside and Ririon rode on one of the extra ponies, commented he’d been seeing signs that there might be someone flanking the roadway as well, for he’d been seeing flickers of movement within the margins of the forest that here filled the land between the road and the Misty Mountains.  Eregiel’s face became concerned, and he began scouting for a defensible position, which he felt he’d found a short time later, leading them to the ruins of an ancient settlement where there was a stone byre into which they could drive the coach with a clear view in all directions.  

            “No roof or beams to catch fire, and sufficient chinks to allow us shots out with no one able to shoot in.”  He turned to Folco.  “You any good with that bow you’ve brought along?”

            “I’m fair,” Folco said, “but both Pando and I are good shots with a stone either thrown or slung.  A Hobbit talent.”  Pando produced a catapult he had brought with him and stuffed it into his pocket, and soon both Hobbits were gathering a store of stones for ammunition about themselves while Eregiel and Dorlin examined the byre and decided how each could best make use of their weapons.  The puppy was shut into the coach with Miriel, and Artos and Eregiel melted into their surroundings.  Even Pando and Folco appeared able to do similarly.  This left the three representatives of Mankind remaining in the byre feeling both helpless and exposed.

            The ponies were unharnessed now and set between the coach and the wall of the byre.  Ruvemir had a mallet in his hand while Ririon felt the point of one of his chisels.  Hopefully they would see no combat themselves, but one never knew.

            The attack came after an hour’s wait, and it came suddenly for all their preparation.  Arrows were shot over the wall and fell mostly on the top of the coach, although one managed to strike one of the ponies, who cried out in fear and pain.  Eregiel, however, seemed to be able to locate their attackers fairly easily, and was proving an excellent shot with his bow.  Soon three of the enemy seemed to be incapacitated.  Folco had both his bow and his stones wherever he’d secreted himself, and soon he managed to remove another of those surrounding the byre.  When at last the attackers made an assault on the byre, their arrows apparently exhausted, Dorlin and Eregiel both showed their fighting prowess, while the stones used by the Hobbits proved to be efficient and deadly.

            Then unexpected assistance came to the defenders, and a new voice was calling out to the attackers to desist.  When one of those striking at Dorlin fell with a green-fletched arrow in his shoulder, the others drew back, and at the demand they throw down their weapons they obeyed.  

            The identity of those Folco had spotted flanking the road was made clear as Elven hunters now came forward.  They kept their bows trained on the Men who had attacked the coach, indicating they’d best step back from their weapons.  Eregiel came forward followed by Artos, clutching at a shoulder where an arrow protruded, and Dorlin and Folco approached the prisoners, gathering up their weapons.  Pando kept his catapult in his hands as he came out, pale but determined.  Ririon went around the coach to check on the ponies, and came out leading Folco’s pack pony, who had an arrow protruding from its wither, the animal shaking with pain and fear.

            The leader of the Elves rode forward.  “I am Haldir, once of Lothlorien,” he said.  “With me are several who have left our land to join our Lord Celeborn in Rivendell.  We were camped not far from the settlement from whence you set out this morning, and saw first you leave, then these follow after.  We have let you see us that you know you were not alone along the road.”

            Eregiel bowed deeply.  “My kinsman has told me of you, Haldir of Lorien,” he said, still clasping his shoulder.  “I am Eregiel of the Dúnedain of the North, a kinsman to the Lord Aragorn Elessar of Arnor and Gondor.  These are Master Ruvemir son of Mardil of Lebennin in Gondor and his sister Miriel, her husband Folco Boffin of the Shire, Ririon son of Embril and Damsen who is apprenticed to Master Ruvemir, Pando Proudfoot of the Shire who is also apprenticed to Master Ruvemir, and Dorlin son of Dwalin of Erebor.  We saw Lord Celeborn five days ago in company with the sons of Lord Elrond and the Lord Glorfindel, some hours south of Bree.  They indicated they were going to return to Rivendell.”

            Haldir looked over the party with interest.  “The Periannath we recognize,” he said, “and the Dwarf is reminiscent of Gimli son of Gloin who visited Lorien and who has the Lady’s favor.”

            Dorlin bowed deeply.  “Gimli is my cousin,” he said, “and he spoke well of you and the courtesy you showed him.  Dorlin son of Dwalin at your service, Lord Haldir.”

            Haldir bowed gracefully toward the Dwarf, and then he examined Ruvemir and Miriel.  “The son of Men we recognize, and certainly we know your people and your Lord, Eregiel of the Dúnedain.  But these we do not recognize.  Tell me, Ruvemir son of Mardil, of what kind are you?”

            “We are of the race of Men, but are stunted in our growth, my sister and I,” Ruvemir explained. 

            “A daughter of Men you are, Mistress Miriel, and yet you have a husband who is a Perian?”

            Miriel drew herself up proudly.  “We were sent to the Shire by the Lord Elessar himself,” she said, “and we met there, Folco and I.”

            The Elf raised an elegant eyebrow.  “I see.  I mean no offense to either of you.”  Again he bowed gracefully, then said something in his own tongue to those who followed him.  “My brother will see to your injury, Master Eregiel.  And another of our people will assist in the care for your beast.”  Others closed on the Men who’d followed and assaulted the party and quickly saw them bound and under guard.

            The care for Eregiel took some time, for the barbs of the arrow point were deep in his shoulder and had to be removed carefully if they were not to incapacitate him permanently.  The pony’s hurt turned out to be slight, and the calming voice of the Elf who cared for it seemed to do more for its comfort than the cleaning and treatment of its wound.  Dorlin also had a shallow cut to his upper arm that was quickly treated.

            Ten men had followed them from the settlement and had taken part in the attack on the byre, four of whom lay dead.  Two of the remaining six were injured, and these, too, were treated by the Elves before all six were brought forward to be questioned.

            “Why did you follow these?” Haldir asked.  “You gave them hospitality last night and were, we had indications, well recompensed for it.”

            “We saw they had gold, and our leader, who lies there--” a nod toward the four dead men “--said we could easily acquire the rest.”

            Haldir looked at the place where the four lay dead and then at those these had attacked.  “I think your leader failed to realize how skilled these were at protecting themselves,” he said archly.  “Any Man who believes a Ranger of the Northern Dúnedain or a Dwarf of Erebor--or a Perian of the Shire--is to be easily defeated is a fool.”

            “We have no experience with any such,” the Man said, determinedly gazing straight in front of him.  “We come from among the Dunlendings.  We were told there was open land to the north that could be settled and farmed.  But we are unused to farming, and Gartman thought to easily take their riches and use them in Tharbad or Bree to obtain supplies.”

            Haldir looked at them with disgust, then to Eregiel.  “As representative of the government of the land of Arnor, it is up to you to decide what is to be done with them.”

            Eregiel was pale, and his hand still held to his wounded shoulder, bandaged as it now was.  For some moments he examined the six who stood bound before them all.  “They should be taken north to Bree,” he said at last, “and turned over to the Rangers there with a report of what they have done.  Lord Halladan, Steward of Arnor, was there when we left the village, and commanded I accompany Master Ruvemir south to the Lord King in Minas Anor.  He will not be far north, if he has yet left Bree.  He will judge their case.”

            Haldir nodded.  “So be it, then.”  He spoke to his followers, and six came forward.  “These will take them to Bree, while the rest of us go to Rivendell and rejoin our Lord.”

            Two more Elves entered the camp, slipped from their horses, and made a report to Haldir.  He listened closely, asked a question, then finally turned to Eregiel and Ruvemir.

            “They have followed two others, boys, who watched the assault and returned to their village.  Three others now keep watch on the settlement.”

            Eregiel and Ruvemir looked to one another.  “It is up to you, Master Ruvemir, whether we will return to deal with them or if we should continue on southward to return to Minas Anor.”

            Ruvemir felt troubled.  “That is a heavy burden to lay on a mere sculptor, my Lord,” he said.  “However, I would not have this settlement trouble others as they have troubled us.  Do you not feel they need to know that their menfolk have been properly defeated and go to proper judgment for what they have done?”

            Eregiel sighed.  “We will go back to them, then, return their dead, and let them know these six go north for judgment.  We will rest then for the night, and start south tomorrow, as long as we are all able to travel.”

            Haldir nodded in agreement.  “So be it, then.”  He turned to his own people, said something, and a few moments later the Dunlendings’ horses were brought forward and they were assisted into their saddles and their hands bound to their saddlebows as Dorlin and Folco saw to the harnessing of those ponies which would pull the coach.  The bodies of the dead were carefully laid over the saddles of the remaining steeds while Ririon tied the rest of the ponies behind the coach.  Haldir examined Eregiel and indicated he should ride in the coach, and after speaking to some of his people said to Ruvemir, “Some of my folk will carry the two young ones and you.  We see one of the ponies is saddled for the Perian--” with a nod toward Folco, “--and that should lighten the load sufficiently for those who draw the coach to not be unduly taxed.”

            “I will lead Rohel, Eregiel,” Folco said.  “And we’ve already put my packs over the back of one of the coach ponies, so that will be well.  Shall Artos ride with you and the pup and Miriel?”

            Eregiel nodded, accepted the assistance of one of the Elves into the coach, and once all were set Dorlin chirruped to the team pulling the coach and they set out back northward till they came again to the small settlement.  The remaining folk, mostly women and children and only three men now, watched with shock the return of the previous night’s guests, their own men under guard, and the accompanying Elves, eight of whom entered the settlement while the rest circled it.

            Having been appointed spokesman by Eregiel and Haldir, Ruvemir spoke from the saddlebow of the Elf who carried him.  “I am Master Ruvemir of Gondor.  We came to you asking hospitality and paying for it full willing; and your men have rewarded our generosity by following and waylaying us, seeking to steal what little we carry with us.  I was sent north by the King himself on an errand he set me, and he would not take well to that errand being interrupted by such as your men.

            “Four of those who attacked us lie dead there,” he said, pointing to the four horses carrying the corpses.  “We return them to you for burial.  The other six who assaulted us will be carried north to Bree and entrusted to the Rangers of the Kingdom of Arnor to be brought before Halladan, Steward of Arnor, for judgment in the King’s name.  The two boys who watched the assault and who returned to you will not be taken from you, but we cannot allow these six to return unjudged.  We will stay with you this night, this time with no recompense for your hospitality.  Those of you who wish to accompany these six north to plea for them will be allowed to do so.  Otherwise, we suggest you look to improve your husbandry of the land.  From now on the Rangers of Arnor will keep watch on your settlement to see that you do not similarly  treat other passersby.  Is this understood?”

            The folk of the settlement nodded their agreement, not that there would have been any good in trying to get a different treatment for their men.  That the four animals carrying the dead men were not commandeered was a surprise to them, and that other recompense was not demanded was an even greater one.

            One of the women came forward.  “Gartman was my man, not that he was particularly good to me or my children,” she said.  “You may sleep in our house this night in recompense for what he did.”

            Ruvemir examined the house and indicated he wished Eregiel to remain there for the night, and he stayed with him to tend to his wound.  The rest indicated they’d rather stay in the stables again.  The Elves took the prisoners out into their own camp for the night and disappeared into the surrounding woods, leaving two of their number to assist Ruvemir’s party.  With Pando and Dorlin taking watch along with the two Elves, they made it plain to the villagers they would not allow any liberties to be taken.

            Through the night Ruvemir and his hostess and her older daughter took it in turn to tend Eregiel.  The daughter was a comely girl, and she and her mother soon were explaining their situation to their guests.  Clothilde was of mixed heritage, having a grandfather who was of the Gondorians of Anorien, a grandmother who was a daughter of a Rider of Rohan, and her other grandparents from among the Dunlendings.  Her first husband had been Rohirric and was the father to Fealwyn her daughter and her older son; but he’d fallen in an assault on the horse herds of the Eastfold during a raid from Mordor.  Afterwards she’d lost her husband’s holding when the Wildmen of the Hills had swept down into their lands and burned their village.  She and her children had become refugees who were looked at askance by many of the Rohirrim due to their mixed heritage; finally she decided to try her luck among the Dunlendings, where Gartman had taken note of her and began to court her.

            “It is odd how pleasant you can find a man to be, no matter how violent he really is, when he pays attention to you when no others will,” she said bitterly.  “I have long regretted accepting him as my second husband, and I will never make such a mistake again.  It is a bitter thing to say, but I am glad your folk killed him, the beast.”

            Gartman had, she’d learned, stolen from among his own kind, which had led to his decision to seek to take advantage of the lands now opening to the north.  They’d begun carving a farming community out of the wilderness, but Gartman and several of those who’d come with the party had no experience in farming and no patience for the life.  That they’d take to thievery from those traveling the Greenway had been a surprise to her at first to her, but she’d come to realize this was simply in keeping with their nature.  “Those who stayed in the village are farmers at heart, and will do well enough, I suspect.  Two of those you captured and one who died are also decent enough at heart, and I hope the ones judging them will be discerning toward them and give them the chance to redeem themselves.  The rest are no better than they should be, and deserve any judgment given them, no matter how harsh.

            “The one boy who followed after and brought the report back to us is a decent boy, but the other is Gartman’s brother’s son, and is no better than my late husband was.  He is the short youth with the sour expression who stood by the water stoup.”

            Eregiel thanked them for the information, and with Ruvemir’s help wrote out a report using paper supplied by the sculptor to send by the Elves who had agreed to take the prisoners north.  He got from Clothilde the description of the two whom she judged to be worthy of redemption, and got from Fealwyn and her mother a list of known misdeeds committed by the rest.  Once the report was done, he finally agreed to sleep, although he was in a great deal of pain that night.  Fortunately the wound did not become infected, and by the next day the pain had eased some.  Accepting willowbark tea from his hostess, the Ranger indicated he was ready to continue south. 

            Haldir accompanied them for some way, carrying Ruvemir before him on his own steed.  “What did you do in the land of the Periannath, Master Ruvemir?  Why has the Lord Aragorn broken his own law in asking a Man, no matter how stunted in his growth, to be admitted to that land?”

            He listened to the story of the King’s commission with growing wonder, and when they stopped for a meal and to change teams and to check Eregiel’s wound he asked to see the model.  When Ruvemir produced it, he looked on it with great interest, and gently caressed the head of the model of Frodo Baggins.  “Yes,” he said softly.  “Surprisingly beautiful for a mortal being he was, and worthy of much honor.  It is said he is no longer in Middle Earth, though.”

            “The Valar gave him permission to take ship to Tol Eressëa,” Ruvemir said, equally softly.  “The Lord Samwise has told me he sailed with the Lord Elrond, the Lady Galadriel, the Lord Gildor Inglorion, and Mithrandir himself.”

            Haldir smiled in surprise.  “He sailed with our Lady Galadriel?  We were not told this.  This is good news, for she came to honor him greatly.  He was willing to cast himself into the Crack of Doom itself for us all, you know.  That Iluvatar granted him the mercy of the loss of that which he carried was more than we expected.”  He looked on the three others.  “Yes, so they all appeared.  And it appears your sculpture of Master Samwise was made with much love and respect.”

            Ruvemir nodded.  “We remained with his family for some weeks, and I came to esteem him greatly.  He is one of great heart indeed, and his grief for the loss of his beloved Master is very deep.”

            “He now has a family?”

            “Yes, he is now married and has two children, and a third due at the same time as the Lady Arwen’s first child.  His wife is a very dear woman of her people.”

            “That is good, that he has such a one to stand by him.  Great devotion he showed to his Master; the loss of him must tear a great hole in his heart.”

            “Yes, it does.”

            “And these two who accompany you from the Shire?”

            “Both are kinsmen to Lord Frodo and his cousins Sir Meriadoc and Sir Peregrin.”

            Haldir smiled and shook his head.  “Ah, it appears that the Shire is beginning to share its small greatnesses with the outer world as we of the Firstborn leave it for the Undying Lands.  That is a good thing, I think.  Did Lord Celeborn see this?”

            “Yes, and he approved of it, as did the Lords Elladan and Elrohir and Glorfindel.”

            “Why did they speak with you?”

            Ruvemir explained the second and third commissions he’d been offered, and Haldir laughed, an unexpected sound from such a solemn Elf.  “It appears,” he said, “that you will be kept busy reproducing the image of Frodo Baggins of the Shire for some time to come.”

            “I commented while in Casistir that I was desirous to do studies of other races than Men for a time, and it appears that Eru and the Valar have decided to honor that desire, and with a vengeance,” Ruvemir returned, smiling.

            Eregiel, who’d been listening to this interchange from his place by the cooking fire, laughed.  “And all this, I understand, came about because you did a figure of my esteemed kinsman from the days when he served Gondor as the Captain Thorongil.”

            “Oh, yes, and so it started indeed,” Ruvemir laughed.

            Haldir shook his head, then caressed the figure of Frodo once more before returning the model to the sculptor.  “May it serve its purpose well, this memorial you will produce, Master Ruvemir.  In the meantime, I think we will leave you now and head north and east to Rivendell.  We will now bid you our goodbyes, for Eregiel appears well enough now to take again to his horse if he so desires.”

Reaching Rohan 

            Two days before they reached Tharbad they cracked a wheel, and they limped into that village.  It took five days to get it and an unexpectedly cracked axle as well replaced, but the wheelwright that did the work offered them excellent hospitality in return for travelers’ tales as he worked, and seemed well pleased with the fee they paid him.  Ruvemir managed to see one of the King’s messengers heading north, so was able to send messages back to the Shire appraising Lord Samwise and the two knights of his next two commissions and their place in such depictions; and catching a second messenger headed south sent word on informing the King and Elise and his father of their current situation.  Miriel managed to get their clothing cleaned for them, and Eregiel’s shoulder was evaluated by a healer who seemed pleased by his recovery so far and who suggested exercises to strengthen the muscles.  Ruvemir smiled as he helped someone else for a change with such. 

            The pup was growing apace and had become dear to her young  master.  She would often run about and play rambunctiously when the party rested, but the moment Ririon began to walk about on his own she would drop all other interests and move to his side, where he found he could rest his hand on her shoulder as he walked.  With the young dog on his left and his walking stick on his right he soon found he was moving about unfamiliar areas with a great deal more freedom.  By the time they reached Rohan she was well practiced in her role as Ririon’s guardian and guide. 

            As soon as they reached the Gap of Rohan Ruvemir indicated he wished to speak to one of the Ents to bear them Merry and Pippin’s greetings, and so they headed south toward Orthanc, finally finding one of their quarry not far north of the remains of the circle that once fenced the vale.  Ruvemir came out of the coach and approached the great figure, accompanied by Ririon, Pando, and Folco, Dorlin having suggested the rest would be seen as less threatening if they stayed put, and together the four of them bowed respectfully.  The Ent appeared amused and bowed in return, but did not appear to speak their language, instead making a deeply musical call across the landscape.  Soon they were joined by a second Ent who resembled a beech tree somewhat, and he was bending and swaying before them, introducing himself as Quickbeam in their language and asking them their business.  His eyes lighted on Folco and Pando with recognition, and looked on Ruvemir with open curiosity.

            “I am a sort of Man called by my own people a mannikin, as I am stunted in my growth,” Ruvemir explained, “and the boy here by my side is my ward Ririon, who has been apprenticed to me to learn carving.  As I think you can tell, Pando and Folco are Hobbits.”

            “Yes, Hobbits are now a part of the Long Lists,” Quickbeam said, his eyes focused on the two Halflings.  “‘Hungry as hunters, the Hobbit children, the laughing folk, the little people.’  So have these new folk been made a part of our lore and memories.  You came to speak to us for a purpose?”

            Folco explained.  “I am a cousin to Frodo Baggins, and also to Pippin Took and Merry Brandybuck.  They cannot leave our own land at this time, and they asked that as we passed through the Gap of Rohan we should bear their greetings to the Ents of Fangorn Forest, and particularly to Treebeard and yourself, whom they remember with great honor and love.”

            Quickbeam seemed very pleased by this message, and he turned and gave one of the musical calls toward the west.  After a time an ancient Ent joined them, and Ruvemir realized that this must be Treebeard himself.  The old Ent peered at them with much the same curiosity shown by the other two, and seemed amused when those of the party who’d left the coach bowed deeply to him.

            “Two of the Shirefolk?” he asked.  “Hoom, hom; you we recognize easily enough.  But do we have another new folk to add to the lists?”  And at this he focused his attention on Ruvemir.

            “No, sir, I am not a new race or people.  I am but an oddity among the race of Men.  Now and then a child will be born with stunted limbs and misshapen body, and I am such a one, as is my sister who remains in the coach.”

            Treebeard nodded his head with understanding.  “Liked a crabbed tree, then,” he suggested.

            “Even so.  I am Ruvemir son of Mardil, and my sister is named Miriel.  The two Hobbits with us are Folco Boffin and Pando Proudfoot--” each bowing as named “--and this is my ward Ririon son of Embril and Damsen.”

            “And the others in your party?”

            “Dorlin son of Dwalin, a Dwarf who is cousin to Gimli Orc-slayer, and Eregiel of the Dúnedain of the North Kingdom who is kinsman to the King Aragorn Elessar.  Folco and Pando are kin to Merry and Pippin and to Frodo Baggins.  We were asked by Merry, Pippin, and Samwise Gamgee to bring you greetings as we return to Gondor.”

            “And what of the Ringbearer?  Has he sent no word of greeting?”

            “If he were still in Middle Earth I am certain he would have joined his greetings to those of the other three you have met.  However, he left with the Lady Galadriel and the Lord Elrond and Mithrandir to find healing.”

            “So it is true, that the Valar have allowed this one to enter the Undying Lands.  Many exceptions appear to have occurred and been allowed at the turn of the age.  Hoom, hoom.  I’d wondered to what he would come, for he was like a fair young tree caught by a sudden sleet storm, encased in ice--whether he would die of the frost or thaw to continue growing was at question.”

            “Had he remained, all appear to agree he would soon have died.”

            “I see.”  He examined the two Hobbits more closely.  “And what has drawn the two of you out of your far land?”

            “Master Ruvemir is a sculptor, one who carves statues out of stone,” explained Folco.  “Pando seeks to learn the making of figures from him and the ones Ruvemir can introduce him to.  Pando is best working with clay.  And I fell in love with Mistress Miriel, who is one who makes and decorates clothing, and we have married.”

            Here Treebeard seemed both surprised and highly amused.  “Is she of a similar size and build to her brother?”

            “Yes, similar, but a touch taller, I think.”

            “It should be an interesting family to watch over time,” the Ent commented.  “Hoom, it is something to think of, at least.  Men and Elves have, after all, been able to join in marriage and blend their natures.  Men and Hobbits are both, after all, mortals, and so should be more easily joined.”  He smiled, then looked more closely at Ruvemir.  “And how do things go in the mortal lands?”

            “Well enough for now, although it is possible that in the next year we may find ourselves fighting armies from east of Rhun.  The people of Rhun sent an embassy to Minas Anor a little more than a month before we left to head north.  They are being assailed by their eastern neighbors, and they do not have the resources to hold them off for long.  They have begged the King Elessar to come to their relief.”

            Treebeard and Quickbeam’s expressions became serious.  The old Ent straightened.  “Always, it seems, the world of Men is fighting with one another.  We do well to have little to do with them, I think, although your King Aragorn Elessar is a worthy enough fellow.  The blood of the Eldar is strong within him, and he is given to great responsibility.  Well, let us meet the rest of your party, and we will let you go on your way.  And when you speak with young Merry and Pippin again, give them our greetings as well.”

            At Ruvemir’s gesture Miriel came out of the coach, Eregiel dismounted from Rohel, and Dorlin came from where he’d been holding the heads of the team.  Accompanied by the two dogs they came forward and bowed deeply.  Ruvemir saw that Miriel had brought with her the model for the memorial.

            “Welcome, young folk,” Treebeard said.  “And what do you bring with you, my Lady?”

            “This is the model of the memorial my brother is to sculpt in Minas Anor, sir,” she said, and held it out. 

            He took it gently from her with his great fingers, and examined it with great care.  Finally he looked thoughtfully at Ruvemir, a hint of a smile on his grave face.   “Your King would have a memorial done of the Hobbits, eh?  Wiser Man, even, than I’d thought before.  If more were like unto these--” with a gesture to Pando and Folco “--there would be fewer wars and ills in the world.  Although, I must admit, that when others come with axes to the eaves of your own woods you’d best be ready to defend yourself.”  He returned the model to Ruvemir.  “We have little to do with the world of Men, although the Rohirrim are a worthy folk.  They give our trees a wide berth, and treat their own woods with great consideration, knowing that if they do not do so they will soon have none left.  The Men sent by the King to the garrison there--” with a nod toward the garrison to the northwest at the start of the Old Road “--are always respectful toward us, and when either the King Elessar or Éomer King comes our way they stop and give us respectful greetings, although I feel Aragorn Elessar is more accepting of us.  Well, we greet you all, and for the sake of Gimli Orc-slayer we greet even you, Dorlin son of Dwalin.  And what do you do in the city of the King?”

            “I hew mostly stone, marble and granite.  As with Ruvemir I sculpt figures, and I assisted in the restoration of the great Gates of the City.”

            Treebeard gave another nod, this one of respect.  “Knowing you are of Aulë’s folk, I know that when you cut your stone you do so with full respect.  Then I welcome you indeed.  And bear my greetings to Gimli Orc-slayer and his friend Legolas Greenleaf.”

            Dorlin gave a deep bow.  “Full gladly will I do so, Master Treebeard.  Gimli has spoken of your great courtesy to him, an axe-bearer, and I am glad to see his honor is again well given.”

            Treebeard and Quickbeam accompanied them back to their coach, and watched as the pup walked close to Ririon, then at a word leapt back into the coach while Artos stood by Rohel, who watched the approach of the great Ents with curiosity but no fear.  Treebeard watched as the ponies behind the coach nudged hopefully at Folco while those in harness did the same to Ruvemir and Dorlin.  He nodded in approval.  “I see your beasts serve you not in fear, but in acceptance and cooperation.  Who taught the dog to work with the boy?”

            Ririon shrugged.  “She’s still a puppy, but has been with me this month past, and just began walking by me, as if she can tell I can’t see well.”  He smiled.  “I named her Joy.”

            Treebeard gave Ruvemir a considering look.  “We look at those who live north of here in the land of the Dunlendings and we begin to distrust Men.  And then, here come such as you, sent to the land of the Hobbits to do a memorial for these four--” he indicated the model of the memorial which the sculptor carried still “--and we see that these and you are the ones the King Aragorn Elessar wishes to honor, and our trust is restored.”  He gave a nod.  “Carry our respects to him as you return to his city.  And thank you for bringing the regards of these.”  He gently caressed the model with one finger.  “And send our greetings back to them.”  He stepped back and watched as his guests prepared to leave.  Together they bowed deeply to the three Ents, and soon they were once again on the road east through Rohan.

A Stop in Edoras

            They were met the next day by a riding of Rohirrim who accompanied them to Edoras, where they were greeted with pleasure by Éomer King.  “So, you have returned, and brought with you even more guests.”

            Ruvemir quickly introduced Folco, Pando, and Eregiel.  “More kin to the Ringbearer and my swordthain?  Welcome to you both.  And a kinsman to my friend Aragorn?  Again, thrice welcome are the Dúnedain of the north.  You are come in good time, for your Lord King is due to arrive tomorrow, accompanied by his wife, my sister and her husband the Prince Faramir, and my wife’s family.  Rooms have been made ready for you.  Will you share a room with your sister, Master Ruvemir?”

            “Actually, my Lord, it would be best if my sister were to share a room with her husband, my brother-in-law Folco Boffin.”

            Éomer stood for a moment in surprise, then smiled broadly.  “So, love has blossomed there in the far lands of the Holbytla, has it?  I wish both of you joy in your union.”  A woman came from the back of the halls, her hair auburn and her eyes grey-green.  “My own bride, the Lady Lothiriel of Dol Amroth.”

            Ruvemir gave a deep bow.  “It is several years, my Lady, since I last saw you.  It is with joy I greet you here.”

            “Master Ruvemir!  Ah, so it is you my lord husband has spoken of.  I ought to have known.  Word has come that the commission in Casistir went full well.”

            “Oh, yes, and earned me the one on which I am now engaged.  Have you heard from your father recently?”

            “My father?  Yes, he said that he and the King passed through Casistir and were impressed with the statuary that decorates the new Hall.  What of the work you did there so impressed the King that he sent you to the land of the Pheriannath?”

            “He didn’t tell you of the subject of the work I did there?”

            “He told me it was of the assault on Umbar by my grandfather and the Lord Captain Thorongil, but that was all.”

            Ruvemir laughed.  “I understand that when they looked on the statue of your grandfather all present were very impressed with how well I’d caught his image.  However, when they saw the statue of Captain Thorongil they were all very taken aback.”

            “Why?”

            “It appears I caught his image far more exactly than I’d expected.”

            Eregiel started to laugh.  “Was that it, then?  What did Aragorn say when he saw himself in your statue?”

            Queen Lothiriel paused, obviously taken aback herself.  “You mean the Captain Thorongil, about whom my grandfather and my father spoke so often, was the King in disguise?”

            Eregiel shook his head.  “Not exactly in disguise, my Lady.  Remember this was over forty years past, when he was still quite young by our reckoning.  He needed no disguise, for his heritage was known only among a select number of the Dúnedain of Eriador and the inhabitants of Imladris.  He need only not give his right name, and no one would have been any the wiser of his real identity.”

            Éomer shook his head.  “He and my uncle both told me of how he rode with the Rohirrim as Ælric and Thorongil under my grandfather Thengel.  I had no idea this was not known in Gondor as it is here.”  He looked closely at the sculptor.  “You had no idea when you made the sculpture of Thorongil you were picturing the King?”

            “None whatsoever.  I’d not yet seen the King.  When he came to Casistir he did not name himself openly, and most, as I did, took him for an officer of the realm under the new King.  The first time I saw him, he was seated at a table near ours, and his face was poorly lit.  Then when he approached me to take the commission he came dressed in his Ranger’s cloak from Eriador and with his hood up, and he told me to think of him as Strider.  I had no idea who he really was for months.  I thought he was one of the King’s kinsmen from the north.  Even when Lord Gimli called him Aragorn I had no idea, for I’d only heard the King named the Lord Elessar.  Even when I recognized the features of Thorongil in his face, I thought that the real Thorongil had perhaps been his father.”

            “What a jest!” Éomer laughed.  “In what odd ways has my friend amused himself.”  He shook his head.  Then he looked at his wife.  “And you have met Master Ruvemir before, then?”

            “Yes, about eight years past.  The city of Lossirin in Belfalas wished to have my grandfather’s statue placed in a niche on the facade of the Merchants’ Hall.  My father was in Minas Tirith at the time consulting with the other lords and captains over the anticipated movements of Sauron and Umbar, so when Master Ruvemir came to learn of the visage of my grandfather, I was the first he met with.  There were a few drawings and one rather excellent painting of Adrahil available, and several statues about Dol Amroth itself, although I think the one Master Ruvemir did was far better.”

            “Thank you, my Lady.  From you I consider that high praise indeed.”

            She smiled.  “Oh, I can imagine that the King, having seen himself in stone in Casistir would have indeed have felt taken aback.”

            Éomer smiled.  “Well, what I wish to see now is the progress he has made on the memorial for the Ringbearer, Merry, and their companions.”

            Once again the model was brought out, and once again Ruvemir saw recognition in the eyes of those who examined it, and the special gentleness and honor they appeared to give the small sculpture of Frodo Baggins.  Several of the men-at-arms about the King had ridden with him to raise the siege of Minas Tirith and had also marched on the Black Gate, and had taken part in the feast on the Field of Cormallen, and they almost bowed down in honor before the figure of the Ringbearer.  One commented, “I was nearby when the Eagles bore them out of the ruin of Mordor, bringing them to the Lord Aragorn.  We thought they were both lost, for both were unconscious, and thin past all bearing.  The Lord Aragorn was weeping as he clasped the Lord Frodo’s body in his arms, his face stricken.  And as he leaned over the Lord Samwise it was the same, the grief, the caring.  As for Gandalf Greyhame--his face was certainly as grey as his cloak used to be that day.”

            Éomer’s face had become solemn with respect, also.  He touched the small figure of Merry gently.  “He was not to have come to the battle at all, but came nonetheless, riding under my sister’s cloak--not that she was to have come to the battle, either.  When the Lord of the Nazgul came all others were thrown and killed or knocked senseless, or carried away by the madness of their horses.  Only he and my sister stood by our uncle after Snowmane was slain by a dart and rolled on him in his agony.  Together they faced that great evil, and vanquished it, though it almost cost both their lives and sanity.”  Then he turned his attention to Pippin.  “And this one’s quick wits saved first his cousin Merry, then the Lord Faramir, then those beside whom he stood at the Black Gate, and who knows how many others besides.”  Then he looked at Sam.  “The Ringbearer has said of this one he would not have survived had he managed, as he’d intended, to leave Lord Samwise behind, that this one’s great hope alone sustained them both, even when Lord Frodo was at the point of death.”  Finally he looked on the Ringbearer himself.  “And this one’s endurance was beyond all hope.”  He looked up into Ruvemir’s face.  “You have caught them, caught them indeed.  Yes, such are the ones who deserve greater honor than we’d dreamed when first we saw them.”

            He then looked on Pando and Folco Boffin.  “And you two are kin to them?  Then know you are thrice welcome, for your people have taught us more of faithfulness and dedication than we had dreamed possible.”

            Folco stood shaking his head.  “We are most closely related to Frodo, of the three.  He is our beloved cousin.  But until these three came to the Shire, we simply failed to understand just what he did for all of us, what his leaving of the Shire meant to the rest the world.”

            Éomer smiled.  “Then we will rejoice to show you what the sacrifices of these four, and particularly what was done by the Lords Frodo and Samwise, have saved in the rest of Middle Earth.”

*******

            They slept that night in chambers prepared for them in Meduseld, and the next day, not long before noon, they stood on the foreporch of the hall to watch the Lord Aragorn Elessar’s party arrive from the east.  A finely sprung coach carried the Queen Arwen and the Lady Fíriel of Dol Amroth, and beside the coach on Olórin rode the King, followed by the Lord Faramir, the Lady Éowyn, Prince Imrahil and his son Elphir, and a guard of twelve men and two officers and a light wagon.  And driving the coach--

            “It’s Lasgon!” Ruvemir said, smiling. 

            The Queen’s coach was brought inside the city gate and carefully placed beside that which had carried Ruvemir, Miriel, and Ririon so far, and the King’s party carefully made their way up through the city to the Golden Hall.  Ruvemir shook his head.  “I barely remember making the climb yesterday.  My hip is obviously strengthened over what it was, for it has not ached since our arrival.”  Miriel smiled at him, and Eregiel laid his hand on his shoulder. 

            The Hall Guards sprang to attention, a horn was blown, and out of the doors of the Hall of Meduseld came Éomer King and his wife and the young Door Warden, Haleth son of Háma.  Éowyn hurried up the steps to the porch to embrace her brother, leaving behind any hint of decorous protocol, and the rest laughed as they followed after. 

            Aragorn walked with his arm linked in that of his wife until they came to the top of the stair and he found himself at a loss as to whom to greet first--sculptor, kinsman, or brother-king; and he looked on the additions to the party with interest.  After greeting Éomer and Lothiriel, he turned first to Eregiel.  “Well met, my young cousin,” he said.  “So Halladan did send you along as guard on the return trip, as he’d intended.”

            “And a good thing he did,” Ruvemir commented, “as we had some difficulties along the way.”

            Eregiel smiled.  “It is long since you would swing me up behind you onto Roheryn, my Lord Cousin.”

            “I doubt I could do it now--you’ve grown too tall for it any more.  Ah, I see you have brought a couple of your hounds with you.”

            “No, only Artos is mine.  Joy is the companion of young Ririon there.”

            Aragorn and he embraced, and Arwen smiled as she followed suit.  “You have grown tall indeed since I last saw you, Eregiel,” she said.  “Welcome to the southern kingdoms.”

            “My Lady Arwen.  We bear greetings from your brothers, who have told me they will follow in a few weeks to greet their niece.”

            The King then turned to Ruvemir and Miriel and the rest of their companions, who all bowed low, as he gave his own bow of respect.  He looked deeply at Ruvemir’s face.  “You are smiling.  Do you have the final design planned, then?”

            Ruvemir nodded.  “The model is within, my Lord King.  It was a wonderful trip, but it is very good to see you again.”

            “You’ve done a model?”

            “Yes, and the three in the Shire have all accepted it.  And you’d best not go against the Lord Samwise’s predictions, or I fear he will come down and explain most solemnly that this is what he has agreed to.”

            Aragorn laughed.  “Yes, I suspect he would at that.  Then we will be working on your next commission.”

            “Oh, don’t be in too great a hurry, my Lord.  My next two commissions have already been issued, before I finish with this one.”

            “Next two?”

            “Oh, yes, and this time you and Lord Gimli and Prince Legolas are all involved, and I’ll need some assistance in how to depict Lord Mithrandir and the Lord Captain Boromir, as well as Lord Frodo as he was then.  Then in the second, I’m to do the Riding of Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel and many from Rivendell and Lothlorien along with the Ringbearer and the Ring-finder.”

            “Who have given you these?”

            “Lord Halladan has let me know that the people of Arnor wish a memorial to the entire Fellowship of  the Ring made, and Lords Celeborn and Glorfindel and Elladan and Elrohir have commissioned the Riding of the Elves.  I will not have much in the way of time of my own, it appears, for at least another two years or more.”

            “So I see.  Your work is, after all, impressive.  Now, let us have introductions.”

            “Ah, yes.  May I introduce Folco Boffin, cousin to Lord Frodo and more distant cousin to Sirs Merry and Pippin, and husband to my sister Miriel.”

            “My Lord King, my Lady,” the Hobbit said, bowing low.

            “Husband?” the King asked.  “It appears there are indeed tales to tell now.”

            “Oh, indeed.  And this is Pando Proudfoot, another cousin to the Lord Frodo, and older brother to Cyclamen.  He is a second apprentice until I can bring him to a better teacher for his gift, which is with clay and wax.”

            “Pando?  Both your cousin and Sam have told me of you in their letters.  So you, too, wish to become a sculptor?”

            “Yes, my Lord Aragorn.  I’ve wished it for ever so long.”

            “And this is Joy, a gift to Ruvemir from the children of Brandy Hall,” Ruvemir added.

            The dog was a single wriggle of pleasure as the King and Queen greeted her.  Artos yawned, stretched, and came forward for his own share of royal attention.

            Now there were introductions the other way round, as all were introduced to the Steward of Gondor and his wife, the Prince of Dol Amroth, his lady, and his heir, and finally all entered the Hall.   Ruvemir was given a good deal of respect by all, as were the Hobbits and the Lord King’s kinsman, and the sculptor was glad to see that the King was walking in alongside Ririon, watching him use his walking stick to find his way, and with Joy walking alongside him and obviously watching for anything that might inconvenience her young master.  Ririon was animated as he explained how much he’d enjoyed his visit to the Shire, how he’d been to a birthday party in Brandy Hall and had been given the walking stick, how he and Ferdibrand Took, who was a cousin to Sir Pippin and who was totally blind from the Time of Troubles, had explored using the stick to assist him in finding his way, and how Joy had apparently realized on her own that her eyes assisted her master to avoid difficulties. 

            “She’s a very wonderful dog, my Lord King, and I love her very much.  I wasn’t certain at first that Ruvemir and Miriel would allow me to keep her, but she’s turned out to be so much fun.  And she just began walking beside me and putting herself just in front of me to stop me when there’s something I might hit.  Ruvemir says she is constantly stopping me running into low branches.  I feel like I can do more on my own.”

            “I see,” Aragorn said, once he could get a word in edgewise.

            “Oh, and your foster brothers said you were a competent healer after all,” the boy added, and the King laughed out loud.

            “Now, from Elladan and Elrohir that is excellent praise indeed,” he said.

            “So Lord Glorfindel said, my Lord.”

            They approached a table set up near the dais on which stood the model for the memorial and Ruvemir’s sketch booklets.  The Lady Arwen had smiled through the spate of words that had poured out of Ririon, and now she was watching with interest her husband’s reaction as he approached the model, saw him taking a deep breath and readying himself for what he would see.  Miriel had draped some of the golden linen cloth over a portion of the table so that the boy could see the contrast between the grey-green figures and their background, and beside it Ruvemir had laid the booklets opened to the sketches that had most closely inspired the work.  Ruvemir had also draped a bit of the blue fabric over his special gifts that sat nearby, intended for his sovereigns.  Ririon led the King to the table and unerringly to the model.  “There it is, my Lord King.  Sir Pippin and Sir Merry and Lord Samwise are all pleased, as are the Thain, the Master, the Mayor, and their ladies.  And at last I have an idea what Lord Frodo looked like, although it is too small for me to make out the detail.”

            Aragorn leaned down, then went down on one knee to look at it more closely on its level, and let out a great sigh.  “Yes,” he said gently.  “Yes, that is indeed what I myself had envisioned for them.”  He gently examined each figure, Pippin with Troll’s Bane at the ready, Merry leaning on his sword--and even in this small model it was plain it was indeed the sword Merry had carried from the Barrow, and Sam with Sting, with Frodo before all, holding up the Ring.  He looked into the remembered face, the perceptive eyes, and sighed, unconsciously giving a brief bow of recognition and honor.  He looked at Ruvemir.  “You have him wearing the mithril shirt under an open shirt of his own.  And this is definitely the cloak he wore from Lorien.  But why did you give Sting to Sam to carry?”

            “The Lord Frodo hated the thought he must bear a sword, my Lord, and gave it repeatedly to Lord Samwise, who has it kept in great honor in a chest in their study, with the mithril shirt and now both their circlets of honor.  It was Samwise who used it in defense of them both and against the great spider of Cirith Ungol.” 

            “Now both circlets?  I don’t understand.”

            “Lord Samwise has allowed both Elanor and Frodo-Lad to teeth on his own circlet.  I’d been looking at it for days before Frodo-Lad dropped it and I picked it up and realized what it was.  Lord Frodo had confided to the Thain and his lady he suspected Sam would use it as part of a trellis.” 

            Aragorn shook his head and then began to laugh.  His laughter became louder and deeper, and soon the rest of those in the hall were laughing, too.  “Ah, dear Sam,” he finally said, wiping his eyes.  “He regularly punctures my growing regality and pomposity.  Frodo’s has been cherished, and his own given to practical use!  Bless him, the dear, dear Hobbit.  But now both are properly honored?”

            “Now that Rosie knows what it is and what it signifies, she will no longer allow the children to mouth it, and insists that it be placed in equal honor to that borne by his Master.  By the way, he says he checked with Lord Gimli to make certain the children would take no harm from the mithril before he allowed them to place it in their mouths.  He was properly cautious with it.”

            Aragorn’s laughter rang out again, and he sat back on the floor hugging his knees.  “I can’t wait,” he finally managed, “to meet Mistress Rose.  To marry such a one--he must drive her to distraction with his self-effacement.  Oh, Sam; oh, my dearly beloved Samwise Gamgee!”  He looked at the model.  “May I remove his statue from the base?”

            Ruvemir slipped it out of its place and offered it to his King, who held it with great tenderness.  For some moments he turned it in his hand, examined it very closely.  “I don’t know,” he said at last, softly, “which was the worse for denying just how much their actions meant to the whole of Middle Earth.  He and Frodo both shied so from the honor they so richly deserved.”  And now tears slid quietly down his cheeks.  “And yet in the midst of telling you just how little they deserved praise, the two of them would sit or stand there, with such great native dignity.” 

            He returned it to the sculptor, who replaced it and handed that of Frodo to him next.  Again it was handled with great gentleness, closely examined from every side.

            Ruvemir said softly, “Many were beginning to realize just how close to death he was, Lord Aragorn. The last week or so before he left he had begun to actively fail, apparently.  The last dinner he had with his older cousins who are now Master and Thain and their wives, he was fighting hard to appear as normal as he could, although apparently the previous night he’d had a difficult time, and it appears to have been more than just the nightmares.  Sam had kept a steady stream of tea made of athelas, chamomile, and willowbark going into him, and often set more to steep over his bedroom fire.  He said that when he put athelas to steep for him, it always seemed to smell of the Sea.”

            The King nodded.  “So it was when I steeped it for him in Ithilien.  As I knew he’d never seen the Sea I always wondered about that.”

            “Lord Samwise feels it was a presentiment of the fact his healing would only come if he crossed to Elvenhome.”  Aragorn nodded.  “He collapsed after the meal, and Master Saradoc half-carried him to his bed and helped him undress and into a nightshirt.  He was already sleeping when Sam came to bring a basin of athelas to set by his face.  He was still weak and pale the next morning until Sam brought to him the bundle of herbs sent by the Lord Elrond and mixed some of them as directed with the tea of athelas.”

            “Probably some of the Elven herbs used to return strength.  They are very strong in their effect when blessed by such as our Adar, yet most will do little when I use them.  Do you know if there was foxglove in the mixture?”

            “I have no idea which herbs they were, Lord.  Although the Hobbit healer Budgie Smallfoot said he gave Lord Frodo a limited tincture containing foxglove and some other herbs when he came there and he realized his heart was failing.”

            “It would help some, although it is a very dangerous herb to use without great care.”

            “So I understand, my Lord.”  He looked at the figure in the King’s hand.  “The last time he visited the Great Smial he sat for a time by his cousin Ferdibrand, who as Ririon indicated, was blinded by blows and kicks to the back and side of his head administered by Sharkey’s Big Men.”  The King raised his head and looked angered by this report.  “Ferdibrand befriended Lord Frodo only after he went to Bag End to live with Master Bilbo, and says he saw a Light glowing in the heart of his cousin.”  He saw the small nod of recognition given by the King and Queen both, the look to the King by Prince Imrahil.  “Mistress Rosie also spoke of seeing such a Light about him.” 

            The King smiled.  “Another reason to wish to meet with the lady,” he commented.

            “Ferdibrand said that last visit as he held Lord Frodo’s hand, he realized his cousin’s pulse was erratic, and a neighbor said the same of him.”  A look of concern from the King.  “He said he realized Frodo was coming close to death, but that his Light was still very strong, perhaps stronger than it had been, that he’d been aware of it throughout Frodo’s stay, and that he’d been able to tell where Frodo was within the Smial by following its progress.”

            The King had straightened at this, a look of wonder on his face.  The Queen, however, smiled.  “Yes, it is not the eyes of the body which perceive the Light of Being when it can be seen.”

            “Ferdibrand said that he wished to hold Frodo and protect him, but that somehow Frodo divined the thought and explained none could protect him and that he must away soon.  It was perhaps two months before he left.  The neighbor, who must have seen him either just before or just after that visit, also realized Frodo was dying.

            “But all believe Frodo is still living, my Lord.  Ferdibrand says he can discern Lord Frodo’s Light when he looks to the West, and that the Light of Mithrandir is nearby it.”

            The King’s eyes closed and he swallowed, then smiled.  “May it be so,” he whispered.  Arwen placed her hand on his shoulder, and he reached up and covered hers with one of his own.  Finally he returned the figure to Ruvemir, who again replaced it carefully, and handed him that of Merry.  This one he smiled at with pride, and finally he returned it and accepted that of Pippin. 

            “Every time someone mentions your name, Sir Pippin goes unconsciously to attention,” Ruvemir smiled.

            The King laughed.  “My shadow in the black and silver of the Citadel,” he said.  “I miss his presence.”

            “They all send their greetings, of course, and gifts.  They are in a special trunk of their own.  And Treebeard of Fangorn also sends his greetings and his deepest respect.  He says you restore his faith in Mankind, which is strained by the doings of the Dunlendings.”

            Aragorn sighed.  “We’ll have to look into that situation soon, then.”  He rose from his seat on the floor as he returned Pippin’s figure to the artist.  Suddenly he looked to his wife, and commented, “Here I’ve been lounging on the floor, and you continue to stand.  Forgive me, beloved.”  She merely smiled at him, and accepted his gentle kiss of contrition.

            Ruvemir said, “I had a dream of Lord Frodo at Bag End.  I’ve done two figures based on it.  The first I gifted to Lord Samwise, and this one is intended for you, my Lord.  The second figure is intended for your lady wife.”  So saying, he moved the blue cloth he’d set over the gifts for the King and Queen.

            The King looked down at the two figures with surprise, then finally reached down to pick up the taller one, of himself seated in the chair which had sat by Ruvemir’s bed in the Houses of Healing, and examined it with awe.  Finally he handed it to Arwen, then picked up the second one, of Frodo seated, pipe in hand, on a bench, leaning forward slightly to look before him and down, a smile on his face.

            “You’ve caught him smiling,” he whispered.  “Oh, Master Ruvemir, I thank you.  I truly thank you.”

            One of the women who cared for Meduseld’s cleanliness came forward with a chair for the Queen, into which she folded herself with thanks.  Éomer gestured to the Counselor’s chair on the dais and commented that the King of Gondor and Arnor might sit there rather than on the floor of his hall, and with another laugh the King of Gondor and Arnor gave his host a bow and accepted this more dignified seat.

            Soon all were examining the model for the memorial while Aragorn looked through the sketch booklets.  Finally he looked up at Ruvemir, who’d been explaining to Prince Imrahil how the touch of the cloak on the ground served as an extra support for the figure, and once he’d caught the sculptor’s eye commented, “I thought you’d tired of doing Men.  Seems to me my own figure is well represented within these booklets, and that you’ve done your share of images of Lord Faramir as well.”

            “I suppose I’ve been practicing for the works to come, my Lord King, for I am certain I will do many of you and the Lady Arwen in the future.  And I’ve been doing a few studies in anticipation of the memorial to the Nine Walkers and Bill in my newest booklet, which is not here right now.”

            Again the King laughed full well.  “Ah, so you have learned of Bill, have you?”

            “Yes, and the fear of the creature in the pool before Moria as well, and how it spurred him to flee at the last.  You know he returned to Bree and is once again with Lord Samwise?”

            “”Yes, he informed me in a letter.  They have told you the full story, then?”

            “Never the full story, but as full as they could at the time, my Lord King.”

            Lothiriel had come out with the cup of welcome.  “I apologize for not bringing this earlier,” she said, “but I was so enthralled by watching the King examine the model for the memorial I quite forgot about it.  Accept it and be welcome, my Lord.”

            Aragorn rose and bowed deeply, accepted it and took a drink.  The cup was then proffered to the Queen, the Prince of Dol Amroth and his lady, the Lord Steward and his lady, and finally to the young Lord Elphir, then to the captains and the men who’d followed the King to Rohan.  “Another table will shortly be set up, and together we will have a luncheon, although tonight there will be a feast with all within Edoras joining us.”

            Aragorn bowed with thanks.  “It has been a few years since I last ate in this hall, my Lady Lothiriel.  You grace it well.”

            Éowyn smiled.  “It is odd,” she commented, “to accept the cup of welcome here when for so long it was my duty to offer it.”

            “Now it is your turn to be the guest, my Lady.  And it is a joy to see you by your brother once more, for he is always far happier to see you than to look for your figure and realize it is so far away now.”

            Éowyn gave a crooked smile, then laughed.  “A part of me remains here still, even though I love our home in Emyn Arnen.  I will never cease to be, in the end, a Rider of Rohan and my brother’s sister.”

            The luncheon was a fine one, and while they ate stories were told and listened to.  All seemed enthralled by the story of the realization between Miriel of Lebennin and Folco Boffin of Overhill that they loved one another, with all coming out at Yule when following a kiss Folco had made his proposal before all assembled, followed by the wedding a few weeks after in Bag End.  Then Miriel gave the full story of the discovery that the silver circle young Frodo-Lad was chewing on so solemnly was the circlet of honor given to Lord Samwise at the Field of Cormallen, and the reaction of Mistress Rosie when she realized just what it was and what it meant.  But when she told of the great dignity shown by Lord Samwise when he was asked formally by Ruvemir to wear his circlet as it was designed to be worn, and as he’d finally led them to the study where he opened the chest containing Frodo’s circlet, mithril shirt, and Sting, all listened with great respect and solemnity.  When the story was done Aragorn sighed.  “It appears that native dignity I spoke of earlier grows in him, Master Ruvemir.”  The sculptor replied with a nod.

            The King turned to Dorlin son of Dwalin.  “Now, Master Dorlin, tell me of your visit to the Blue Mountains.  Has your heir been born yet?”

            The Dwarf almost choked on his ale, and he looked at the King of Gondor with surprise.  “And what do you know of such things?”

            “Do you think one who was raised in Rivendell as son to Lord Elrond and who has studied the ways of Dwarves with Bilbo Baggins doesn’t know the meaning of visiting ones mother’s people?”

            For a long moment the Dwarf studied the Man, then finally smiled and answered, “A son was born four days after Yule.  It was with great reluctance I left again, and I will not remain in your city many months, Lord Aragorn, for I must fetch my wife and son to Erebor soon.”

            “May both be a delight to you through a long and rich life, Lord Dorlin.  And if there is anything I can do to honor you and your family for the sacrifices you’ve made for the friendship of Gimli, please let me know.”

            “I was surprised not to see him here.”

            “He has gone south to Casistir to help in the preparation to build a new bridge there.  Although if I know Gimli, he’ll most likely have it planned out and half of it built before our Lord Prince Imrahil is off home again to Dol Amroth.”  All laughed.

            The King’s face became solemn.  “Which brings us to the other reason besides friendship and the desire to see the model we have visited you, Éomer.  The latest intelligence from Rhun indicates the Wainriders are encroaching heavily on their lands and people.  Will your Riders join us in a campaign there this summer, my Lord?”

            “We’ve studied the reports you’ve sent us, my brother, and it appears the danger they pose is real.  Yes, we will follow your banner.”

            “Thank you.  Meanwhile, what can we do about the Dunlendings?  They are disturbing the Ents, and I will not allow them to be troubled if I can do otherwise.”

            This led to a prolonged debate and discussion.  Finally the Lord Elessar sighed. “I’ll have Hardorn check it out, then.  Eregiel, will you serve as his bodyguard?  And whom can you send in the party, my brother Éomer?”

            “When do you send it?”

            “Is tomorrow too early?”

            “I could send ten men.”

            “I’ll send five behind them.”  He turned to one of the officers who had accompanied them.  “Lord Hardorn has apparently remained in the stables with the animals.  Will you please summon him and let him know his cousins are awaiting him and desire his presence?  And let young Lasgon know he, too, will be welcome to join us as well.  The two are probably entertaining the guards and those serving today in the stables.”

            “Yes, my Lord.”  The officer gave a bow and left.

            “Hardorn came with you, my Lord Cousin?” Eregiel asked.

            “Who did you think was driving the wagon?  Always fancied himself a groom.”

            “I recognized Lasgon on the box of the queen’s coach,” Ruvemir commented.

            “He was just admitted into the Guard of the Citadel, and has fallen under Lord Hardorn’s sway already.  Hardorn likes to go unnoted, and does so often by appearing as inconsequential as possible.  Few enemies will take much note of those driving the supply wagons, so he takes that position and carries an amazing arsenal with him.  He can disappear in an instant, and will appear unexpectedly within the ranks of the enemy themselves, usually beside the leader of the group, and will either incapacitate him or take him prisoner and disappear with him, leaving the enemy leaderless and confused, which tends to make them easier to deal with.”

            “And who taught him that strategy?” asked Prince Imrahil with a laugh.  “I seem to remember using that ploy against a party of Haradrim at the suggestion of Captain Thorongil!”

            “He and I worked it out between us, actually,” the King explained.  “We’ve used it successfully several times in both realms.  Remember, Lord Imrahil, that I was not the only one of the Northern Dúnedain who served in the armies of Gondor.  He often appeared as my aide or even my body servant.  The number of folk who totally ignore body servants and will speak freely before them as if they were deaf or part of the decor is amazing.  As our numbers have always been fewer in the North, we have had to learn to walk camouflaged and to outflank enemies by trickery.  Often one man alone must serve instead of a squadron, so we have learned to be flexible and devious.  Our long association with the Elves has helped there.  Few are as devious or more practiced at moving unseen than an Elf; and rarely do they resort to their own powers to achieve this.”

            A few moments later the officer returned followed by Lasgon and Lord Hardorn, who was attired roughly--until he pulled off his rough cotte and showed himself to be clad in fine Dwarf mail beneath.  He handed the cotte to Lasgon, then turned to his cousin and Eregiel and bowed. 

            Eregiel laughed.  “Bow to me, Uncle?  No--” as he launched himself at his kinsman.  A long hug later, Queen Lothiriel was offering the latest comers the cup of welcome and more platters were set on the board, and Ruvemir was quietly exchanging greetings with the new Guard of the Citadel who had worked once as page to four Hobbits.

            The King and Lord Hardorn conferred quietly as they ate, and soon Hardorn beckoned four of the Guard to himself.  Ruvemir wondered who the fifth man was to be.

            That evening Ruvemir brought out the chest of gifts from the Shire and saw them distributed.  They were mostly homely gifts--pots of preserves; bottles of ale; more bolts of fine cloth; a Hobbit vest, finely decorated, made to the measure of the King; a lace shawl for each Queen; a fine wooden pipe for Dorlin; a Hobbit cloak made for King Éomer; a finely knit shawl for Éowyn; a box of Hobbit kerchiefs each for the King and Prince Faramir (Aragorn laughed); a fine woven scarf also for the Steward; and a bottle of wine labeled to be sent on to the Prince of Dol Amroth.  Also included were fine bowls and cups of Shire make, hand decorated with flowers and fruits, for all. 

            Ruvemir described Pippin’s birthday party, old Toby’s bottle of Old Winyards, and the firework.  The King described the leap over the chasm in Moria and the terror in Pippin’s eyes and the trust he gave Boromir.  Folco described Bilbo’s last party and remarkable disappearance.  Éomer told of the ride through the dark to reach Mundberg.  Éowyn described how she disguised herself for that ride with the helmet and mail and cloak of a fallen Rider and the talk she’d had with Elfhelm over Merry’s presence in his eored.  Eregiel described the attack from the villagers originally from Dunlending.  The Queen told of her delight when she realized Pippin’s gift for singing and how she and the King had taught him Elvish songs and lays.  Then Ririon started telling the story of the afternoon in the library in Brandy Hall, but let Ruvemir tell most of it.  The artist produced the picture he’d done of Sam, his finger holding his place in his book, as he told of the last ride to the Havens, and all examined it with respect.  And Pando described the Free Fair at Michel Delving when Frodo had resigned the post of deputy Mayor, the songs sung, and the sudden arrival of Lords Elladan and Elrohir and the singing of the Lay of Frodo of the Nine Fingers.

            “The four of them were all in tears, Frodo pale but proud in the midst of his messages,” Folco added to the tale.  “But most of us had no idea what it was all about.”  He looked at his wife’s brother.  “Now I finally understand.  Poor Frodo--no one realized how what he’d done out there--out here, I mean--impacted us all.”  He shook his head.  “Evro Brandybuck saw his brother killed before his face, and he’s not yet got over it.  He’s understandably bitter.” 

            “We were commanded not to tell those we met we were of the race of Men,” Miriel said.

            “Ferdibrand Took realized what we were anyway, and he held no bitterness--at least not toward us,”

            The King nodded.  Finally he said, “Well, I must to bed.  Tomorrow will be busy.” 

            Soon all were dispersing to the quarters made ready for them.  After readying himself for bed, Ruvemir heard a knock at his door.  Pando reached it first and opened it, then accepted a missive brought by the King.  “For Master Ruvemir,” he said, and smiled at the artist.  “Good night.”

            Soon Ruvemir was eagerly unfolding a long letter from Elise, and he kept the candle burning long as he read and then reread it.

Homecoming

            The Lord Hardorn was gone the next morning when most awoke, as were the four men he’d called after him and Eregiel, the ten men of Rohan ordered to meet with him the previous evening, Dorlin, and the King.  Well, Ruvemir thought, that answered the question of who the fifth man of Gondor was to be.  The King himself was going to find out what was going on among the folk of Dunlending.  The Lady Arwen only shrugged when questioned as to why the King himself had gone along.  “He is Ruler of both Gondor and Arnor, and he intends not to send others always on duties he himself should see to,” was all she would tell.

            Éomer considered following after but decided not to do so.  “No,” he said at last, “I will trust him.  He has always been a canny leader of men.” 

            All were nevertheless tense all that day, and most folk rested uneasily that night.  Midmorning the next day scouts rode in from the west, and shortly after noon they could see a double line of men returning.  Ruvemir recognized the stained and hooded cloak, the hunting bow he carried in his hand, and quiver as they came close enough to recognize individuals.  Eregiel was similarly dressed as a Ranger of the North, and there were more men, apparently from the fortress north of Orthanc, with two additional men, hands tied to their saddlebows.  Aragorn’s face was grim, and he gave a significant nod to Éomer once he reached the highest levels.  There was, Ruvemir realized as he hadn’t when the King had dismounted at the gate, no tack on the  grey horse--the King rode Elf-fashion with the ease of one raised in the tradition.  Aragorn whispered in the ear of the great grey horse, who allowed himself to be led off by a waiting Rider, and stood to the side as the two prisoners were untied from their saddlebows and assisted in dismounting, then directed pointedly up the stairs to the hall.

            Éomer led the way inside Meduseld, his own guards falling in around the prisoners, and they were brought to the end of the central firepit nearest the throne.  Due to the coldness of the day a fire burned brightly, and Ruvemir, standing to one side, decided that this placement was intended to make it uncomfortably warm for the two men rather than out of any concern for their comfort.  Aragorn entered behind the prisoners, his bow still trained on them, his face dispassionate.  Ruvemir had the distinct impression the King was taking a feral pleasure in the situation, however.  Éomer mounted his throne, then signed to the leader of his own men to report, once all were inside the Hall and finally still.

            “These two were found among the Dunlendings, my Lord King, inciting them to again take up arms against us, and assuring them that the reports of the tree giants of Fangorn Forest were only tales intended to frighten them and keep them in quiet subservience.  We brought eighteen others with them to Orthanc, where they received more than adequate indication that report itself was false, and they were sent back to their own people to give evidence of this and to warn them that the Kings of Arnor, Rohan, and Gondor will not allow such rebellion.”

            “Are these of the people of the Dunlendings themselves, then, Ælfred?”

            “One was originally, my Lord, but has been gone from his people five years now.  Strider here tells us the other is of the people east of Rhun.”

            “I see.  An attempt to draw off the allies of Gondor when those folk make their next attempt on the folk of Rhun and the Lord of Gondor rides forth to their aid in a few months time, then.”

            He turned to the enemy agent.  “And what do you have to say for yourself?”

            Strider himself barked a command in a harsh dialect, and the man standing before them shot him an angry glance and said something back.

            Éomer looked at the Man attired as a Ranger and lifted an eyebrow in question.  Strider gave a harsh laugh.  “What he said was rather rude, Éomer King,” he explained, “and carried no word of information.”

            The eyes of the King of Rohan became hard.  “I see.  Shall we show him how we react to such rudeness in Rohan, then?”  He turned to his men.  “Tie him to the hall post near the firepit, and make certain the fire will be quite warm near him, then.”  He turned to the other man.  “How long have you been in the pay of enemies of Rohan, Gondor, and Arnor?”

            “I don’t know what you mean,” the man said sullenly, looking away.

            Éomer sighed.  “Oh, I believe you do know what I mean.  Who bought you first--the agents of Mordor or those of Saruman?  Not that there was that much difference at the end, I suppose.”

            “No one bought me.”

            Strider said something in Rohirric, and the King considered.  “Well, then, that we shall see.  Strip him, then--to his small clothes.”

            The man looked uncomprehending, but found he could not fight the Gondorian soldiers who now followed the orders of the King of Rohan.  Soon he stood wearing only a rough loin garment, and about his neck was a pendant of a hand, and burned into the flesh of his arms were both the symbol of the White Hand and that of the Red Eye.  The young King examined him closely.  “Which was the first purchaser of your soul, I suppose, is of less interest than the fact you served both at the end.  We have had experience dealing with both forces, however, and have no patience with either.  Nor do either of your prior Lords exist any more.  So, once you lacked guidance from both your masters, you turned to other masters among Men.  Why do you so hate the folk of the Free Peoples of the West?”

            “Free?” spat the man.  “You serve the desires of fell wizards and monsters!”

            “Fell wizards?”  Éomer was shocked.  “You think Gandalf Greyhame was a fell wizard, you who wear that?”  He swatted the pendant of the White Hand.  “Gandalf never sought to breed Men and Orcs together, never destroyed life to wanton purpose, never sought to rule anyone.”

            “Yet is he not the puppet master for Rohan and Gondor?”

            “Puppet master?”  Éomer looked to Strider and said something in Rohirric, to which the Ranger replied with a laugh and a quick few words. 

            The Rohirrim in the gathered crowd all laughed.  “I would have loved to see Gandalf Greyhame attempt to rule either your uncle or yourself, my Lord King,” one said.

            “Call him forth and question him,” challenged the prisoner.

            “I would greatly desire to do so,” Éomer said, “but those who have gone to the Undying Lands do not return.”  The man stilled and looked shocked.  “Yes, he has gone into the West.  He was sent for one purpose--to teach us to stand against Sauron.  And, unlike your masters--” with a dismissive gesture toward both Hand and Eye “--he remained true to the purpose of both his creation and his mission.  Have you become so divorced from reality you cannot see the difference between that which is in accordance with the One’s Will and desire to rule others at all costs?”

            “I saw the tree monsters myself this morning....”

            “You dare to call Ents, among the eldest of the One’s children, monsters?  Have you not fought alongside orcs and trolls?”

            “Yes, but--”

            “Be quiet, you.”  He turned to his officer who’d traveled with Hardorn.  “His voice sickens me.  If he speaks again without being questioned, gag him.  Only the One brought Ents into being, while the foul crafts of Morgoth, Sauron, and now Saruman have twisted creation into the shapes of trolls, orcs, and Nazgul.  And he dares to dismiss Ents as monsters!”

            Strider made a comment in Rohirric with a twisted smile, but his eyes still watched the prisoner with deadly purpose.  Éomer answered him briefly, but straightened.  “I have been reminded that you did indeed answer a question then, although not one truly intended to be answered,” he commented.  He nodded to Strider.  “He has great respect for the Ents of Fangorn Forest, and you may have noted they respect him as well.  He does not take well to them being called monsters.  For hundreds of years they remained within their own borders, not troubling themselves with the doings of Men, Elves, Dwarves, or other beings; but when Saruman began attacking their trees they came forth and assisted in relieving him of his power.  And in the end, we are told, he fell at the hands of his own creature, when he was given the last chance to repent his actions and choices and perhaps regain the status from which he began, but instead chose to belittle and threaten.”  He spat.  “That is what you chose to follow--a betrayer, a wanton killer.  He lost his very nature following the paths of Morgoth and Sauron.”

            “Who is he, then?” asked the prisoner with a sideways shake of his head toward Strider.

            “He leads the forces of Arnor on loan to us this day.”  He turned to Lord Hardorn, today arrayed in the black and silver of Minas Anor.  “Did you learn what you needed to know, then?”

            “Yes.  Fortunately the treachery had not flowed too far as yet, and those who went against the trees of Fangorn will not do so again.  The folk of the Dunlendings will not trouble us again for some time, I hope, by which time they should be sufficiently accustomed to the overlordship of Arnor they will not think to do so again.”

            “So it is indeed to be hoped.  They have a land far more fertile than ours, yet they have always sought to take Rohan from us.  I do not understand them.”

            “Nor do we, Éomer King.”

            “Take this one to his quarters below the Hall, and see to it he is secured.  We will let that one remain where he is for a time.”  With a nod, two of the King’s personal guard escorted the man out.  “Have you taken a noon meal, Lord Hardorn?”

            “No, but we do not mind that.  Bringing these two out of the land of the Dunlendings was enough.”

            One last time the King of Rohan spoke to Strider in Rohirric, and listened to the answer.  He nodded, then turned to his own folk.  “Have Godwyn bring in the meal I ordered prepared when word came these were returning, and do it swiftly.”  He turned to those who’d been part of the riding.  “Sit and be at ease for a time.”  He turned to Strider.  “I think, my Lord, you can now unstring your bow and replace the arrow in your quiver.  As you are in my land now, I order you to eat a meal and relax along with your men.  I suppose you did not sleep all last night.”  Strider gave only a grim smile in response.  Éomer gave him a considering, evaluating examination.  “I think the look was more apt when your beard was less full, you know.”  At which Aragorn finally laughed aloud.  Ruvemir smiled at the laugh, and looked at the picture of Strider the Ranger he’d been capturing in his new sketch booklet against the day he would fulfill his next commission.

            It was late afternoon when they finally questioned the Easterling again, and this time he was apparently more forthcoming.  Éomer sat on his throne while Aragorn, still attired as Strider, sat on the Counselor’s seat.  Apparently his command of the Easterling’s tongue was excellent, for he was able to interpret it fully for the King of Rohan.  This time the hall was all but empty, although many watched from the doorways.  At last the questioning was over, and the Man led away to be incarcerated below the Hall.  Hardorn and Eregiel and the two officers from Gondor, Dorlin, the Steward and his wife, and the Prince of Dol Amroth and his son joined in the council, and at the end all nodded in agreement. 

            Éomer’s voice lifted at last.  “Then we will have our troupes ready to lead to join yours in Osgiliath the end of April, my Lord Aragorn Elessar.  We do not like this business, that those who would attack Rhun know so much of the friendship of our peoples and yours.  And I grieve that this will take you from your wife’s side so soon after the birth of your first child.”

            “Those who foment war do not care for such niceties, my friend.  But I thank you for thinking of it.  If our children are to grow up continuing to know freedom, however, we will need to be willing to fight those who oppose it.”  And all at the table and most watching from the doorways nodded agreement.

 *******

            Two days later the party from Gondor prepared to leave for Minas Tirith once more.  Half the soldiers and one of the officers remained in Rohan, going to join the garrison northwest of Orthanc; and five of those from the garrison took their place behind the King.  Now there were two coaches, and the two prisoners had been brought out, gagged, hooded, and bound, and tied once more to their saddlebows to go back to Gondor with the King’s party. 

            Before they left Ruvemir gave a gift to the King of Rohan, a figure of his wife smiling, to which both Éomer and Lothiriel responded with pleasure.  Ririon gave them a figure of a dog he’d carved, one lying on the floor, curled with head near tail.  Both were thanked profusely for their gifts, and at last they were set off on the last leg of their journey.

            Seven days later at sunset they came over the ridge northeast of the city and looked down on the fields of the Pelennor, and they were home.

            As they rode into the city, the coach in which they rode dropped back from the line, and once through the second gate turned aside into the drive of the King’s Head.  There at the door, wrapped in the shawl he’d bought her in the fall, stood Elise, and Ruvemir fairly flew out of the coach to come to her side.  Looking up into her eyes, he put his arms about her and kissed her very, very deeply.

Beginning the Execution of the Commission

            Gimli rode into the city three days later, driving a wagon loaded with six blocks of marble from Casistir, given him in thanks for the aid he’d given in not only breaking the deadlock of the various parties who had spent almost four years now arguing as to what kind of bridge to build, but also in setting the foundations for the two sides.  He did not say how he had managed to transport the great stones from one side of the Gilrain to the other, only smiling when asked.  “Oh,” he said, “we Dwarves have our ways.”  Only later did he confide to Ruvemir he’d gone to the quarries themselves to choose what stone he’d have, and there, where the stream was much narrower, he’d more easily gotten them to the other side of the water.  “Don’t tell them in the city how I did it, though, or they’ll think the bridge at Casistir is unnecessary.”  Ruvemir merely laughed.

            Gimli had given him the six stones as a gift, and brought them up to the seventh level for him, to the northeastern side of the Court of Gathering, the long court toward the keel of the great thrust of stone which divided the city.  Ruvemir had spent much of the past two days drawing the design for Pippin’s statue on one of his great sheets of paper, and now had four views of it, front, back, and each side, all only slightly larger than life size.  He carried the roll as he rode up through the city with the load of stone, and watched as a gang of Dwarves and Men offloaded them carefully, gently setting them down on the pavement.  A work shelter had been erected on the outer margins of the Court of Gathering near the Court of the White Tree and the Fountain, a screen on the southeastern side to break the worst of the wind, and there the sculptor fixed his views of how the statue would be made.  Ruvemir examined the six blocks, trying to decide which four held in them the figures of the four Hobbits he was to sculpt. 

            He’d been approached by one of the city’s sculptors, Master Sculptor Varondil son of Beremor, who offered the services of one of his apprentices to assist in the management of the stone, the rough cutting, and the final polishing.  As he explained to Ruvemir, as one who specialized in the carving of tomb effigies there was a certain amount of repetition in the work he produced, and he felt the young man needed the experience of working in a standing figure for a change and to learn more about depicting the stance and gestures of living beings.

            The apprentice was named Celebgil, and was a tall youth of seventeen.  The young man stood by the small master sculptor to whom he was temporarily assigned and watched him with interest and a level of patronization--but then, he had not seen the works this one had done in Casistir, Lossirin, Dol Amroth, Benelien, or many other cities and towns and even hamlets throughout the southern fiefdoms.  For the moment Ruvemir ignored him, intent on learning from the stone before him. 

            The largest piece was too large for figures for Hobbits, and there was something of too much solemnity to it as well.  It didn’t quite make him uncomfortable, but somehow it spoke of--of a different kind of memorial, and not that of a Hobbit.  Suddenly he knew what that block contained within it, and he pointed it out to the Dwarves and Men who were still lingering as he selected his blocks.

            “That one will be necessary in the future, but is not intended for this particular memorial.  I wish it taken to a warehouse to which I can have access in the future, and I will work on it on days when I cannot work here in the open.  Lay it with--” he examined it for several moments before making a decision, then took the brush from the black paint he had before him and marked a particular side “--this side to the floor.”

            Celebgil could not see the difference between one side of the block and any others, but two of the Dwarves nodded, one of them the Lord Gimli, the King’s particular friend among Dwarves.  “The stone speaks to you, then,” Gimli commented.

            Ruvemir shook his head.  “No, I do not have the ear to listen to the stone as Dwarves do, my Lord Gimli; but good stone intended for figures will show me what figures it contains or will accept; and this one is for endings.  And with the major flaws in it concentrated to this side, it should be down and unworked.  Otherwise any stroke I give it will simply mar and not shape.”

            Gimli nodded, smiling broadly. 

            Ruvemir then called his own two apprentices to his side and gestured for Celebgil to come closer as well.  He found himself looking at the two other youths with interest and more than a little amazement.  A half-blind youth and a child were apprentices to this little Man?

            Ruvemir was pointing out the flaws he saw in the stone, having the two younger apprentices touch them.  “Here, Ririon, your sense of touch will definitely play a strong part should you decide to work more in stone as you have on occasion.  I’ve already seen you have a feel for grain in wood, and you were able to feel the change in the soapstone you worked on our journey.  Now, feel the stone here and tell me when you believe you have found the flaws I have seen in it.”

            The tall boy began to run his hand over the surface of the stone systematically, then, suddenly stopped, began to feel along a line, then swept his hand again, found the line again, and followed it toward the top of the stone.  Finally he said, “I feel a difference that appears to start here--” he began following the grain of the change with the right hand while more deliberately following it with the left hand “--and it follows this path.  Then it reaches here and curves somewhat, seems to go off possibly at at least two angles.”

            “Excellent, Ririon.  Do you see the changes he is feeling, Pando, Celebgil?”

            The small boy put out his hand under that of Ririon, and followed the change in the grain of the stone.  “Yes,” he said, “I can see it.”  Ririon stopped the movement of his hand along the line of the change in the stone, then set it alongside that of Pando, following his hand’s movements.  “It splits here, as Ririon felt it, then one line goes this way, and the other that.”  He indicated the lines that the flaws followed.  Celebgil found he had to look closely to see what the other two were noting, and felt odd, as these two seemed to be more able to sense this apparently obvious flaw in the stone he could barely perceive.

            Ruvemir nodded.  “Also excellent, Pando.  I almost wish you would stay with me longer, but it is imperative I get you to Mistress Andúrien soon that your more obvious gift with clay is properly trained.  Now, Celebgil, I’d like you to trace the lower of the two lines of the flaw to its lower extremity.”

            It had been some time since his own master had worked on such detail work with him, and almost Celebgil felt insulted; yet at the same time he admitted to himself that for the first time in quite a while he was actually learning something new about stone.  He began to rub his hand on the stone near where the boy Ririon had first noted the change in the texture, and found the beginning of the flaw indeed where the boy had noted it.  He began following it down, missed the split in the line and found himself following the upper fork, then traced back until he found the split at last--odd, how it was more obvious from this direction--and followed the lower fork all the way to the lower margins of the stone as it stood on end.  “I feel it better than I see it,” he commented as he came to the lower extremes of the line of the flaw.

            “Yes, your sense of touch must be as attuned as your eye, and often your hand will teach your eye to see the changes that indicate how inclusions or flaws or cracks run within the stone you are working.  Very good use of your senses, all three of you.

            “Now, I feel I’d best introduce you.  Celebgil has served as apprentice for three and a half years to Master Sculptor Varondil, who has chosen to carve almost exclusively tomb effigies and carvings, or so I am told; and he has done even some design work for his master.”  Celebgil felt flattered that Master Ruvemir had learned this much of his work to date, although he wondered as to why Master Varondil had told Master Ruvemir such a thing, for he felt that statement somewhat--exaggerated.  “Ririon is my ward, and has so far mostly done small carvings and figures in wood, usually of animals, geometric shapes, and babes.  He began working on this many years ago, before his vision was damaged last fall.  He has also done some work with soapstone, mostly just pieces to learn how to work the stone, the use of the tools, how to polish it, and so forth.  Since his vision was diminished he has been learning how to use his touch to direct the shaping, and has proven very skillful. 

            “Pando Proudfoot has shown skill with the working of clay and wax, and has shown an ability to do remarkably accurate portrait sculptures.  His own people in the Shire rarely do portrait work in any material, I’ve found, so there are few there who could teach him to further his gift; so I have agreed to take him to a master sculptor in clay and wax who lives in Belfalas and does her primary work there.  In the mean time he is learning what I can teach him of other forms of sculpture.  I will leave in a few weeks and be gone for about a month to take these to their primary instructors, Celebgil, after which time you and I will work together almost exclusively for some months as we bring the King’s commission to its completion.  If your own master is agreeable I will take you with me so that you can see masters in other materials at work and perhaps learn some from them to extend your own abilities and appreciation of the work of other artists.”

            Celebgil was surprised that a sculptor of stone would deign to work at all with those who were intended to work in other media, but there was little he could say without appearing unfeeling, so he wisely decided to simply nod knowingly and say no more.

            Ririon asked, “Ruvemir, what did you mean about this block being intended for endings?”

            “This stone will not accept the image of a living individual.  It is destined for a different sort of memorial.”  His voice was solemn.

            “Oh,” the boy said, although Celebgil didn’t believe he fully understood what the mannikin meant any more than Celebgil himself did.

            The small sculptor looked at another of the blocks, which had been laid upon one side.  He examined it carefully, and took some measurements.  “No, not Sir Pippin,” he said.  “But perhaps for Sir Merry....  Set it up on end.”  When two of the Dwarves began to move to one end to follow his directions, both Ruvemir and Gimli protested.  “No, not that end.  The feet are held there.  Lift this end.”

            Another Dwarf joined them as those changing the attitude of the stone finally got it set upright.  Ruvemir nodded distractedly at him, and this Dwarf came to stand behind him, looking over his shoulder.  “Not the Ringbearer, this one,” he commented.

            “No, Sir Merry, I think, Dorlin.  They almost set it upon his head.”

            The Dwarf twisted his own head sideways, then smiled.  “Yes, the head would be this way,” he commented.  “The stone speaks to you?”

            Lord Gimli gave a grunt.  “Says he sees what figure the stone holds or will accept.”

            “I see.  Different races; different ways of sensing the stone’s intent, I suppose.”

            Ruvemir walked around the block, then finally made his decision.  “No side particularly speaks to his face, but this side definitely speaks to the back of his cloak, and the tip of the sword--” moving around to the opposite face “--definitely rests below here.”  He pointed to a specific spot on the stone.  He took his brush, and marked it.  He then carefully wrote MB on one side. 

            He again looked at the other stones.  Again he indicated one of the blocks should be stood on end, and this time the Dwarves and Men doing the manipulation waited for him to indicate which was the bottom.  He seemed uncomfortable with it for a moment.  “It is at an angle,” he said, then smiled.  “The base needs to be reworked,” he decided.  “Lay it again down, but on this face--” indicating a different side of the block than had been down before.  This stone had a bulge on one side, and a different bulge at what he had indicated would be the top, on the opposite side from the bulge on its side.  Again he took up the brush full of black paint, and he began painting a black line at a slight angle on the base.  “Here,” he said, “the bottom of the base is intended to run at this angle.”  Both Lord Gimli and the Dwarf he’d called Dorlin smiled and nodded agreement. 

            “I see how you have come to be a master sculptor,” Gimli commented.  “The stonecutter who cut this out must have felt the discomfort of the stone to have the bottom face at the wrong angle.” 

            Ruvemir nodded.  Again he wrote on the side, this time PT with a mark on one side.  He examined the bulge, and put a single dot.  “Here is the tip of the sword he holds.  This will be Sir Pippin.”

            He looked at the three remaining blocks.  He started to indicate they should lift one of them, then stopped.  “No,” he said.  “This one will not accept a Hobbit.  This intends to be shaped as a Man.  I’ve never seen a stone so proud of what it feels it ought to be.”   He looked at it again for a time, then put a cross upon it.  “It, too, should go to the warehouse with the greatest of the six.  The top of it is--” he examined it again “--the top is this side.”  He put a small circle at one end.  “I’m not sure what man is held in that stone, but he is tall, or sees himself as tall.”

            Again he moved to the last two stones.  He smiled as he looked from one to the other.  “Yes, these are sufficiently humble and proud at the same time, just as are those whose figures they hold.”  He examined one.  “Lord Frodo is in this one,” he said at last, “although it will be difficult to bring him out.  There are many flaws in this one, but I sense they will be removed with the shaping.  I will need to be very careful, both in the rough cutting and the final carving.  I will need to do this one myself, Celebgil.  Like its subject, this stone will be somewhat temperamental if mishandled.  It knows what it holds, and will not accept a misaimed blow.”  He marked one end, then painted FB on one face.  “I’d like this taken for now to the warehouse, as changes in temperature may cause fractures along the flaw lines.  That end is to be down.”  The Dwarves nodded understanding, and both Gimli and Dorlin nodded solemnly and approvingly.

            He finally examined the last stone, then smiled gently.  “This will accept the figure of Lord Samwise Gamgee,” he said.  He pointed to one end.  “There his feet are.”

            “It’s not as tall as the others,” commented Celebgil as they stood it on end.

            “He is somewhat crouched in the stone,” Ruvemir explained.  He looked at it critically, then put SG on one face and marked a dot at one edge.  “Sting’s point is here,” he said.  “It should go to the warehouse with that for Lord Frodo, but will be unhappy to be seen as weak.  No, place it there, near that corner of the workspace and shed.”  The Dwarves and Men carefully lifted it and followed directions, then put the one intended for Sir Merry beside it.  Then one brought the cart around so that the three stones to go into storage could be lifted back onto it.

            Three individuals, cloaked against the brisk air of the day, came from the Citadel, and Celebgil realized one was the King himself.  They came near and watched as six Dwarves carefully lifted the greatest of the blocks onto the cart, laying it on the side Ruvemir had marked, and slid it to one side.

            “You will not need that one for the memorial, then?” asked the King. 

            Ruvemir barely seemed to note the arrival of such an august personage.  “It is intended for quite a different form of memorial, my Lord,” he said, watching as they began to lift the tallest of the blocks.  “And this is to be a statue of a Man one day.”

            He moved to the one he’d indicated should be for Frodo, and ran his hand over it.  “I wish a quilted pad to be placed around this before it is moved again,” he said.  Gimli grunted his understanding and sent a younger Dwarf scurrying to the front of the cart, bringing back a great quilted tarp and a length of rope.  Ruvemir himself draped the cloth over the block, then wound the rope around it to hold the tarp in place.  “You can lay it on its side to move it--that side down, I think; but it is to stand on its base.”  The Dwarves indicated they understood, and with extreme care it was lifted to the bed of the cart.

            “There are not enough left here for the full memorial,” the King sighed.  “Shall I send again to Casistir so that the stone is consistent, or will you accept local stone?”

            The mannikin at last turned to the King and smiled.  “That block just loaded is the fourth stone, and will be shaped to Lord Frodo’s image, my Lord Aragorn.  But it is temperamental, and I wish it to be housed where the temperature will not change greatly, and where, for now, it will not know rain.  Once it is carved it will tolerate rain well, but for now such could cause damage.  I will need to shape it myself, for the stone is full of lines of flaws.” 

            “Oh, I see.”  The King smiled.  “Then the stone is somewhat like its subject.”

            “Very much like, sir.”  Ruvemir turned again to Lord Gimli.  “Do you have another of the quilted tarps I can put over the stone intended for Lord Sam?” he asked.  Again the younger Dwarf hurried to get the desired item, and Dorlin and Ruvemir together covered the block he’d indicated would be shaped into Samwise Gamgee.

            “We will rough-cut first the block for Sir Pippin, my Lord, although I won’t do the proper carving till I return from my trip south.  I will hurry as quickly as possible; but these two need to be taken to my father and Mistress Andúrien so that they receive the best preparation possible to work as their gifts and talents show now.”

            The King nodded.  “When do you and Elise intend to be wed, then?”

            “Just before we leave for Lebennin.  Would you consider marrying us, my Lord?”

            The King laughed.  “I was wondering if I would be asked.  It would be an honor, Master Ruvemir.  And where will we celebrate the wedding?”

            “Master Beneldil had hoped we would marry there at the King’s Head.  Certainly you know the way.”

            Laughing even louder, Aragorn Elessar agreed.  “Let us discuss the details tomorrow, then.”  He examined the stone.  “So, this is the one you will use for Pippin, then?  What is this line here for?”

            “We will recut the angle of the base to follow this line.  The grain of the stone lies this way.  It was miscut.”

            Dorlin agreed.  “The stone does not like being miscut.”

            “What kind of foundation will you place beneath the statues?”

            Ruvemir turned to Celebgil and asked him what his master would ordinarily place beneath a memorial statue.  Discussion on the base and the foundations and the plantings to be placed around the figures followed, including Pando and Ririon.

            Pando was insistent.  “There should be elanor and niphredil and kingsfoil and the Elven lilies that grow under Frodo’s window and on the Hill.  That’s what should be planted around the statues.”

            Celebgil asked, “How do you know what grows beneath his window?”

            Pando looked at him with surprise.  “Frodo Baggins is my cousin.  I was born on Bagshot Row, just down the Hill from Bag End.  I’ve known him all my life, and miss him terribly since he left Middle Earth.  Sam planted those beneath his window for his comfort when Bag End was restored.”

            “But Lord Frodo was a Pherian.”

            “So am I, in case you failed to notice it.”

            Celebgil looked at him with surprise.  He’d thought this was a little boy, but for the first time he noted the bare feet with the curly hair upon them, and the leaf-shaped ears.  “How old are you?”

            “Seventeen years.  You?”

            Ruvemir smiled.  “He is the same age, but closer to manhood than you, Pando.  Men come of age earlier than Hobbits, but they rarely live as long as Hobbits tend to do.”

            “Oh,” Pando said.  “But Sam said that the King will live longer than we will.”

            “I am of the Dúnedain, Pando.  I am descended from the Lord Elros Tar-Minyatur and the Kings of Númenor.  I am not exactly a typical Man.”  Pando looked up at the King’s face with awe.  Aragorn smiled, then straightened.  “But you are correct, Pando--we will plant elanor, niphredil, Elven lilies, and athelas about the statues, with a barrier of rosemary for remembrance at the back of the grouping.  Your cousin and Sam would most deeply appreciate that, I think; and Pippin and Merry would also find it acceptable.  I will speak to our brothers about it when they arrive.”

            “I never heard of niphredil and elanor and athelas before,” said Celebgil.

            “Niphredil and elanor are Elven flowers, brought from the Undying Lands to Middle Earth by the kin of the Lady Galadriel,” explained the King gravely.  “I hope they will remain throughout my lifetime, at least.  But as the Elves forsake the mortal lands, they will begin to fail.”  He looked saddened.  “They are plants, however, that all four of those who were on the quest now know and recognize.”

            “And athelas is the plant of the King,” Ruvemir said, to which the King nodded.  The sculptor was carefully marking broad outlines on the stone with the black paint.  “When I was ill, my Lord, did you steep it for me?”

            “Yes, I did.  The scent was of larch trees.”

            “I’d wondered.  I vaguely remember awakening to that scent.  And for Lord Frodo it was the Sea.”

            “Yes.  And for Sam it was the scent of the earth of gardens.”

            “So he told me.  It was highly appropriate.  He says that when he steeped some for little Elanor, it filled the room with the odor of puppies, by the way.”

            The King again laughed.  “Puppies?  Ah, then I suspect she will keep dogs one day.  What is its scent when he steeps it for Mistress Rose?”

            “Bairns.”  Ruvemir watched the King’s face soften.

            “Sam is highly unusual, unusual for any race I am familiar with.  That the athelas should give off its full effect for him is one of the wonders I’ve contemplated.”

            They were all silent as they watched the sculptor continue to mark the marble block.  Gimli finally asked, “Would you like a stone saw to cut the base even?  I would be willing to cut it for you.”

            Ruvemir looked up gratefully.  “Yes,” he accepted, “that would be most helpful, Lord Gimli.” 

            “It will be a time before we return, then, but we will place these in the building given to our use in which we keep materials for the rebuilding of the walls and streets.  It is on the first level.”

            “Thank you,” the sculptor replied, still working on the face of the block that he was marking as four of the Dwarves left with Lord Gimli and the cart for the lower city.

            The remaining Dwarves and Men helped turn the block so that Ruvemir could mark a second face of the block.  Finally he straightened.  “At least,” he commented, “I won’t need to stand on a stool or scaffolding to carve these save for the tops of their heads.”

            Lord Hardorn, who was with the King, commented, “Then what your fellow said that night in Casistir was not all in jest.”

            “I spend much of my working time on low scaffoldings when I am carving Men full sized, my Lords.  I must, to reach the tops of their heads.  That is another of the things I will bring back from my trip to Lebennin, a portable scaffolding that my father built for me.”

            “Will Miriel and Folco go south with you, then?”

            “Yes, and they will remain in Lebennin with our father and Ririon.” 

            “I will send one as escort to drive the coach back from your family’s home, then.”

            “I thank you, my Lord.”

            “I could drive the coach, my Lord King,” Celebgil offered, realizing this would possibly give him the chance to accompany the sculptor on the trip south as Ruvemir had offered.

            “Could you indeed?  That would help a great deal.”

            “It would also serve to broaden his training, my Lord Aragorn, as he would then be able to see the working of my father and Mistress Andúrien and perhaps a few others as well.  I will need to check with the Carvers Guild also, to find where Bergemon and Damrod are, for I wish them to assist in the Elves’ Commission.”

            “That is a grouping I will wish to see, by the way.”

            “Your brothers will undoubtedly have some more specifics when they arrive.”

            “Yes.”

            Straightening at last, Ruvemir cleaned the brush and put the top on the pot of black paint.  He looked to Celebgil.  “This will be enough to get you started,” he said.  “Rough cut no further in than this at this time.  I will go now to see your master and gain permission for you to accompany us.  When Lord Gimli returns with the stone saw, draw off and allow them to cut the base at the new angle.  He knows stone well, and will do the best at making the base straight and smooth.  They will then set the block straight so you can continue working on it as it will stand when completed.”  He turned to Pando.  “I wish you to watch how Celebgil uses his tools to do the rough cutting.  He will not be taking the line of the stone far in, but will be knocking off edges and giving the rough shape to the final sculpture.  Respect his work, and if he indicates he wishes you to be silent, be so that you not distract him.  Otherwise, ask what questions you think of to understand what he does.”

            Again he turned to the borrowed apprentice.  “Today you are his teacher, so I expect you to take what time you must to give him the knowledge he needs to understand our artistry.  And I thank you for your agreement to this situation, young Celebgil.  That I have one as experienced as you assisting is a great help.”  Ruvemir gave a bow to the youth, then turned to Ririon.  “You will come with me, Ririon, and meet with Master Varondil.  And, Master Dorlin, I would appreciate it if you would accompany us also, to give Ririon the benefit of your own experience.  After all, part of the reconstruction of the figures on the gates you did was with wood, was it not?”

            The three turned to the King and bowed deeply.  “If you will pardon us, my Lord King,” the sculptor said, “but I must see to many things this day if we are to get the rough cutting finished before I must leave.”

            The guardsman who was in the King’s company looked, as he’d done throughout, somewhat bemused at the familiarity between artisan and monarch, while Lord Hardorn merely looked amused.  But the King, recognizing the authority of a person about a job for which he is fully prepared, bowed back to the artist.  “Then let me not stay you, Master Sculptor Ruvemir,” he responded. 

            *******

            Master Sculptor Varondil had set his tools down for a brief break and was drinking a cup of mulled cider when the door to his studio was opened by another of his apprentices to admit the mannikin sculptor.  He looked up at Ruvemir and the two following him and the dog, the boy with a staff it his hand, and rose, with an air of surprise and barely hidden suspicion to greet his fellow artisan.

            “Welcome, Master Ruvemir,” he said.  “And Master Dorlin, is it not?  Welcome to my workplace.”

            “Thank you, Master Varondil,” responded the Dwarf.  “Dorlin son of Dwalin, at your service,” he said formally with a bow.

            “Varondil son of Beremor at yours, Master Dorlin,” said the older Man with an answering bow, carefully examining the Dwarf before only just courteously inclining himself.

            “My younger apprentice and ward, Ririon son of Embril and Damsen,” Ruvemir completed the formal introductions.  “He has mostly carved wood, and is formally apprenticed both to my father and myself, but he has not had the chance to meet with my father as yet, considering the trip to the Northlands we made as part of my current commission.”

            Varondil gave the boy a close inspection, not seeking to fully hide a degree of amusement at hearing this blind child described as an apprentice.  “I see.  Welcome, young Ririon.  And did you carve your staff?”

            “No, it was gifted to me by the children of Brandy Hall because they knew I was a carver of wood and thought I would like it.  They gave me the dog as well.  Her name is Joy.”

            “I see.”

            The boy reached into his pocket and removed a small object.  “This is of my work,” he said, presenting Varondil with a small figure of a sleeping child carved of a fragment of soapstone. 

            The older Man noted that in the pocket of the boy’s surcoat was a folder of fine tools fit for carving smaller pieces, and a couple of folding knives.  This youth, he realized, was already much given to his art, and was being fully encouraged by his master and guardian to experiment fully.  Interesting.  And he was obviously more skilled than the Man had thought possible, he thought as he examined the piece he held.  “Well, I welcome you and your dog, young Master,” he said.  “Come in and be comfortable.  May I offer you all some mulled cider?  We are mostly taking a break from our work.”  But that the courtesy of the invitation was somewhat forced struck Ruvemir.

            Soon Ruvemir and Dorlin had joined Master Varondil at his small table while Ririon and Joy went to look over the work being done throughout the large, open room.  Varondil watched their progress with interest.  “The boy appears to be gifted indeed,” he said.

            “Oh, indeed.  He has been carving for many years now, and was heartened to learn that he could continue to do so even after much of his vision was lost.  He is now finding stone to be satisfying to work with also--soapstone, at least.  Whether in the end he will work in stone or wood predominately or equally with both I cannot yet say.  But his gift appears to be mostly for the production of small figures--or so it appears so far.”

            “So I see.  This one is very--charming.”

            Ruvemir explained the reason for his visit, and the desire to have Celebgil travel with the party to the south, the chance to explore under masters in other materials.  Master Varondil considered, then agreed that his apprentice would undoubtedly learn a great deal and that he was willing to allow him to accompany them southwards.

            “Has Celebgil explored other materials?”

            “Some with clay, but not others.  I do not work with wood, wax, or metals.”

            “In what material do you prepare models of your greater works?”

            “When I do so, in clay.  However, I rarely need to do a model.  And you?”

            Ruvemir shrugged.  “I’ve done them in clay, but prefer to do them in small blocks of stone.  The models for the King’s commission I have done in soapstone.”

            “I was surprised to learn that the Lord King had decided to see this project completed after allowing it to languish since the Pheriannath were in the city.  Do you know why it was not completed then?”

            Realizing that Varondil either had been among those approached before or was close to one of those who had produced the unsatisfactory portraits, Ruvemir realized he should be careful in his response.  “The Hobbits,” he said slowly, “were not comfortable with the idea of being made the subject of a memorial.  They are, I have learned, a people not given to the type of formality preferred among Men.  Indeed, they are suspicious of those who, in their eyes, draw too much attention to themselves, seeing them as putting themselves forward or ‘getting above themselves,’ as they put it.  To agree to such a memorial would be seen as being unnecessarily prideful.”

            Master Varondil was surprised.  “Do they not do images of their great ones?”

            “Rarely do they recognize one another for greatness.  There is one ancestor of the North Tooks and Brandybucks whom Sir Meriadoc called ‘The Bullroarer,’ who was known for his great size--for a Hobbit, at least--and for his strength.  That he saved his people from an invasion of great wolves and orcs is known, but this is not spoken of often, save that it led to the enjoyment of a sport played with oddly shaped sticks and small balls.  The great grandfather of Sir Pippin, Sir Merry, and Lord Frodo all three is known as the Old Took for his advanced age of a hundred thirty at the time of his death, while his sagacity is seldom mentioned.  Size and age therefore become the defining characteristics rather than accomplishments.

            “The four Hobbits saw the pictures done of them as being too formal.  Nor did they see themselves as being as unique as they truly were, and could not understand why the Lord Strider, as they mostly think of our Lord King, felt the memorial was deserved or needed.”  Ruvemir noted the other sculptor drew somewhat back at the informal title by which the three Travellers spoke of the King.

            “And how did you learn this of them?”

            “It was why I was sent to Eriador in Arnor, to meet with the Pheriannath and their kinsfolk, that I might learn to understand them, to find what kind of image would be acceptable for them.”

            “How did you get them to agree to the memorial, then?”

            Ruvemir smiled.  “With very great care and much negotiation.  They are, I found, easily offended in some ways where Men would find no offense, although at the same time merely laugh at many insults that tend to goad Men to draw swords.  But it was insisted upon by all of them that they could not be shown in the type of heroic pose preferred among most Men.  Hobbit sensibilities are different than those of Men in many, many ways, I have found.”

            “You keep calling them ‘Hobbits’.”

            “So they name their own race.”

            “And the King’s Friend also agreed to this?”

            Dorlin shook his head gravely.  “Frodo Baggins is no longer in Middle Earth, Master Sculptor.  He was not there to object this time.”

            At the mannikin’s nod of confirmation, Master Varondil asked, “Then he is indeed gone?”

            Ruvemir nodded.  “Yes, passed over the Sea.  The Valar themselves have so honored him, and given him this chance for healing.  He suffered much as a result of many wounds and much anguish endured during the quest, and his health was failing at the end.”  He took a sip of his drink, then set his mug down solemnly.  “Great is the grief of his kin and friends for his leaving.  I only wish I might have met him ere he left.”

            The taller sculptor considered.  “Where is Celebgil now?”

            “He is at the work shed prepared for my use near the Court of the White Tree, where he is rough cutting the first of the four stones and learning of the Dwarves who will recut the base.”

            Varondil appeared surprised and perhaps even dismayed.  “Then you have the stone you need already?  I had thought that perhaps I might be able to assist you to procure the stone for the commission.”

            “Oh, and I thank you very much for such thought.  Had it not been for the Lord Gimli I should have been full glad to accept such aid.  However, while he was south in Casistir this winter assisting in the planning of their new bridge they gifted him with his choice of blocks of marble from their quarry.  He has gifted these to the purposes of the King in the honor of the Ringbearer and his kinsmen and friend, all of whom he came to esteem greatly.”

            Master Varondil was both surprised and disappointed, for he owned an interest in the quarry that provided the material for most of the works done in the city, but could certainly say nothing against the generosity of the Lord Gimli of the Dwarves, particularly with another Dwarf sitting by him at the table.  He darted a quick look at the Dwarf.

            Dorlin smiled.  “They were most generous to my cousin for his aid.  The block on which young Celebgil works now is most fitting indeed for the image of young Pippin.  Remembering how he was as a child, it is heartening to see how responsible he has grown to be over the years.”

            “You know them, Master Dorlin?”

            “I met with the four twice in their own land when they were younger.  My father was friend to the Ringbearer’s cousin and former guardian, and I visited Frodo and Bilbo Baggins in their home while the younger Hobbits were also visiting them when they were children.”  The taller sculptor’s eyes widened.

            “I am surprised you are not wishing to be at the side of Celebgil as he does the rough cutting,” Varondil finally said, turning back to Ruvemir.

            Ruvemir paused in his sipping at his cider.  “You had told me he was skilled at such.  Should I not trust him to work without my standing over his shoulder, then?”

            “Oh, no, I did not mean that.  But I thought you would wish to watch his work until you were certain they were in keeping with your own vision of what should be.”  Was this protest just a bit too--swift?

            “He is not totally alone, and I marked the stone to show how much I wish cut away at this time, giving plenty of margin so that he will not cut into the figure itself.”

            Again Varondil seemed surprised.  “You do plan ahead, then.”

            Ruvemir shrugged.  “I tend to do so,” he said, his tone amused.

            “I am told you have become familiar with the King.”

            “He has allowed me to come to know him somewhat, yes.”

            “I understand he saw some of your work to the south.”

            Ruvemir nodded.  “He passed through Casistir shortly before I completed the statues I was commissioned to do there, and recognized two of those whose images I had wrought.  He based his choice on work I’d done on the images of Prince Adrahil and the Lord Captain Thorongil on the facade of their new hall.”

            “He was familiar with their appearances?”

            “Yes, he was indeed, and all were also assured by Prince Imrahil that I’d captured his father well.”

            “I am surprised he would know their seeming.”

            “The Lord Captain Thorongil was of the Dúnedain of the North, Master Varondil.”  Varondil noted the odd smile on the mannikin’s face. 

            “Oh, then that rumor was true.”

            “Indeed.  So the King and those of his kinsmen I have met have told me.”

            “When will you go south?”

            “In just over two weeks’ time, after my marriage.  I also wished to invite you to that celebration.  We plan that it should be at the inn where my sister and I have had our lodgings, the King’s Head in the Second Circle.  It would give you the chance to meet the King personally, for he has agreed to wed us.  We are to meet tomorrow to discuss the details.”

            “You are to wed?  How wonderful, Master Ruvemir.”

            “Thank you.  Would your lady wife wish to attend?”

            Varondil shrugged.  “We shall see, then.”

            With a few further pleasantries, they concluded the visit, and at last the shorter sculptor and his two unusual companions took their leave.  Varondil looked after them with speculation, then examined the small figure he’d been gifted.  Had he seen it first and then been told it had been done by a half-blind boy, he’d have not believed it.  And the Dwarf, he knew, was the one who’d done the restorations of the figures on the great gates.  He was interested in seeing the model produced by the diminutive sculptor, and the final memorial.  It would, he sensed, be quite different from what he’d once envisioned himself.  And that the Halflings should have been uncomfortable in being memorialized in stone seemed odd, yet he remembered several comments he’d overheard while doing his own drawings of them that had indeed confirmed the words of the mannikin sculptor.  He had not felt particularly upset when he was not chosen to do the memorial the King had purposed, particularly when he learned neither had been the others who'd also submitted drawings.  He'd had the distinct feeling that the subjects themselves would have insisted on watching the work done; and frankly he didn't like having subjects doing such oversight--it was one reason he preferred working on tomb effigies rather than statues of living heroes. 

            He was still amazed the stunted Man had achieved Master status within the guild of sculptors, which ordinarily looked with suspicion on those who are markedly different; the mannikin must indeed be skillful, then.  If he was then it would be well that Celebgil would have such training.  And what Celebgil learned he would then teach to the other apprentices as well--that had been the bargain struck between master and apprentice allowing the youth to serve the mannikin and so escape the confinement of the workshop employed by Master Sculptor Varondil.

            Well, he thought, although the sculptor now patronized by the King had not arranged to purchase the stone for his commission from himself, still the arrangement looked to prove profitable for Varondil son of Beremor.  His workshop would learn some of the mannikin’s skills, and he would take advantage of the personal introduction to the King as well.  It should undo the sour taste left when the Pheriannath had refused to be depicted as drawn.  That he had helped this one currently in the King’s favor would also undoubtedly work to his advantage.  He smiled.  And if he found an occasion to induce a measure of discord between the mannikin and the King--well, that would serve to keep folk coming to him for their own memorials rather than looking to the sculptor of the King's commission.  He sat back with a second drink to consider what he might assay, watching one of his other apprentices with appreciation as he slipped off his shirt in order to work more freely in the close heat now filling the workshop.

Preparations for Rough Cutting

            “The apprentices do most of the work upon the bodies of the effigies,” Ririon was telling his guardian as they left.  “They prepare general shapes of men or women lying upon their backs, and the more skilled of the apprentices carve the drape of the robe and do a general shape of folded hands and the head.  Their master then chooses the form that he feels best suits a particular individual when the request comes in, visits the individual if he or she is still living and draws the face and hands, visits the home of the deceased if the order comes from the family after the death to draw from the appearance of the body, and then he carves the face and hands only, and perhaps some pattern associated with the clothing worn by the subject, or tools associated with his trade or position.”

            “This is not uncommon among those who do such effigies.  If they worked totally from the living individual it could take months and even years to complete the final figure, which can be distressing for families seeking to do a fitting memorial to their dead swiftly so as to focus on living the faster.”

            “But would that not lead to improper depictions of the dead person’s figure?”

            Ruvemir gave a wry smile.  “Unfortunately, in the final illness all too often the form of the one who has died has become wasted.  Such often already fails to take into account what the one was like before.  A more general form, then, is often preferable to what was the reality of the form at the time of death, and is more easily accepted by the family commissioning the figure.”

            Ririon considered this thoughtfully.  Finally he asked, “Have you ever done such effigies, Ruvemir?”

            “On occasion.  I prefer to work with an individual who is preparing such before death.  Some take thought of such things while they are well and whole, and wish that they be remembered after their deaths as they were when hale and strong, and will commission an effigy when there is no indication they are ready to pass from this life.  One woman who was dying asked that I create the effigy to go on her tomb and make it as she had been rather than as she was now, and I worked with her family to get her form as it had been when she was well.  She was able to rest easier knowing that when her children and grandchildren looked on her effigy, they would remember how fair she had once been rather than the wizened thing her body became in its last long illness.”

            “Will the great block be intended for such an effigy, then?”

            For a moment Ruvemir did not speak, and his eyes, focused on their path, became grave.  Finally he answered, “Yes, I think so.  I think it is to be a stone tomb and cover.”

            “For whom?”

            “I’m not yet certain.  Perhaps the King himself.”

            The boy became alarmed.  “He is not to leave us now, is he?”

            Ruvemir suddenly smiled.  “Oh, no.  If I find it is for his tomb, it will be done when he is yet alive--if I am the one indeed to carve it, that is.  For I am of common stock and none of the Dúnedain.  I will die long before he does.”

            “Would you carve it as he is now, then?”

            “Probably as he is at the time I feel moved to carve it.”

            Dorlin nodded solemnly.  “So it is with us.  Often one skilled with carving figures will do several such figures of living friends and lords, completed long before any sign of their being ready to die.  It can take a long time to complete a full figure, young Ririon.”

            “How long will it take you to do the four Hobbits for the memorial, Ruvemir?” the boy asked.

            “I cannot yet say.  It took me four months to do the figure of Prince Adrahil and an equal time to do that of the Lord Captain Thorongil.”

            “You didn’t tell Master Varondil that the Lord Captain Thorongil was the King himself,” commented the Dwarf.

            The small Man shook his head.  “He has not given me leave to let many know this.  It amuses our Lord King to hide this fact from most people, I find.”

            Dorlin smiled behind his beard.  “Let him have his secrets, then.  He makes for you a fine Lord and King.”

            They returned to the Court of Gathering just as Gimli was starting the recutting of the base of the statue, and he paused long enough for Ririon to examine the great stone saw he would use and to show him how he prepared the block itself.  The cutting went remarkably swiftly.  “Marble is far harder than soapstone or alabaster, but still softer than granite or the other stones we typically use in our own works,” he explained.  “It does not take a great deal of time to work for such a simple operation as cutting a smooth base.” 

            Once the base was cut properly the block was quickly set upright.  Ruvemir examined the carving Celebgil had already done, gave him praise for following directions so well, and then he uncapped his pot of paint and marked out the rest of the statue’s contours he wished the youth to follow.  He now watched the strokes of the apprentice for a time, and smiled to see he was competent and obviously well practiced.  He then took up the angled slice removed from the base, cut it in two, and gave a piece each to Pando and Ririon along with light mallet and chisels so they could experiment with the feel of this new stone. 

            He then went over to the diagrams he’d pinned to the screen and examined them carefully.  Now that he had the stone before him he knew that there would be some changes in how lines fell, for often some inner flaws and changes in density would require a slight change in the final shaping of the stone.  He had to give thought now to which parts of the figure would accept changes well from the planned statue and where he could not afford to do any variations.  He also looked to see where he would set up his workbench and the locked chest where he would keep his finer, more expensive, and less easily replaceable tools and chisels while he worked.  He also made a determination as to where he would have the small table and bench where he and Celebgil would rest and take refreshment.  It could be tiresome work doing sculptures, particularly in the summer. 

            He had the impression that the King himself would visit the site when he had free time, for this would be important to him to see unfold, although if they did have the foreseen campaign east of Rhun during the summer most like two or possibly even three of the figures would be completed ere he saw them.  He sighed.  The King was a warrior because he must be, considering the state of the world he’d faced since he came to manhood.  Even with Sauron defeated, there were still many peoples who saw the Free Peoples of the West as their natural enemies; and such was the nature of Mankind that even once Sauron’s influence was forgotten envy or privation would still lead to wars from time to time.  But he sensed that the desire of this one Lord was for peace, not for domination or fighting for its own sake.

            He thought of the great block and the image he had seen in it--the King’s own tomb.  Most of the Lords of the city had been embalmed, but such was not commonly done, he understood, in the North Kingdom, and would probably be repugnant to Aragorn himself.  Well, when the time came he would see to it that a proper sarcophagus and tomb cover and effigy would be prepared.  But, he sensed, the time was not yet--not now.

            One of those who had worked with those who labored in the restoration came out to speak with him, to learn what amenities he needed and desired at the site.  By late afternoon much of what he’d been envisioning had been put in place--table, low workbench, a wooden wall appropriate to pin the drawings to with folding sides to close over the drawings during storms.  Much of this had been used by the Dwarves who had labored on the great gates, and so were not of too great a size for his comfort, and yet not so small that Celebgil would be greatly discomforted.  A good compromise, he decided.

            At midafternoon a pitcher each of water, wine and ale, fruit, bread, and sliced cold meat was sent for the refreshment of those at the site, and Celebgil gladly paused in his labors.  Staff from the Citadel’s kitchens then came out with word the King and his Lady had determined they would feed them at least a luncheon each day they worked as well as a light meal at midafternoon such as had come today, with requests as to their preferences.  Celebgil appeared surprised at such a courtesy, and also that he was given the consideration of being allowed to indicate his own desires.  Even Pando and Ririon were taken into account, and Joy, which pleased both.

            By sunset all were tired, and they carefully covered the statue of Peregrin Took with a third tarp provided by the Dwarves.  After securing the tools for the night they all set off for their own quarters.

            By the time Ruvemir, Ririon, Joy, and Pando had reached the King’s Head, Ruvemir had realized that this was a journey he would not be able to sustain indefinitely.  He was exhausted, and it would be worse when they went up through the levels than it had been coming down.  How was he going to handle accommodations once the heat of summer set in? he wondered.     

            After the five of them had eaten the evening meal together and returned to their rooms, there was a knock at the door that heralded the arrival of Eregiel with a bottle of fine wine.  They sat and talked for a while, discussing the progress of the memorial and Eregiel’s duties so far, and he told them the news received from Lord Halladan in Arnor.  Two of the Men who’d attacked them and the boy identified by Mistress Clothilde as Gartman’s nephew had been sent back to Dunland for judgment there, for all three had done much evil among their own folk.  The two Men had been hung, and the boy was in the charge of one of the leaders among the folk for what he’d done in assisting in burglaries and thefts before he went north with his uncle.  The other two Clothilde had indicated were of no good had been imprisoned, and were being tried for other assaults and murders along the road.  It was suspected both would also be hung in the end.  The remaining two had been given heavy fines they were to pay off in service to the realm of Arnor, and would be allowed to return to the small settlement and their own people in two years’ time.

            Of the two taken from among the Dunlendings by the King himself, the Easterner was being held in close imprisonment, and the other would be soon sent to his own people for judgment.  Things looked no better for him than the brigands who’d attacked their coach.

            Eregiel shook his head.  “He still does not realize who it was that took him prisoner and guarded him, bow in hand.  My cousin is satisfied that it should remain thus.  He does not wish for now that he or the people of Dunland should know his visage to recognize it, lest he need to go again to spy among them and be known.  He feels it best that they think of him as the Ranger Strider.

            “Now, to more pleasant considerations.  Aragorn has been taking thought to what will be needed once you return from Lebennin and the Southlands, and he believes you should have lodging closer to the worksite.  Therefore he has decided to offer to you and the Lady Elise the use of apartments on the sixth level that have often been offered to the use of those visiting the Lords of the city.  There is already furniture available suitable for your stature there.”

            Ruvemir was instantly alert.  “The house used by the Hobbits while they were here in the capital?” he asked.

            “Yes, he did say that the house had been so used.  There are rooms upstairs and downstairs, although he said you would probably prefer to sleep in the study as Frodo did.”

            “And so I would,” the mannikin commented.  “I have a long dislike of stairs, I fear.  Am not certain how I got into the Hall in Edoras, really.  My hips are poorly designed for climbing.”

            “Well, then if Mistress Elise is willing, I will let my Lord cousin know it will be suitable.  And I saw that excellent progress had been done on the first statue.”

            “Yes, Pippin’s will be first.  And tomorrow morning before I go up into the city I will go down to see the place where the Dwarves have put the other three blocks.  The one for Lord Frodo will need to be specially cared for and carefully shaped, for there are many flaws in the surface area that make the stone more vulnerable.  But I sense his image resides therein, waiting for me to bring it forth.”

            “So Aragorn says.”  He turned to pet Joy, who was impatiently nudging him with her nose for attention.  “Come, come, my lady,” he said.  “Patience is a virtue.  Artos remains in the Citadel, lying by Aragorn’s chair as he discusses matters with Prince Faramir and Prince Imrahil.  He’s quite taken with my cousin.  Fear I may have lost a good hound.”

            Ruvemir laughed.  “I doubt that, and knowing you, you told him to stay and he did so.  The moment you come back he will be up to meet you, tail wagging and yawning as he does.”

            “They appear to have accepted the presence of the dog here,” Eregiel commented, rubbing Joy’s exposed belly as she rolled over in pleasure for him.

            “Had it been anyone but us, I suspect they’d have said no.  But watching the dog walking patiently by Ririon, they accepted her, as long as she is taken out frequently and the area kept clean.”

            “That is certainly reasonable,” the Man smiled.  “And you will show them, will you not, my lady, just how wonderful a dog you are?”

            Ririon walked out with the Ranger when he was ready to leave, Joy eager for a chance to go outside.  For a few moments she ran about the area between the inn and the garden, then after relieving herself she ran back to her master and accepted his praise with obvious pleasure.  “Nothing to clean up this time,” Eregiel told him.  And after watching the youth make his way back into the inn with the aid of dog and stick, he smiled and set off back up the streets of the city.

 *******

            When Elise brought the dawn meal the next day Ruvemir told her of the offer of the house in the sixth level, and was surprised to see her overwhelmed.  “The Sixth Circle?” she asked, shocked.  “Do you think they’d accept me in the Sixth Circle?”

            “Why would they not?” he asked her.  “You are one of the sweetest ladies in the world--”

            “But I am no lady--I’ve been a chambermaid since I came of an age to work, save for the year of the war when none came to the city.  I have no breeding.”

            He looked at her in exasperation.  “Elise, you will be my wife, no longer just the chambermaid from the King’s Head.  It does not matter what you have done before.  I am only an artist, after all.  You already know that the King and the Queen accept you and offer you all respect and honor.  That is all the references any there will care for.  And Sam has told me our neighbors are gentle folk--and themselves servants in the Citadel and the Houses of Healing.  You will be among your own--you will see.”

            She finally accepted that this would be far better for his health and said that, if the King himself was suggesting it, perhaps it would be acceptable; but he could tell she was still unsure when she left.  He decided to go see the house on the next day she had free, take her to see it, perhaps with the Lady Éowyn, if she was still in the city.  That should reassure her, he thought.

            He was nearly finished eating when Celebgil knocked at the door to tell him he’d arrived to go down with him to the First Circle to examine the quarters where the blocks were being kept.  He invited the apprentice in, and saw the youth was looking around with interest as he sat in the tall chair Ruvemir had once again requested for the use of his taller guests.  He examined the two low, short beds and the single long pallet on which Ririon slept, the carefully folded drop cloths over which Ruvemir insisted they always do their shaping, the sketch booklet now open to the portrait of Samwise Gamgee, and the full-size diagrams Ruvemir had just finished of the statue for Sir Merry.  This last item Celebgil looked at with interest.

            “Is that to be the second statue, then?” he asked finally.

            “Yes, Sir Meriadoc Brandybuck, Esquire of Rohan and the Heir to the Master of Brandy Hall.”

            “Is this an important position?”

            Ruvemir smiled.  “It is important among his own people.  He will one day be the head of his clan and the one in care of the lives of the folk of the districts known as Buckland and the Marish.  He is well prepared for that day now, I suspect.  A very responsible individual, too.  Captain Peregrin, whose statue you are rough cutting, is the Heir to the Thain, whose position is that of the representative of the King before all the folk of the Shire as well as the head of the Took clan.”

            “What is the position of the one known as the Ringbearer?”

            “His position?  The Lord Frodo Baggins was Master of Bag End and the chief of the Baggins family, but that is no longer as meaningful as it once was as there are few of the name left in the Shire--in the last few generations, I’m told, most have been female, while the name is passed down through the male line.  It had been hoped by his cousin who raised him that the Lord Frodo would perhaps serve his people as Mayor, which is an elected position; he did do this for six months while the rightful Mayor was recovering his health, but the Lord Frodo would not serve so further.”

            “But is he a lord among his own people?”

            “The folk of the Shire acknowledge but one Lord, and that is the King of Arnor, who is our own Lord King Aragorn Elessar.  The rank of Lord granted to Lord Frodo and Lord Samwise has no meaning within the Shire.”

            “My master could not fathom why the one known as Samwise would be in the grouping, as he is a servant and uncouth.”

            Ruvemir looked at him with a level of amazement.  “Was he not advised as to what role the Lord Samwise played in the quest?  All would have been in vain had he not accompanied the Ringbearer all the way to Orodruin.  Mithrandir once stated that there was more to Hobbits than meets the eye, and this is probably more true of the Lord Samwise Gamgee than anyone else whom I’ve ever met.

            “He has served as gardener for the masters of Bag End since he was a child; he has been Master of Bag End himself for the last two years.  His service has ever been more for love of his plants and the Masters of Bag End and the homeplace of Bag End than for any other purpose.  His language is that of the folk of his district and of his own family, but I assure you he is well-educated, extraordinarily responsible and capable, industrious, intelligent, highly perceptive, and worthy of all honor.”

            Celebgil was taken much aback by this, and looked at the serious face of his own temporary master with surprise.  “I apologize, Master Ruvemir,” he said quickly.

            “You should also know that our Lord King, who traveled with these four and came to know them all personally and well, equally reveres the Lord Frodo and the Lord Samwise.  Neither could have brought the Enemy’s Ring to Orodruin alone--they each needed the other to complete the quest.  And both stood at the gates of death ere he called them back.  And both were equally acclaimed as Lords of the Realm by all present at the honoring of both on the Fields of Cormallen, by the Men of Gondor, Arnor, and Rohan, by Elves, Dwarves, Pheriannath, and Eagles.  I have held their circlets of honor in my own hands, have seen the Lord Samwise wear his, have bowed my knee in honor for what he achieved.”

            “He speaks truly,” Folco Boffin said from the open doorway, where he’d paused before entering on hearing the serious tone of his wife’s brother.  “I was there at the time, as were my wife and their ward Ririon.”  He entered.  “I take it this is Celebgil, then.”

            “Yes,” Ruvemir said.  He turned back to the youth.  “This is Master Folco Boffin, the husband of my sister Miriel.  He is, as you can possibly tell, a Pherian of the Shire, and is kinsman to Lord Frodo, Sir Peregrin, and Sir Meriadoc, as well as to young Pando.  In his own land he was a farmer--and a copyist who is most likely far better read than Master Varondil and myself--as is also true of Master Samwise.”

            The Hobbit flushed, but looked steadily at the young Man facing him.  Celebgil stood, dumbfounded.  “Master Folco Boffin,” he finally managed, “welcome to Minas Anor.”

            “Thank you,” Folco responded.  “Folco Boffin, at your service,” he said with an abbreviated bow.  The youth bowed back, then straightened again, uncertain of what to do next.  At that moment Pando and Ririon returned, and Joy began wriggling happily before Folco, enticing him to rub her belly.

            Pando was looking at the picture of Sam, and smiled.  “Sam in that picture looks like he did when I used to spy on him and Frodo when I was younger.  They’d begin to argue about something to do with the great Elves, and Sam would get one of the books and look it up and read it out to prove his point.  Then Frodo would take the book and find something that appeared to prove something else.  One time, however, Sam caught him making up what he was pretending to read.  I remember he said, ‘I know it can’t say that--I’ve read that book too often of a night to of missed it.’  And Frodo, who was sitting on the grass, wrapped his arms around his knees like the King did in Edoras, and just laughed.  He enjoyed teasing Sam, he did.”

            “Why did you spy on them?” asked Celebgil.

            “Uncle Bilbo had taught them about the Elves, and they had read many books copied from the Lord Elrond’s library.  I wanted to know about Elves and to meet them, like Frodo had done with Uncle Bilbo.”

            “And now you have,” said Ruvemir, “on our way here.”

            “Well, really I’d seen Lords Elladan and Elrohir before, when they came to the Free Fair and sang there after the Travelers returned.  Many of us saw them then--the first Elves most Hobbits had ever seen.  But on our way here we did get to talk with them. 

            “Frodo would tell us about Lady Galadriel after he came back--about Lothlorien and her Mirror and her husband Lord Celeborn, and I’ve actually seen him now.  It makes it more real, somehow, Frodo’s stories.”  He was quiet for a moment, then said, “I wish he hadn’t had to leave, Cousin Frodo.  I’ve missed him so.  And  Cyclamen misses him more.”

            “I gathered that, when I met her on Yule.”

            “Yes, she told me.  She said she saw someone sitting on the bench, looking out at the Party Field, at the Mallorn tree, and she thought it was him come back, so she went out.  Then she saw your beard and realized who you were.  She said she held your hand like she’d do for Cousin Frodo, except you had all your fingers.”

            Ruvemir nodded.  “Lord Samwise told me she used to do that.  She should feel very honored.  He didn’t let many see his scars.  None of them let many see their scars.  He must have loved her and trusted her very much.  He loved you all, you know.”

            Pando nodded his head.  “It’s because of him I trusted you, although he never knew you, of course.  He gave me courage to leave home--to leave the Shire.”

            Folco Boffin nodded his own understanding.  “I suppose it’s the same for me, Pando.  Thinking of him gave me courage to ask Miriel to marry me, and then to leave, too.  He’s changed things for so many of us.”  He turned to Ruvemir.  “I need to get some new clothes before we go south, and was going to ask if you found a tailor here.  Miriel is too busy finishing the King’s gift for his lady to make me anything right now.”

            Ruvemir shook his head.  “I never needed anything more.  But she told me the Weavers Guild and markets are in the lowest circle.”  He thought for a moment.  “Just inside the gate from the First Circle is a shop that sells threads and ribbands and cords and such.  They should be able to tell you where to go.”

            Celebgil found himself offering, “There’s a good tailor in the First Circle my family has always used.  Marúmir should be able to help you, I think.”

            The Pherian smiled at him.  “I thank you for whatever help you can give me.  I suppose if I’m to become a citizen of Gondor I should look the part now.”

            “We’re only waiting now for Dorlin, who’s to take us down to the warehouse where they’ve housed the other blocks.  Want to walk down with us?”

            “Yes.  I’ll only go tell Miriel where I’m going, then.”  With a bright smile and brief nod, the Hobbit went back out.

            Dorlin arrived just after, and once Folco had returned they set off.  They passed Elise in the halls, and after exchanging smiles of promise, Ruvemir went on, although greatly tempted to stay.  He knew this was important to her, to stay on until the wedding.  She felt bound to Beneldil Hosteler and his family, having worked for him for so long, and until she was married she intended to continue on here.

            The day was warm, and Ruvemir smiled up into a clear blue sky and returning spring.  They passed Tharen Thranduilion in the garden, and there the party paused, all bowing together.  “I’d not realized the Elves of the great forest had returned, my Lord Tharen,” Ruvemir said.

            “We returned yesterday, although fewer than before.  Our work here is almost finished, and many are considering how long we will continue to linger.  I am told you have finished your design, Master Ruvemir.”

            Ruvemir nodded.  “Yes, and so far all have approved it.  If you wish, I will gladly show it to you on my return from the First Circle.”

            The Elf smiled.  “I will be greatly honored.”  And with a bow he dismissed them, turning his interest to the growing things in the garden.  A bird perched in the tree that the Elf had been planting in the fall began to sing, its song twice as glorious as it sang to the delight of an Elflord as well as the folk of the King’s city.

            Celebgil stopped at one point in the First Circle and indicated that Marúmir Tailor had his place of business down this street, at which Dorlin told him where to come after to find the warehouse given to the use of the Dwarves.  The youth nodded his understanding, then led the Halfling to his destination as Dorlin led the way to theirs. 

            The door of the storehouse had been opened, and inside stood a great group of Dwarves and Men, most crowded around a plan of the city hung upon a wall, discussing where the walls of the city needed strengthening and what areas of the First Circle were coming under reconstruction this day.  Dorlin went past them to a quieter corner of the place, and there they found the three blocks from Casistir standing alone, Frodo’s stone still shrouded in its tarp.  Carefully Ruvemir unfastened the rope and removed it, then slipped the tarp from its stone.  He looked at it thoughtfully, then bowed to it.  “This block is very wise,” he commented, and the Dwarf nodded agreement.

            “It knows the name and nature of the one whose image it holds,” Dorlin replied.

            Gimli, who’d left the party at the city map to follow them, grunted his own acknowledgment.  “Oh, yes, this stone knows what it is to be.  It is grateful, too, but will not accept any mishandling.  You’ll need to be very careful and respectful when you start shaping it.”

            Ruvemir nodded, not taking his eyes from the block.  “I’ll have my own tools for roughcutting brought here today, then, and may begin shaping it in the evenings.  It will do better when things are quiet and there are fewer about.”  He turned to Gimli.  “May I be granted a key so I might enter?”

            “Certainly,” Gimli agreed.  “I’ll bring you one tonight.”

            “Thanks.  One other thing--once I start shaping it, it will dislike being seen in an unfinished state.”

            “I suspect you are right.  We’ll put a screen about it today, and you should put the tarp back over it when you leave it.”

            Satisfied, Ruvemir turned back to the block and bowed.  “We will do our best for your comfort,” he told it.  “We all honor the Lord Frodo, the Lord Iorhael, you contain.  Thank you for your gift of yourself.”  Again he and Dorlin shrouded it respectfully, just as Legolas joined them.

            “This is the block, then, for Frodo?” he asked, to which the others nodded.  “You are giving it great respect, I see.”

            “The stone is proud, but full of flaws in the surface levels.  It will take much care and love to shape,” his friend explained.

            “I see,” the Elf replied.  “Many trees need the same.”  He turned to the sculptor.  “It is good to see you again, Master Ruvemir.  The King hopes to see you later this evening in your quarters, if that is acceptable.  If your lady can join you when her duties are over, that would be helpful.”

            “I will try to be ready, then,” Ruvemir replied.  “Thank you, Lord Legolas.”

            They exchanged bows, and Legolas slipped away with a shared smile with his friend.

            As they were joined by Celebgil Ruvemir was examining the other blocks.  “I have no idea when these will be shaped, but it is not to be as yet.  I have seen what this is to be,” he said, indicating the larger of the two.  “I will work on that in the future, for its need will not come for some time.  I will know when it is time to complete it.”

            Gimli nodded, apparently aware of the shape it would one day take.  “If you need some help in the cutting of it, let me know.”

            “Gladly, Lord Gimli.  As for that one--” he sighed as he looked at the tall block “--I am still uncertain what it will be, other than a tall figure of a Man.  Not, I think, of the King; but of whom I simply cannot say.”  He shook his head.  “Well, at least I know where and how they are housed, and I thank you for the offer of the screen.”  He laughed.  “First I learn the four of them all hate to have their scars seen, and now I have a stone with similar sentiments.”  With a final bow to the draped block, he turned to lead the way out of the building.  “I will probably come in the evenings to work on the figure of the Ringbearer, and I think it will not be moved to its final place until it is almost finished.”

            The others nodded.

Knowing Dignity

            Celebgil accompanied them back to the rooms at the King’s Head, and was finally shown the model for the memorial as Pando and Ririon ate a second breakfast.  He smiled as he looked on it.  “It is so different from anything I’ve worked on before,” he commented.  “I’ve not done a figure of the living.  It is also different from the figures Master Varondil had thought to do.”

            “I do not generally do strictly monumental work,” explained Ruvemir.  “Part of my own appeal as an artist is that I seek to reproduce personality in the sculptures I produce, which is different from the statues I’ve seen so far in the city.  The Travelers themselves hated how they were pictured in most of the drawings done of them.  They did not recognize themselves in the stiff poses and expressionless faces; and the Lord King bowed to their own wishes in not pursuing it before.”

            “You left them barefooted,” Celebgil noted.

            “That is how they live, after all.  I am told occasionally those working along the rivers will wear boots from time to time, but otherwise they go unshod in all weathers.”

            “Master Varondil thought it was demeaning to the dignity of the statue he might produce to portray them with their feet bare.”

            Ruvemir sighed.  “One could not look at the Lord Samwise walking, his feet bare but with his circlet of honor on his brow, from the parlor to the study in Bag End, and find him undignified,” he commented.  “Dignity is in the individual, not in whether or not the feet are shod.”

            Celebgil studied the small figure of Frodo Baggins.  “Certainly this one is full of dignity,” he observed.  “Dignity and a level of defiance.”

            Pando looked at it critically.  “He would often look much like this after his return.  He wasn’t as often laughing and merry as he was before, but neither was he likely to give others the Look as he did before.”

            The mannikin laughed.  “I never tried picturing him with the Look,” he said.  “You’ll have to do a clay portrait of it for me some time.  He sounds as if he could appear quite formidable when he wore the Look.”

            “Oh, yes, my cousin could look like that.”  The lad smiled.  “But he could also just look dignified.  Sam threw my dad out of Bag End once, when he was still a tween.  Was looking for secret tunnels stuffed with jewels, only there weren’t any.  That was just after Uncle Bilbo left.”  Again he smiled.  “And they all of them together threw out Cousin Lobelia.  It was quite funny, my mum says.  But she also says that Cousin Frodo was full of dignity that day, standing there dressed as the Master of Bag End, his face still full of grief for Uncle Bilbo’s leaving, answering questions anyway, although he’d rather have been hiding elsewhere, weeping his grief.  He must have looked quite a bit like that that day.”  He looked again at the small figure, then reached out to stroke it with one finger.  “He would sit quite straight when he told us his stories, after he came back.  And when he told us of the King, he would hold his head high with pride for him.  He truly loved our King.”

            Ruvemir nodded, solemnly now.  “And when the King speaks of your cousin, he gets the same look on his face, for he truly loves the Lord Frodo.  Loves him and misses him terribly.”

            “He always was full of dignity when he spoke of the King.  Always.  Even when he was obviously ill, he was still full of dignity.”  The lad thought for a few moments.  “Funny how he could be humble and dignified at the same time.”  His smile was proud and sad at the same time, and Ruvemir saw that Celebgil was examining it with wonder.

            Ririon was nodding from where he sat on his pallet as he fed Joy the last bite of his seedcake.  “Lord Samwise could be humble and proud at the same time.  You could see it in his carriage of himself, and hear it in his voice.  The day he told of the Lord Frodo leaving from the Havens, you could hear it plainly.  And you could hear it in Captain Pippin’s voice when he spoke of the King, how he’d be straightening to attention.”

            “Yes,” Ruvemir smiled, “every time he spoke of the King or anyone just mentioned his name, Captain Pippin would straighten up as if he were standing before the throne on guard again.  One moment telling stories to make us laugh, and the next he would be the Guard of the Citadel once more.  And when he spoke of his beloved Cousin Frodo it was the same.”

            “Oh, yes,” Ririon said, smiling, himself straightening, his chin lifting in pride.

            “You just caught his attitude perfectly, Ririon,” the sculptor said.  “Just like that.”  He turned to Celebgil.  “The pride and dignity of the Pheriannath is like that.”

            The young Man looked at Ririon, then back at Ruvemir, then at the solemn face of Pando Proudfoot as he continued to stroke the figure of his cousin with one finger.  Finally he said, “I think I can see the dignity of the Pheriannath indeed.”

            “It is a different dignity than the one which Men assume,” Ruvemir said.  “It is a native dignity.  And the Lord Samwise has it in full measure.”  He looked at the picture.  “Full measure.  He has been to the brink of despair and death, and brought his beloved Master, friend, and brother there and back again, only to lose him at the last.  He believes full honors ought to have gone to the Lord Frodo and not himself, while the Lord Frodo felt full honors ought to have gone to the Lord Samwise and not himself.”

            “Why did Lord Frodo leave Middle Earth?”

            “He was again on the brink of death, and this time what healing could be granted him here would only have served to keep him alive and no more.  He carried the Enemy’s Ring for well over seventeen years, and the last few months It was fully awake and active, and fully desirous to return to It’s own Master’s hand.  It did all It could to twist his soul, to corrupt him, to betray him, and he defied It--always he defied It.  His very soul was scarred by his ordeal.”

            He looked down at the small figure.  “The Lady Arwen was to have sailed to the Undying Lands with her father, the Lord Elrond, but instead chose to remain here and accept mortality, to cleave to our Lord King.  She begged the Valar to grant the Lord Frodo the right to sail with her father instead.  Her father and the Lady Galadriel and others of the great Elf lords and ladies begged the same, as did Mithrandir.  And they granted him that grace.  He hopefully is finding there the healing that could not come to him here.”

            “You speak as if the Ring had a will of Its own,” noted Celebgil.

            Ruvemir gave a brief shudder, then looked into the youth’s eyes.  “When Sauron crafted the Ring of Power, he poured the greater part of his own malice and hatred into It, the greater part of his own Will to Dominate.  Yes, It had a will of Its own--yet it was, in the end, the same will as the will of Its Master.  That was why It had to be destroyed, or It would destroy us all.”  He looked at the model solemnly.  “Two of those pictured there bore It, the Lord Frodo and the Lord Samwise, although he carried It only a day at most.  But his memory of what It did to him while they were still outside Mordor is vivid.  He has a better understanding of what the Lord Frodo endured from It than anyone, yet even he cannot truly begin to imagine what Lord Frodo suffered those last days within the Enemy’s own land, much less what it was like to be taken by It at the end.”

A Day’s Work

            He sighed and looked out the window.  “We ought to go now up to the work site.  Come.”  He took his cloak from the chair, rolled up the diagrams of Merry’s statue and bound the roll with a ribbon; and after making certain the box with his better tools for rough cutting was on the folding table just inside the doorway, he indicated the younger folk should exit first.  He paused at the desk to speak with Beneldil about having the box on the table borne down to the Dwarves’ warehouse in the first level, and they headed up the steep streets toward the Seventh Level. 

            Tharen Thranduilion came to meet them.  “I am sorry that I could not see the model ere you must away to your work, but if it is acceptable I will accompany my brother and the Lord Aragorn when they come to see you tonight, and see it then.”

            “Very much, my Lord,” said Ruvemir with a bow of respect.  “You are always welcome.” 

            As they walked, Ririon asked Celebgil, “When did you realize you had a gift for carving?”

            Celebgil shrugged.  “I’d never carved stone, but did love to work with clay, forming many figures when I was a child.  My father is a potter, so we always had clay for me to work.  There were no openings for sculptors in clay in the city when I came of age to be apprenticed, though, so my father sought a place with Master Varondil, who is greatly esteemed among sculptors in Minas Tirith.

            “Master Varondil owns an interest in a particular quarry for marble which produces finer stone appropriate for producing statuary and for use on the facades of buildings.  He therefore always has a suitable supply ready for most situations, and usually steers others to purchase stone from his quarry rather than from others.  He is an adequate artist, I suppose--certainly most within the city purchasing and commissioning effigies for tombs turn to him.  But almost all the work is of effigies, or standard memorial figures to place over graves.  Also, almost all the work is done in his workshop under his eye, with little chance to experiment or do anything different.  I dislike being forced to remain in the same place, the same room, almost all of my time, and asked if I couldn’t be allowed to try something different.

            “When it was learned that Master Ruvemir was to complete a memorial to the Pheriannath, he offered my services as an apprentice to assist in the rough cutting and the easier and less detailed shaping.  I finally am able to work under other conditions than just my master’s workshop and to do work on images of living folk for a change, and I am content.  And what new techniques I learn I will teach to my fellow apprentices.”

            “Do you like working with stone?” asked Pando.

            “I didn’t at first, but mostly I do now.  I have done much of the draperies for the effigies of women and great lords, for I appear to have a feel for how cloth flows and flares.  But only Master Varondil carves faces and hands.  We may do all else, but that is his own domain and he will not allow others to do them on those statues which are commissioned.”

            “Well, on these statues I, too, will be doing the detail work,” Ruvemir indicated.  “But I will be expecting you to work on learning to do faces and hands, and invite you to use whatever waste stone you please in your practice.  I will probably end up purchasing smaller blocks from your master for practice pieces for you.”        

            “Thank you,” said Celebgil.

            “After all,” continued Ruvemir, “it will be difficult for you to learn new techniques if you don’t have a chance to practice and perfect them.”

            After a time Ririon asked Pando, “Did you spy on the Lord Frodo often?”

            “Yes,” Pando replied.  “There was a weak place in the hedge where I’d lie and watch Sam working in the gardens.  He was always busy.  Usually after he’d cleaned up the kitchen after second breakfast Frodo would come out into the garden, too.  He might kneel down and cut off dead blooms or do some of the simpler weeding, or he’d bring a book and read it out loud to Sam as he worked.  When they got to discussing what he’d just read, often he’d get down and work with Sam, although often he would stop paying attention to what he was doing, and Sam would have to break off and tell him to stop trying to pull out all the alyssum or whatever. 

            “Frodo would usually work alongside Sam for a half hour or so, and then he’d sit usually on the grass in front of the garden bench with his knees drawn up with his hands clasped around them as they’d talk while Sam worked until elevenses.  Frodo would usually go in to eat his or to go to the study and work on a translation for a time, while Sam ate the meal he’d brought or that one of his sisters had sent up for him.  After, he’d go in and fix some tea and take some to Frodo, then come back out and drink his own before returning to work.

            “Frodo would often fix luncheon for both of them, although sometimes he’d get so involved he’d let the fire go out or forget to turn something.  Sam got so he’d check during the fixing of luncheon to see everything cooked properly, and if Frodo was very involved he’d just take him a tray and go back out to his own work.  He was often done with all that needed to be done fairly early, and then he’d just putter.  He hated to leave the flowers.  If Merry and Pippin and Folco and Fatty had come, often he’d be invited in to have tea and supper and so on with them.  Sometimes if there just wasn’t enough to be done to make staying worthwhile, he’d announce he’d finished for the day, and he’d go to see the Cottons, who are relatives.  He and Young Tom Cotton were close friends, and he’d always been sweet on Rosie--everyone knew that.

            “On market day, Frodo would usually walk into Hobbiton to do the shopping, and would often stop at Number Three to ask the Gaffer and Marigold if they wanted him to get them anything.  Sometimes Sam would go with him if there was much to bring back, and Sam would usually insist on carrying most of it.  But when Frodo went alone, he would let me play Túrin and the Dragon with him.”

            Celebgil looked at him with surprise.  “Wasn’t he a grownup?”

            “Yes, but he’d still let me play it with him.”

            Ruvemir was curious now.  “How did you play this?”

            “Well, there was a place along the way where there was a break in the hedge, so I’d hurry to get there with the wooden sword I’d made myself, and I’d pretend to be Túrin waiting in the narrow crack for the dragon to walk over him, and Frodo would be the dragon.  Just as he was passing, I’d rush out of the opening and attack him, and he’d pretend to be terribly wounded and fall down dead.  Or he’d pretend he’d taken only a flesh wound and he’d turn on me, making loud roars, catching me and finally starting to tickle me. 

            “If he had something urgent to do or had to meet with the Mayor or anything like that, or just wasn’t feeling like playing that day, before he got to the crack he’d call out, ‘Túrin would do well to go home today.’  One day he just said, ‘Sorry, Pando, but I just got this cloak cleaned, and if you get it dirty or rip it with your sword I’ll have to do something dire.’”  They all laughed.

            “After he was done with the shops and the stalls, he’d often sit on one of the benches on the Common to have a pipe, and we’d come to beg him for stories.  He told the most wonderful stories.  Often he’d act them out as much as tell them.  Sometimes he’d bring a book and he’d read a story to us, or occasionally a poem.  When he read to us, he’d usually let one of the little ones sit on his lap while he was reading, and afterwards would tell the letters and how the words were pronounced to the one he was holding.  Many of the children of Hobbiton and Bywater were taught to read by Frodo.

            “He usually didn’t hurry home.  He’d stop in the Ivy Bush and have a mug of ale and talk with his friends or listen to the gossip, or he’d wander about a bit and maybe help someone finish sweeping a walk or stoop, or he’d sit in the Common and talk with someone--mostly, he would let them talk and he’d just listen and ask questions, and then give advice when they were all done.  Or he’d have them decide how to deal with a problem.”

            “Did he let you play Túrin and the Dragon after he came back?”

            “I didn’t do it any more.  At first, he’d been gone so long; and then he just didn’t look like he was ready to play back.  Sometimes he’d walk into Hobbiton or Bywater, but now he was often tired looking, and he always walked slower.  Sometimes he’d have to stop and catch his breath, and then he’d clutch at his jewel he wore.  Finally he stopped walking far at all.  He was only going a short way at a time, and he’d tell us stories there at the turn in the lane where there used to be a bit of a wall, but now there was a bench Sam put there in its place.  But his stories weren’t the same as before, and he didn’t act them out any more.  Often Cyclamen, who was the littlest on the Row then, would sit on his lap and hold his hand, like we said inside, and she’d rub the place where his finger was gone now.

            “Sometimes he’d stop in the middle of the story and just look out at the mallorn tree for a few moments.  We would just sit there and wait for him to finally go on, which he always did.  He smiled and all, and always would ask us how things were for us at home, and laugh when someone told a joke or just said something silly, but he also usually looked sort of solemn.

            “His voice had become very slow and thoughtful.  Sam said he sounded Elvish now.  Then--then he went away.  He made Sam his heir and took him to the Havens to say goodbye.  Then Sam came back alone, and now he is Master of Bag End.  He still spends much of the day working in the gardens most of the year, and like Frodo he helps whoever needs help.  Frodo was always doing that.  When Cyclamen was born he brought down meals for us for a few days until Mum was feeling better and Dad was able to help her cook and take care of us.  When Gordo Twofoot broke his leg, Frodo came down and split kindling for him, and stacked wood.  When I was ill with a rash and fever, he came down and read to me.  Now it’s Sam that does all that.”

            They walked for a while in silence.  Pando had taken the roll of paper, and Ruvemir was using his cane; but as they went through the gate to the Fifth Circle he was becoming tired, and for the first time in quite a while his hip was beginning to ache.  Finally he said, “I need to stop for a moment.”

            They could hear horses coming up the way behind them briskly, and drew to one side.  Then they heard a voice calling out, “Is all well with you, Master Ruvemir?”

            The sculptor turned, gladdened to hear the voice of the King, but his expression became concerned when he saw the King’s face and form.  There were five in the party, including the Lord Faramir and Lasgon.  All were well dressed--except their fine clothing was smudged with smoke and cinders, and their expressions were grim and tired under streaks of soot.  The King held in his arms the figure of a child, and he looked concerned.

            “My Lord King Aragorn,” Ruvemir exclaimed.  “What has happened?”

            “A fire upon the Pelennor.  I cannot stay, for we must get this one and her brother to the Houses of Healing quickly; but I see you are fatigued with the climb.  Lasgon, will you take Master Ruvemir before you and carry him to the Court of Gathering?  Have them draw a bath for me for when I come, and ask Lord Hardorn to call those who are most familiar with the paths on the mountain to gather to me in an hour’s time in my chambers--we will need snow brought down for this one’s burns.”

            “Were you down visiting with Captain Beregond, then, my Lord?” asked the sculptor.

            The King drew a tired smile.  “I see I should admit you to the ranks of those who gather intelligence for the realm.  Pippin told you this?”  At the sculptor’s nod, he sighed.  “I bid you good day.  I may not be able to come down tonight as planned, due to this.  I will send word later in the day as we learn more.”  He spoke to his horse--not the grey today, but the bay; and hurried on the way to the sixth level and the Houses of Healing.  Lasgon dismounted and assisted Ruvemir into the saddle and remounted behind, then led the way up the last two levels.

            “What has happened, Lasgon?” Ruvemir asked.

            “The King went out to the house where Captain Beregond stays while Prince Faramir is in the city, and because his son Bergil and I have long been friends I was asked to be part of his escort that we might enjoy one another’s company.  The Lord King after a time went out onto the porch to light his pipe and enjoy the sun, and saw smoke near the west borders of the Pelennor.  He raised the alarm and called Roheryn to him, vaulted onto the stallion’s back, and rode off toward the smoke, calling orders to me to get help from the city as he rode away.  I’d not realized Roheryn was trained to riding Elf fashion as is Olórin, but obviously he is.  The others followed the King, but were delayed as most of the horses present had been relieved of tack, and few are as accustomed as the King to riding with no saddle or bridle.

            “A crofter’s houseplace had caught fire--no one knows why as yet.  The neighbors were quenching the lower walls, but the roof fell in.  The father managed to throw his infant son out of the blaze to the King’s hands before a beam struck him and his older boy.  The King drew the daughter out of the house himself--she appears badly burnt on the left side.  He drew out the father, but he apparently was killed by the fallen beam.  Bergil drew out the older boy, who died in his arms.  He is bereft.”

            “I can imagine,” Ruvemir said, shocked.

            “The King bears the daughter, and the Lord Prince Faramir carries the infant son.  His mother, we are told, died giving birth to him.”

            The Ladies Arwen and Éowyn were walking down the ramp between the Sixth Circle and the level of the Citadel as Lasgon rode his horse up it, and nodded their recognition as they and the two women and three guards with them went as swiftly as the Queen’s condition allowed down to the Houses of Healing to assist in the caring for the injured.   Lasgon dismounted and carefully lifted Ruvemir down, saluted them, and handing his horse to a guard who’d moved forward, ran to the doors of the Citadel to carry the orders of the King.

            Ririon watched after, troubled and knowing there was nothing he could do to assist.  Sighing, he gestured the three with him to follow, and they crossed to the work site. 

            His larger chest of tools for stonework had been brought up the previous evening, and now he unlocked it, lifted out the smaller chest that contained his finer tools, and carefully laid out the tools he would use today.  He brought the three youths to look at the diagram of Peregrin Took, and he indicated how the shaping marks he’d done the day before would help to bring the stone closer to the shape of the finished figure.  He then asked Pando to describe what he’d learned the day before, and indicated he would allow the young Hobbit to assist in the shaping of certain parts of the block intended for the sculpture of Sir Meriadoc, as there was more stone to be removed and less chance he would cut too deeply.

            He then had all three run their fingers over the work done already, identifying places where the density of the stone varied, which proved to be few.  “Very good,” he judged.  “The less variation in densities and the fewer the flaws, the easier it is to work the stone as intended, and often the more pleasing the finished figure.  However, as in people, the additions of flaws and differences bring more interest to the sculpture, particularly when they are used to enhance the lines of clothing drape or features.”

            He looked over the work Celebgil had done, and using his pot of paint and brush he marked the sections he wished worked this day and indicated the types of strokes he wished used.  “We are coming close to the level of the figure itself, so we do not wish to cut deeply as yesterday, only to remove those layers that are not Hobbit and their clothing, and we wish the cuts today to lay the groundwork for those I will do in the final carving.  Do not go above this level on the block.  I wish the stone covering the face to remain for now.”

            He took Pando and Ririon with him to the other figure.  He pinned up the diagram for Merry’s stone, and using his measuring line figured out where he would cut to for various points.  Again he used his pot of paint to mark the contours for the rough cutting, and he then took the two of them to his tool chest, had them feel each tool, and named and described it and its usage for them as they handled them.  At one point he realized Celebgil had broken away from his carving to come listen.  He looked up at the young Man in question.

            “I have not heard all these tools described before, Master,” Celebgil explained, “and I wished to learn also.” 

            Ruvemir nodded and smiled.  “Well enough,” he said, and continued. 

            During the time they were gone some odd pieces of stone had been set by his workbench, and Ririon guessed rightly that they had been donated by the Dwarves and artisans working on the repairs of the city from their waste pieces.  Once they were done with the instruction, Ruvemir set Ririon experimenting with some of the punches and chisels and hammers on one of these, and then demonstrated the use of the larger chisels for rough cutting for Pando, then set him experimenting on another rough block while he turned to the block for Merry.  He looked carefully at the block for some time, looking at the direction of the grain, examining the crystalline structure, and finally set his chisel and began tapping.  Again Celebgil stopped his own work to watch, then came over and watched more closely.  He smiled as a single blow from Master Ruvemir removed thrice the material his did, yet failed to go any deeper than the lines marked indicated.

            “You are far more efficient than I, Master Ruvemir,” he said.

            “Yes, I need to be, for I don’t have your leverage or endurance, Celebgil.  As I told the Lord Samwise, my father, who is a carver of wood, taught me to judge grain and weaknesses so as to set wedges and chisels where they do the most good in a single blow, and the same is true, in a different way, with stone.”

            He then had Celebgil describe the grain of the stone and its structure as he saw it as best he could.  Nodding, he offered what corrections he had to give, and indicated several places where he could set the chisel to do his next cut, and described what would occur in each case.  “However,” he said, “I will set it here--” he suited action to words “--at this angle and cut thus--” a blow “--and this will be the result.” 

            Celebgil watched the single elegant wedge of stone removed fall away with awe.  “Yes,” he breathed, “you do indeed deserve the title of Master, sir.”

            He went back to the first figure, and examined it for some moments.  Ruvemir followed, watched with interest, and smiled when the young Man set his chisel, adjusted the angle and the grip on his mallet, and looked for approval.  Ruvemir refused to comment one way or another, but it was plain from his expression that whether right or wrong, the blow was unlikely to cause irreparable harm, so Celebgil took a breath and struck.  As had happened with Ruvemir, a long, elegant wedge fell away, and the youth smiled with achievement.  He did two more such long removes watched by Ruvemir, then the mannikin smiled at him and went back to the other block.  Finally he called Ririon and Pando to him, had Ririon hold a smaller chisel at a prescribed angle, and had him do several removes.  Then he had Ririon hand the chisel to Pando and return to his own block, and did the same with him.  Soon he was having Pando work with a variety of other chisels.

            “These are too big for your hand,” he commented.  “I will have to see about getting some more appropriate for your grip.”

            “I may be able to help there,” commented Dorlin, who’d arrived a short time earlier with a shorter Dwarf with black hair and beard.  “My kinsman Orin,” he said by way of introduction.

            “Ruvemir son of Mardil of Lebennin, at your service,” the mannikin said with the bow he’d learned was appropriate.  Pando and Ririon followed suit easily, with Celebgil, obviously self-conscious, completing the introductions offered by Ruvemir’s group. 

            “Orin son of Bofur at yours and your family’s,” the dark Dwarf said formally.  He looked over the work done so far and nodded.  “Not many of us go in for sculpting such as this--usually we work geometric shapes or the designs made by tree limbs and plants into our decorations, although some of us do make statues of great heroes or tomb effigies.  But this is fine planning, and it is good you recognize the young Hobbit needs tools fit for his hand.”

            “At this time he is learning only the basic techniques I use, for his greatest gift as revealed is with clay and wax.”  The Dwarf nodded his understanding.  “So he is only now getting a feel for the work Celebgil and I do before he goes to an instructor better suited to teach to his talents than I.”

            “I have a smaller grip myself,” Orin said, “and will be glad to give him a few of my lesser chisels, since he is unlikely to do much here.  But, if he loves clay, I can think of a fellow who can help with tools there.  Few Dwarves work with clay and kilns for it, but Dorin is a bit of an odd one for Dwarves.”  He watched Ririon work.  “That one is clever, and has already begun to come out with a pleasing pattern.”  He watched Ririon pausing to feel the interlaced diamond pattern he’d started, and place his chisel for the next blow.  He nodded approval as the blow fell true.  “He knows what he wishes to bring forth, and the stone gives it to him.”  He went forward to hunker down by the boy, and began to talk with him as he worked.  Dorlin watched with a smile behind his beard. 

            “I knew Ririon would capture his attention,” the Dwarf commented quietly.  “Gimli was coming with us, too, but went aside to the Houses of Healing with Legolas instead.”         

            At that moment there was a movement up the Court of Gathering from the ramp as the King, plainly tired but grimly determined, walked swiftly toward the Citadel, accompanied by others.  An hour later, as the servants of the Citadel came out with the luncheon provided, he and three others headed back down the ramp, all now clean and the King dressed now in white garb.  A healer met him at the head of the ramp, and after a moment’s talk he sped down it, the others scrambling to keep pace with him.  Ruvemir watched with concern for the burned girl and the babe, and a prayer that the King’s aid would be enough for them.

            By mid-afternoon Ruvemir was well fatigued, and he quickly shrouded Merry’s block and indicated that after the break for ale, fruit, and cheese he would go back to his quarters to work on the diagrams for Lord Samwise’s figure.  Again he had Pando remain with Celebgil and Orin, who’d been watching the work with occasional comments and suggestions, so well made they offered none any offense; and accompanied by Ririon and Dorlin he headed back down to the lower city.

            They paused at the door to the Houses of Healing, where they asked after the girl and the babe.  They received word the babe was alive and would recover quickly, but that the girl’s condition was guarded.  She would be in grave pain if allowed to awaken, so the King had sent her into a deep sleep.  He’d steeped a good deal of athelas in boiling water, and had then set bowls of it in larger bowls of snow and ice brought off the mountain to cool it, and was using compresses dipped in the cooled athelas water to soothe the burns, and had laid some of the leaves after steeping directly over the worst of the burns.  Leaving word to the King that care for the children had been expressed, Ruvemir went on down through the city.

            In the Fifth Circle they were intercepted by Master Varondil, who bowed deeply and asked after the work accomplished that day.  “Young Celebgil suits well?” he asked.

            “Oh, yes, very well indeed,” Ruvemir agreed.  “He is dedicated and skillful, and is following instruction full well.  I thank you again for the loan of his services.  He is making good progress on the rough cutting of the first block, and will undoubtedly assist in doing some of the detail work on the cloaks and clothing.”

            Master Varondil seemed a bit surprised but fully pleased at this report, and promised to come up the next day to see the progress made.

            It was as they went through the fifth level that he saw the shop where Lord Frodo must have received the writing and drawing supplies he’d used here in the city as he taught himself to compensate for the loss of his finger.  Ruvemir indicated he wished to go in and purchase some more supplies for himself, and together they entered the shop.  In it, sitting in a corner, sat the elderly Man whose picture Lord Frodo had done in Gondor, a smiling figure as he sat, absorbed in what he was reading, obviously not noticing his customers.  No wonder, Ruvemir thought as he looked at the Man, the Ringbearer had found him intriguing.  His face was full of humor and had an abstracted air to it; and on an easel stood an ethereal drawing that was obviously a work in progress of Elves facing a great dragon.  Yes, Ruvemir thought, this would be an individual with whom Frodo Baggins could identify, here in this place of stone and mountains and strangeness--another scholar and artist.

            “Hello,” said Ruvemir rather loudly, and the Man startled to awareness, drawn with suddenness from the world to which his book had taken him.

            “Oh, I am sorry,” he began.  “I was just--”

            His eyes, as they focused on the party that had entered his shop, popped slightly.  “Oh,” he said, “are you a Pherian, Master?”

            “My apprentice Pando is a Pherian, sir, but not I.  I am but a humble mannikin.  I was wondering if you would show me your selection of sketch booklets and drawing paper.”

            “Of course, sir.  They are in this corner, Master, all that I have.  Do you need drawing sticks?  Graphite?”

            The selection was greater here than in the shop just the other side of the gate into the First Circle, but the shopkeeper did not sell books other than those that had to do with artistry and architecture.

            After a long discussion on the benefits of one grade of charcoal against another and the comparison of both to graphite, Ruvemir at last bought three more sketch booklets and a binding with ribbons through it to fix some of the pages he’d cut out for use in constructing models and such that he wished now to protect.

            As his purchases were wrapped up, he commented, “I wished to let you know you and your shop were remembered pleasantly by the four Pheriannath who left their far home to take up the quest of the Enemy’s Ring.  Captain Peregrin and Sir Meriadoc and Master Samwise all remember you with thanks for the generosity you showed their kinsman and beloved friend.  And the Ringbearer left a portrait of you among his papers--he appears to have found you a person he came to admire, sir.”

            The Man straightened, obviously surprised.  “You have met with them, Master?  Oh, how wonderful!  And how did you come to know them?”

            “I was sent by the King to meet them in Eriador, and all remembered the first visit when the Lord Frodo found your shop and came in to obtain materials so he could practice writing once more.”

            “They do?  That is pleasant to know.  They were so odd, and so worthy.  Master Frodo came to visit me several times, and we would talk.  He told me about his land and his home, and one day drew me a picture of it.  They live in holes carved out of the hills of their land, did you know?”

            “Yes, so I have learned.  So, he has given you a picture of Bag End, has he?”

            “Oh, yes.  A marvelous artist.  One can tell, looking on the picture, what flowers were blooming about the round door.  He told me of being brought there as a youth as the heir to his cousin, and of the joy he felt there, coming of age amongst the flowers planted by his friend Master Samwise.  And he told me of the day he came into his inheritance, and how they found a cousin stealing small items and secreting them in something they call an umbrella, which I am told shields one from rain, and how they carried her out the door and dumped her onto the steps.  It was quite funny, the way he told it.  His eyes would laugh as he told me his stories, and I could tell he wished strongly to go back to his home.”  The Man laughed, then became solemn.  “When I heard the story he’d left Middle Earth, I was so saddened.  A light has been lost to us, you know.”

            Ruvemir and Ririon nodded.  “All of his own people mourn for his leaving as well,” Ririon said.  “They pray the great Elves in Elvenhome and the Powers are aiding him to heal.”

            “Elvenhome?” asked the shopkeeper with amazement.  “You mean he is not dead, then?”

            “Yes,” Ruvemir said, quietly.  “His kinsmen and his friend accompanied him to the Havens and saw him take ship.  He was very weakened by his ordeal, and had begun to fade.  The Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel themselves interceded for him, as did Mithrandir.”

            “But he will not be able to return.”

            “No, he will not.”

            “And his home is now empty?”

            “No, he left it to Master Samwise, who married and now has two children and a third due at any time.  He and Mistress Rosie are determined to see the Lord Frodo’s desire to fill Bag End with children and love made manifest.”

            The shopkeeper smiled.  “That is good, then.  He wished so strongly to see a family in his home.”  He looked down at the package he’d just wrapped.  “He was a gentle soul, Master Frodo.  He forbade me to call him Lord, you know.”  Ruvemir nodded.  “He took pity on a lonely widower, and visited me on occasion, made me feel almost as if my grandchild was visiting me.  We would talk of drawing and painting, of writing and books and the binding of books.  He bound books, you know.  And he sent me this from his own land.”

            He reached under the counter and brought out a small book, elegantly bound, in which Frodo had copied a number of poems written by himself and his uncle.  Two of them were illustrated, one of Eärendil the Mariner which showed a tall man, similar to the Lord King Aragorn but clean shaven, with the Silmaril bound to his brow; the other a nursery rhyme about an Oliphaunt--and the picture made it plain he had indeed seen such a beast.  Searching carefully, Ruvemir smiled to finally discover the dragonfly in each of the pictures, worked into the sail of Eärendil’s ship in the one, and flying over the back of the Oliphaunt in the other.  Skimming through the book, Ruvemir found a long rhyme about the Man in the Moon visiting an inn, and paused.

            “May I read this aloud to my ward here?” he asked.

            “Of course,” the shopkeeper said.  “Feel free.”

            Ruvemir smiled.  “You will remember what Mr. Butterbur told us of his dancing on the table in Bree, Ririon, Dorlin?  I think I’ve found the song he sang that night.”  And he read it aloud, and soon all were laughing.

            “What a droll poem that one is,” the shopkeeper said.  “I think he did the pictures in the book.”

            “Yes, he did,” Ruvemir smiled.  “I see his signature symbol in each.”

            “You found the dragonfly, then?” asked Ririon.

            “Yes, in both.”

            “You say he had a picture he did of me as well?” the shopkeeper asked.

            “Yes, among his papers he brought back from Gondor.  He appears to have remembered you with fondness.”

            “I am honored.  He’d sit and talk to me, and sometimes, after he was comfortable holding a pen or drawing stick again, he would draw as we talked.  Most were of his friends or of flowers or birds.  One he gave me was of the Citadel and the old White Tree.  I framed it and it hangs there.”  He indicated the wall behind him. 

            Ruvemir turned to it avidly.  It was detailed, and he asked if he could hold it.  As he took it in his hand, he realized suddenly that there were two pictures here--the obvious picture of the Citadel from the Court of Gathering, and in the entwined branches of the dead White Tree the image of the Lady Arwen Undómiel.  He straightened in surprise.  He’d seen such double images in the works of a few artists--but this one was masterfully done.  He looked up to search the eyes of the shopkeeper.  “Did he make this, then, after the wedding of our Lord King to our Lady Arwen, then?”

            “No, a full month before her coming.  Why?”

            “Because he drew her into the picture--here.  And I did not think he realized beforehand how deeply the Lord King and the Lady Queen loved one another.”

            The shopkeeper was surprised--evidently he hadn’t seen the second image.  Now he examined it closely, then smiled.  “Wonderfully wrought!” the Man smiled.  “He was indeed gifted!”

            Ruvemir searched, and found it, resting near the surface of the pool of the fountain, the dragonfly symbol.  He sighed.  “It is the most wonderful example of his work I’ve seen to date,” he said softly.  “He was a master artist.”

            “You, too, are an artist?”

            “Nowhere as gifted with drawing or painting as he.  I’m a master sculptor.”

            “Oh, are you the Master Ruvemir, then?  It is an honor to meet you.  I am Iorhael son of Berenion of Lossarnach.”

            Ruvemir smiled.  “Another reason for Master Frodo to seek your company, Master Iorhael.  You and he shared both interests and a name, then.”

            “Oh?”

            “Yes, for his name means Wise One as well.”

            The Man stood quiet for a moment.  “I didn’t know.  It was better given to him than to me, I think.”

            “He was not certain.”

            “If they accepted him to the Undying Lands, then it was properly bestowed.”

            With reluctance Ruvemir gave the picture back to the son of Berenion of Lossarnach.  “Thank you, Master Iorhael,” he said.  He paid for his purchases and left the shop quietly and thoughtfully.

Plans for Married Life

            They’d not been back long before Master Beneldil brought a missive from the King.  Ruvemir smiled to again receive a folded paper sealed with black wax and the A glyph, and opened it with interest. 

            “He has determined he can come down early this evening, about sundown, but cannot stay long,” Ruvemir told Dorlin, Folco, Miriel, and Ririon as they sat about the room, Miriel working on the last of the embroidery for the hem of the Queen’s dress.  She would assemble the garment tomorrow, he knew, and would have it finished in a few days time.  The bodice was complete, and she’d spent much of the time in the coach coming back from Rohan basting it together.  “He says the girl should live, but he fears the left side of her face will be badly disfigured.  The boy will do well.”

            A tap at the door from Elise, and she entered with fresh towels for his and Ririon’s baths, and that of Pando when he returned.  She paused briefly as he quickly explained the King was coming, and asked if he could arrange for a meal in the room.  “Probably a light one will be best,” he said.  “He is likely to be tired after the day.  I am surprised he still intends to come down after all.  Can you join us for a quarter of an hour, do you think?”

            She allowed she thought she could make it, and agreed to go out with him after she was off duty to the Dragon’s Claw to speak of plans for the future.  She was wearing the gift sent her by Rosie Gamgee, a triangular lace shawl that she wore wrapped diagonally and tied near her left hip, and it became her well.  She thanked Ruvemir for the gift he’d placed on the tea tray for her the day before, a book of humorous poems he’d found in the market in Hobbiton.  She told how she’d read them aloud to her family, and how her mother and sister had both laughed, and even her grandmother had allowed herself to smile.  And she again reassured herself that he would indeed come to dinner with them on her next free day.

            “I will, but after we go together to the Sixth Circle to look at the house suggested by the King,” Ruvemir promised. 

            He followed her to the door, and gave her a very quick kiss before she took herself off.  He then went in to bathe, and came out wrapped in a light robe, prepared to start the third set of diagrams.

            Near sundown Pando arrived, tired but pleased, and Celebgil came with him.  Both were sent to bathe and make themselves presentable, and Miriel moved quickly through the room preparing it.  Folco had purchased early flowers from a flower seller on the street, and Miriel quickly arranged them in a vase she’d purchased a few days previous.  The diagrams for Sam’s figure were rolled away, Ruvemir changed into a clean outfit, and Folco brought in his container of pipeweed to share after the meal. 

            At sundown there was the expected knock at the door, and the King, Legolas, Tharen, and Gimli came in quietly and removed their cloaks.  Ruvemir had already obtained three extra larger chairs, and Aragorn claimed one of them with obvious relief.  His expression was still concerned, but not as grim as it had been when Ruvemir had glimpsed him before.  He accepted the goblet of wine Ruvemir poured him as he entered, and he sat, head tilted back as the sculptor had seen him do on previous visits.

            Ririon brought the model for the memorial to Tharen, who examined it closely and declared himself well pleased with it.  He turned to Legolas.  “It depicts them well, do you think?”

            “No question, my brother.  I think even Frodo would be pleased.”

            Gimli smiled as he held it, Dorlin watching with interest, and then came the tap at the door as Elise brought the tray for the dinner.  “I have told them to bring the second tray for the drinks after,” she said.  “They do not know the King is here.  I hope that is acceptable, my Lord Elessar.”

            The King nodded.  “Thank you.  I have had a long and stressful day, and it does not help that all that we wished to discuss this morning was interrupted by the fire on the Pelennor.”

            “You were discussing the matters discussed in Rohan, then?” asked Ruvemir.

            The King looked him over carefully before finally smiling.  “Yes, but we will say no more here of that.” 

            Ruvemir nodded.  Elise left to get the second tray as Miriel set out the contents of the first.  A second tap and Elise had returned, and soon all were served with a light meal of cold meats and cheeses and bread, fresh vegetables, and fruit.

            The date for the wedding was agreed upon, the second High Day hence, an hour past noon.  Master Beneldil had offered his common room for the wedding and the feast afterwards, if the weather was such to preclude the marriage in the garden that Elise had desired.  “Mardi Cook is all pleased, and has plans for an elaborate feast, my Lord,” Elise explained.  “I don’t know that there will be so many to enjoy it, though.”

            “Oh, don’t be so certain,” the King commented.  “You may be surprised at the number who wish to attend.”  He smiled.  “And hopefully Arwen will be able to show our daughter her first wedding.  I believe she will be born next week.”

            He looked at the wedding couple.  “I saw today,” he explained to them both, “just how difficult it is for Master Ruvemir to make his way up the steep streets of the city.  He was quite winded when we passed him, my Lady Elise.  He should not have to walk so far with his hips as they are.  We have a guesthouse on the sixth level that will suit his needs well, but is also fit for you.  And, we have an offer to make you, also, Mistress.  Once our daughter becomes old enough to be separated for a few hours at a time from her mother, we will need someone to serve as a nurse for her when her mother has duties elsewhere.  Would you be interested in such an office?  It will not be for many hours a day, nor will it be indefinitely, as we do not intend to allow our children to be raised by others as so many do.”

            Elise was shocked to stillness, then smiled.  “Oh, my Lord, it would be an honor.”

            “Thank you, then, for accepting this.  One more detail completed, and one whose sense Arwen and I both admire will care for the child and not someone to fill her head with how special she is and that she does not need to care for the wishes of others.  I’ve seen too many such in my lifetime.”

            “My Lord,” asked Miriel, “what will become of the two children you rescued today?”

            “We are not yet certain.  It appears the girl will recover more quickly than I’d feared.  She is responding well to the treatment, and is very responsive both to my own skills and gift and to the athelas.  But the burns will most likely be disfiguring.

            “Nor have we found any kin to take them.  Their mother was from Anfalas and had been raised by an aunt who resented taking care of an orphaned child; their father’s brothers were killed in the War, his sister did not survive childhood, and his parents died six years past, we’ve learned.”

            “I see.  Might the girl enjoy a visit from me, do you think?  At least she will know someone cares for her recovery.”

            “That would be most welcome, I am certain.”

            Not long after the King, politely refusing the pipeweed brought by Folco, cloaked himself and left, accompanied by the two Elves.  Gimli remained, and he looked at Ruvemir and Elise with interest as he accepted Folco’s generosity.  “It is a good house,” Gimli commented.  “We were comfortable there.  And the folk in the next house are gentle and kindly folk who will welcome you both.  The parents of the Mistress Lindúriel will be pleased to teach you the ways of the Citadel, as they serve there themselves, and the children will be fascinated by Pando, Ririon, and Joy when they visit, as well as the two of you.”  He gave Ruvemir a piercing look.  “And you will undoubtedly find yourself thrilled to be in yet another place where Frodo Baggins once lived.”  He moved to the open window and lit his pipe.

            “That I will.  He is one I so wish I could have met personally.  Ririon is very glad he did have that chance.”

            “Now, tell me the news of the Shire.  And what is this about turnip lanterns in the hedges of Bag End?”

            Pando blushed, but began to explain how Pippin Took had taught the children of the Row how to carve turnip lanterns, and how somehow they’d decided to suspend them in the hedges of Bag End as a surprise for the Gamgees.  Elise was laughing as she left to resume her duties, and Gimli was grinning broadly.  “Sounds like the young rascal.  I hear he’s keeping company?”

            Folco smiled.  “More or less. But it is his wish to make it known in his own way.  She loves the pendant, though.”

            “Good.  Have they set a date yet?”

            “Not as of the time we left the Shire.”

            “Not so swift as some, then,” the Dwarf smiled, examining Folco with interest.  Folco and Miriel flushed, but clasped each other’s hands and smiled proudly.  “You make a decidedly likely couple.” 

            “Thank you,” Miriel replied.

            After the two Dwarves finally left, Celebgil reluctantly followed suit, and Ruvemir asked Ririon to help him with the exercises he’d not really done in a couple months, then prepared to walk out with Elise when she was off duty.

            For a time they walked about the Second Circle, speaking lightly, and eventually found themselves in a quiet square where they sat on a bench and looked out over the Pelennor while they talked of what would follow the completion of this commission.

            “I already have two more, to the north in Arnor.  One will be done in Eriador, probably near the northern capital; and the other I am not certain where.  It should involve visiting Imladris.”

            “Oh, then we will see the Vale of the Great Elves?”

            “You would wish to accompany me?  I’d hoped you would, but was not certain you’d find such a roving life pleasing.”

            She smiled shyly.  “Well, if I’m to marry a master sculptor of such fame, I must be ready to travel, mustn’t I?  I’ll admit it will be odd to travel about the wilds of the world, but our children will be well educated and experienced.”

            He smiled as she rested her head on his shoulder.  “Perhaps we will be allowed to enter the Shire again.  You would find it fascinating, I think.  And you would come to love the family of Samwise Gamgee.  Mistress Rosie would welcome you with open arms.  And little Elanorellë would sit in your lap and play with your shoes.

            “Where would you wish to have our home of the heart, though, Elise?  Here in  the city?  In Lebennin?  Elsewhere?”

            “I’m not yet certain.  So far I know only the city and the fastness where they took us during the War.  But after that, I think I’d like it to be away from here, in a green place near mountains.  I found I love such places.  Cannot we travel some ere we make that decision?”

            He smiled.  “It would seem we should look to having a new coach of a type made, I think.”  He began to have an idea.  “Let me think on it, then.” 

            They spent an hour in the common room at the Dragon’s Claw, and he walked her then to her door, which was opened by her sister Dorieth, another who was smaller than other girls her age, her hair darker than that of her sister, but as full and thick, her eyes bright with pleasure to meet him at last, her expression promising her sister teasing later.  He kissed Elise gently on the step, before her sister’s pleased eyes, and after seeing her in he went back to his own rooms and readied himself for bed. 

            He dreamed of the Shire and the mallorn tree that night, and heard the giggles of Pando as he played at Túrin and the Dragon with Frodo Baggins.

Bringing out Captain Peregrin

            During the dawn meal Master Beneldil arrived to say word had come a pony cart was being sent to carry Master Ruvemir to the level of the Citadel.  Ruvemir thanked the innkeeper and arranged to pay for the portage of his tools the day before, finished his meal, trimmed his beard and mustache, and worked more on the third set of diagrams until Celebgil arrived.

            They did not have to wait long for the cart, and once more they found themselves heading back up the levels of the city, Joy trotting happily after the cart carrying her young master.

            Ririon continued on with his pattern of interlaced diamonds while Celebgil continued work on the first figure and Pando assisted Ruvemir with the second.  Before they’d been there an hour Orin arrived, followed by Dorlin.  Orin carried three chisels he said he rarely used which he gifted to Pando’s use.   The young Hobbit was thrilled, and after practicing for a time on the waste piece he’d used the day before, he came back to Merry’s block and began again to do the rough cutting as directed by Ruvemir.  Dorlin soon asked if he could assist as well, and soon he and the Hobbit between them were working on Merry’s block while Ruvemir turned to Pippin’s with Celebgil.  The citizens of the city had begun to come up to the Court of Gathering to enjoy the day and watch the artisans at work on the King’s commission, and Joy began to be distracted by the numbers of folk who saw her and wished to pet and stroke her.  Worried someone would feed her something that could cause her to become ill, Ruvemir advised his ward to leash her and tie her at the back of the workspace where she would be less in danger of wrongly expressed affection.

            There was a privy building near the base of the Tower of Ecthelion, and Ruvemir and Joy guided Ririon there later in the morning.  The Sun was bright, and the boy’s sight was suffering as a result.  “We’d do best to find you another brimmed hat to wear, I think,” Ruvemir said.  “You look quite miserable with the glare.”

            “I can’t squint enough to relieve it,” Ririon explained.  “And when I face it I can see nothing but white.  It makes my eyes to hurt and my head to ache.”

            When they returned they paused to get drinks from the pitchers of juice and water left for them that morning, and Ririon ate some dried apple rings before going back to his pattern in the shade of the work shed.  As he returned to the statue Celebgil was still working on, Ruvemir saw the arrival of Master Varondil with another Man wearing the chain of a Guild Master. 

            Celebgil was just finishing the last strokes to meet the restrictions Ruvemir had indicated, and when finished he stepped back and wiped his brow, smiling at his accomplishment.  “The stroke you taught me yesterday has helped speed the work, Master Ruvemir,” he commented.  “We may be able to start work on detail before we head south, then.”

            Ruvemir turned to examine the statue.  All signs of the black paint were gone, but the youth had not gone deeper than directed.  “Excellent work, Celebgil,” he said.  “I will have words with those approaching, then will mark the next area of removal.  Go refresh yourself, and if you wish you may work for a time as you please on one of the waste pieces.”

            The youth turned to see who was coming, gave a quickly masked grimace of distaste, then a low bow of respect, and withdrew as directed.

            Ruvemir had seen the grimace, and wondered which it was who had earned it, or if both intruders had triggered the look.  He simply waited until they approached close enough, then gave his own bow of greeting.  He decided not to say anything more than he had to--he would allow time to reveal what it was that bothered the young Man.

            “Welcome, Masters,” he said.  “You have come to see the work so far?”

            “Yes, Master Ruvemir,” said Varondil genially.  “May I present Guild Master Dorion, of the Guild of Carvers.”

            “It is an honor,” Ruvemir said respectfully.  “Ruvemir son of Mardil of Lebennin, Master Sculptor, at your service.”  He gave another low bow.

            “It is my honor as well, Master Ruvemir,” the Guild Master said.  “I was out of the city when the King granted you this commission, so I wished to meet with you and see how the work is proceeding.”

            “It is to be a grouping of four figures in an ornamental base, surrounded by certain flowers agreed upon by all,” Ruvemir explained.  “Three of the four subjects have approved the design and model, as have our Lord King and Lady Queen and others who knew all four of the Pheriannath, including their own kinsmen and the leadership of their land.”

            “But the fourth did not approve it?”

            “The Lord Frodo Baggins has gone to the Undying Lands, my Lord Master.  He is not in a position to agree or disagree, I fear.  However, his kinsmen and his heir have approved it for him.”

            “And may I be introduced to those working with you?”

            “Celebgil son of Hirdon, apprenticed to Master Varondil here and loaned to my tutelage for a time to assist in the preparation of the figures.  Pando Proudfoot son of Sancho of the Shire in Eriador, apprenticed according to the customs of his own people to learn the basics of sculpting in all materials, but who is going to Mistress Andúrien in Belfalas to study the working of clay and wax and casting in the near future.  Ririon son of Embril and Damsen, ward to myself and my sister, and apprenticed equally to myself and my father, Master Carver Mardil of Lebennin.  Orin son of Bofur and Dorlin son of Dwalin of the Dwarf kingdom of Erebor, stone workers and sculptors among their own people.  Guild Master Dorion of the Guild of Carvers.”

            Ruvemir led the way to his chests, and brought out the articles of apprenticeship for Ririon and Pando and offered them to the Guild Master for examination.  He read through them and noted that the King himself had signed as witness for the apprenticeship of Ririon, who stood by his ornamental block, and that the papers produced for the smaller youth were quite elaborately written and signed. 

            “Whose are these names signed here?” asked the Guild Master.

            “Paladin Took is the Thain of the Shire, the King’s representative among the folk of the Pheriannath, as well as family chieftain for the Took clan and Master of the district known as the Tooklands.  He is also the father to Captain Peregrin Took of the Guard of the Citadel and the King’s Guard, and Heir to his father’s lands and offices and titles.  Saradoc Brandybuck is the Master of Brandy Hall and family chieftain for the Brandybuck clan and Master of the district of Buckland and the district known as the Marish, as well as father to Sir Meriadoc Brandybuck, Esquire and Swordthain to the King of Rohan and Knight of the Riddermark, and Heir to his father’s offices, lands, and titles.  Will Whitfoot is the elected Mayor of the Shire, whose signature must be on all legal documents filed within the Shire and who must witness all such formal contracts.  Samwise Gamgee is the Lord Samwise who attended the Ringbearer to Orodruin, is now Master of Bag End and named heir to the Lord Frodo Baggins, the Ringbearer.  Peregrin Took and Meriadoc Brandybuck I have already identified.  Merimac Brandybuck is the brother and Merimas Brandybuck a nephew of Master Saradoc Brandybuck whom I’ve already described.  Sancho Proudfoot is the lad’s adoptive father, and Angelica Baggins Proudfoot his adoptive mother.  Lord Halladan is the Steward of Arnor, equal in rank to our Prince Faramir, and he is our Lord King’s cousin.  He registered this contract for the King’s records at Annúminas.  And our Lord King, as King of Arnor, signed it here.”

            “I see,” Master Dorion said.  “It is, therefore, a binding legal agreement equal to that of Gondor, then.  The Pheriannath appear to be very careful with their contracts.”

            “Indeed.  Three lawyers prepared this indenture, my Lord.”  He noted the shudder given by the Guild Master and suppressed a smile.

            The Guild Master could certainly see no objection which could be made against such a formidable document signed by apparently all of the notables of the apprentice’s land.  He returned it to the mannikin, who restored it to its place in the chest. 

            Master Dorion then walked over to see what work the youth Ririon son of Damsen and Embril was doing.  “What help did you have in doing this pattern?” he asked the boy.

            “None, save the advice of Orin and Dorlin, sir.  I thought of it myself and have done all the work myself.  It is a practice piece to learn the use of the tools and the feeling of this stone as compared to wood and soapstone, which is what I have worked previously.” 

            “Is this the first time you have worked in marble?”

            “The second.  But the first was just another practice piece.  I believe it lies on the table, sir.”  Ruvemir fetched the wedge of marble and presented it to Master Dorion--Ririon had found himself doing the shape of a dragon on it, similar to that on his walking stick.

            “Your vision is impaired?”

            “Yes, Master, but Master Ruvemir has assisted me to learn to use what vision I have and my sense of touch to compensate.”

            “Who assisted you with this?”

            “No one, Master.  I was only supposed to get a feel for the tools, as I’ve not used such before.  When I realized I was doing what felt like the head of a dragon, I just continued on, sir.”

            “Have you received instruction in reading and writing?”

            “Yes, sir, although I must read raised letters, and I have written by using a scriber on wax or clay.”

            “History?”

            “I’ve received a good deal of instruction in history, sir, on our journey.  Ruvemir has taught me much, as has Eregiel of Arnor, Lord Samwise Gamgee, Folco Boffin, Master Dorlin, and Master Gimli.”

            Varondil was startled.  “What does Lord Samwise know about history?” he asked.

            “Very much, sir.  He has studied the First and Second Ages all his life.  Master Bilbo Baggins and the Lord Frodo taught him, and he has read many books provided him by the Lord Elrond Peredhel, father to our Queen and foster father to our King.”

            “Do you doubt the scholarship of Lord Samwise, Master Varondil?” asked a new voice.  No one had heard the approach of the King, and they turned to him, startled.  His expression was amused, as were those of the three men who had accompanied him to the worksite.  “It took me a time, also, to appreciate that this seemingly simple soul is actually almost as well-read as myself.  My Adar was greatly amused to see me learn how wrong I was.  He had spoken more to Master Bilbo about all four who came on the quest than I’d had the chance to do, and was better informed than I as to just how much Sam knew.  Samwise Gamgee is one of the most knowledgeable souls in Middle Earth outside the families of my wife and myself about the First Age of Middle Earth.”

            “He even has surpassed me,” Prince Faramir commented.  “He knew little of Gondor’s history, and little more about that of Arnor.  But his knowledge of Elven Lore and that of the Edain is full.”

            Pando nodded.  “I’ve heard him arguing with Frodo, and even proving him wrong.”

            Ruvemir explained to the King, “Pando used to spy on his cousin and Lord Samwise, my Lord King.”

            The King laughed.  “I suppose I shall have to recruit him to my intelligence service also then, along with you.”  He held out a courier’s bag to the sculptor.  “We just received these from the Shire, addressed to you.  I thought I’d bring them to you myself and learn what Sam has to say to you.”

            Ruvemir thanked the King and delved into the bag, and found quickly a letter sent by Sam Gamgee, easily recognizing the unadorned script.  He opened it quickly, drew out the familiar golden sheets with the green threads, and smiled. 

My dear Master Ruvemir,

            I hope as this finds you well.  We have had no more ills since Yule, once Elanor got over her earache.  She sends you much love, and Rosie sends you more.  And Frodo-Lad smiles as I tell him what I’ve written so far.

            I’ve just finished binding the copy of the Sindarin grammar as I spoke to you about, and it will be added to the library tomorrow.  I have set my copyist working on the Red Book now, and perhaps we will have a copy for you next year.  Then Mr. Pippin wants to take it and make more copies for several folk, including the Lord Strider.

            The mallorn tree is suddenly growing as spring comes on, and it is full of leaf buds.  It fairly sings with beauty.  The garden is starting to stir, and the athelas under Mr. Frodo’s Window is pushing up through the soil, while the elanor and niphredil are already putting out buds.

            Cyclamen Proudfoot sends you and her brother her love.  She says she misses his reports on what he learned by spying on us, and she hopes he’s learning to use his gift well.

            I put the figure of Strider you give me on the mantel in the study, and the one of Frodo sitting on the bench on the one in the bedroom.  Every time I look at them I smile.  Rosie has hung the plaque with Elanor’s face in the kitchen where the morning light falls on it.  Master Paladin has put his of Mr. Pippin in his uniform on a shelf in his study where no one can miss seeing it.  Both Mr. Pippin and Mr. Merry have put their pictures you did for them on the walls of their studies--yes, Pippin has a study now hisself.  It’s very impressive.  And Mr. Merry is done with his book on herbs and pipeweed, and is looking at doing a book on the history of the Rohirrim next.  Lord Elladan sent me a note he has three books on the Rohirrim in Rohirric, so I’ve advised him of this.  Guess he’s planning to study it now.

            I’m reading a book on Númenor written in Sindarin, but it’s not the Sindarin I’m used to.  Guess it has a fair amount of Adunaic in it, so I am finding it slow going at the moment.  Only got through twenty pages yesterday.

            I guess you and your Elise will be marrying soon.  We’re sending you a gift, and hope as you find it helpful.  Is Strider going to marry the two of you?  Did he give you any argument over the model?  He’d better not, or I’ll have to come down there and speak to him.

            You take care of yourself and your Elise, and do write when you have the chance.  You are going to do two more memorials when you get this one done?  They are keeping you busy, aren’t they?  And how many statues of us are going to be spread out all over Middle Earth, I wonder?

            Anyway, we miss you lots.  Elanor says to tell you she wishes you’d come back to visit again.

                                                                        Love always,

                                                                        Samwise Gamgee

            Ruvemir looked up at the King and held it out to him with an indication of what he should read.  He saw the King skim through the rest of the letter, then read the indicated section and start to laugh. 

            “He’s taking up Adunaic, I see,” the King commented.  “He only got through twenty pages in a day?  If that is Sepharion’s History of Númenor as I suspect, when I read it I was lucky to get through fifteen, and I was raised speaking Sindarin and Adunaic!  It’s about the driest commentary I’ve ever come across.”  He shook his head as he turned to Master Varondil.  “Gandalf told me repeatedly that there was more to Frodo Baggins than meets the eye, and the same is even more true of Samwise Gamgee.”  He finished the letter, smiled, and handed it back.  “Maybe I ought to demand changes, just to get him to return to Minas Tirith, no matter how briefly.”  His smile broadened.  “I did send the children a new teething ring, of the same material as the last, although intended for the purpose this time.”

            “He’ll know I told you, then.”  But Ruvemir could not help but laugh.  “Did you desire to see the progress to date, Sire?”

            “You can show all of us the progress to date, I suppose.”

            The Lord King Aragorn Elessar examined the two sets of diagrams and looked at how they were being referenced by Ruvemir as he marked the blocks of stone for the rough cutting, had the three apprentices speak of what their master had taught them so far, had them demonstrate their skills, examined the practice pieces Ririon had done and praised him for his accomplishments, then looked at the work Pando had been doing in the roughcutting of Merry’s block, and finally looked at Pippin’s block and how master and apprentice were now ready to work in concert to further refine the figure.  He asked Celebgil several questions regarding how he was being directed in the techniques to be used and appeared pleased by the youth’s answers.

            “You told me the other day you did not expect to get much beyond rough cutting the first block, yet now you are doing two blocks at the same time.  What led you to add the second block now?”

            “I have found Celebgil to be more efficient and skilled than I’d expected in an apprentice of his experience, and so the work has gone more quickly than I’d anticipated.  Also, Pando has proven a quick learner with rough cutting techniques, and so, with the assistance of Masters Orin and Dorlin in supervising him we will be able to have the first figure well toward feature stage and the rough cutting of the second mostly done fairly quickly.  We may have a good start on the detail work before we leave for the south.”

            “You have not used Ririon much in the work on the figures.  Why not?”

            Ruvemir smiled.  “My Lord, I am considering using the pattern he is producing now in the surround for the floral base.  His feel for creating patterns and shapes is extraordinary, I find.  His feel for the use of mallet and chisel is what is important for him right now, for I am seeing he has a natural aptitude for finished work.  However, he has done several removes from the second block, and has already realized how to do them in a controlled manner.  For Ririon, a smaller, controlled remove is the more desired technique most of the time, and he is perfecting that skill.”

            “Why was the Guild Master questioning about history?”

            “Because we are often required to prepare memorials for historical events, the Carver’s Guild requires we give our apprentices an education in the history of the realm and surrounding nations and peoples.  He was checking to see if I have been doing my duty toward their educational requirements.”

            “I see.”

            The King turned his mild eyes to the Guild Master.  “Please pardon me, Guild Master Dorion, for interrupting.  However, I must soon go down to the Houses of Healing where my own skills and gifts are needed, and I wished to see the progress done on the commission I have given.  Have my questions inconvenienced you in any way?”

            “Oh, no, Sire,” the older-looking Man said, smiling and with a bow.  “Your questions and my own have coincided, and have been adequately answered.  I only wish all the apprentices I have questioned have been as adequately prepared.”  He turned to the young Pherian.  “You have not long been in your position, and you are on your way to another master more suited, I am told, to your own gifts.”  The young Halfling nodded.  “Can you read and write?”

            “Yes, sir.  My cousin taught me when I was but a little one.  And I have been learning the history of the realm in the Shire school in my village.”

            “And how have you been learning this?”

            “My cousin endowed the Shire schools, sir, and the Lord King has sent to us histories of the realms of Arnor, Gondor, Rohan, and the older realms that we may learn.  And one of my teachers is Master Samwise Gamgee.”

            Guild Master Dorion smiled.  “And we have just had his qualifications attested to by our King himself--and his own hand.”  He straightened.  “You were granted entrance to the Guild in Lebennin, Master Ruvemir, so this is the first chance I’ve had to see your work and your qualifications, and I am well pleased to welcome you to Minas Anor.  I understand you are to be married soon?”

            “Yes, Master Dorion, on the second High Day from today, an hour after noon at the Inn of the King’s Head in the Second Circle.  Elise and I would be honored if you and your Lady will agree to join us, also.  You may see then the model on which this grouping is based.”

            “I would be honored.  Oh, and I bear greetings from my kinsman Bergemon.”

            “Oh, I am pleased.  I wish to speak to him of cooperating on one of the commissions I have been granted for when this is completed, for he is more skillful in the depiction of figures on horseback than I.”

            “You have more commissions already?”

            “Yes, sir, granted me in Arnor on the basis of what they have seen done on this one so far.”

            “I see.  I will be pleased to speak to you of these in the future, then.  Today we have interrupted your work too long already.”  He walked again to see the diagrams pinned to the wall.  “They are not as tall as I’d expected, your figures.”

            “No, sir, for I’ve planned them only a bit taller than the individuals themselves were when they left their land of the Shire.  All of them stood not much taller than their kinsman Pando here.”

            The Guild Master turned to the Pherian with renewed interest.  “You are kin to these?”

            “Yes, sir, Frodo is first cousin to my father.  I am more distantly related to Merry and Pippin.”

            Master Dorion thought on this, then gave the Pherian a respectful bow.  “As kinsman to the Ringbearer, I welcome you and offer you the respect of our people.  He gave much for the safety of all.”  He turned.  “My Lord King, my Lord Prince Steward, my Lords, I take my leave.  Master Varondil, thank you for attending me this day.  Your choice to offer the aid of your apprentice to Master Ruvemir was well done.  Good day, gentlemen.”

            Those in the King’s party bowed in return and dismissal as the Guild Master turned and set off back toward the ramp to the lower city.  The King smiled again.  “I must take my leave, also.  I attended the girl Lorieth during the night, and she was resting well enough when I last saw her.  But it is time I gave her the benefit of my skills once more.  I am pleased to see the work progressing so well, and only wish I could follow it more closely.  Master Varondil, Master Ruvemir, Celebgil, Pando, Ririon, Master Dorlin, Master Orin, I take my leave and thank all of you for what you have done so far.”  The King and Steward and their attendants bowed, and the party working on the two figures bowed back.

            “We are honored, our Lord King, Lord Steward, Lord Hardorn, Lasgon,” Ruvemir returned.  The King turned and led the way to the ramp.  Ruvemir turned to the one remaining guest.  “It is an honor to be visited by you this day, Master Varondil.  Celebgil has been most industrious in his work, and I am well pleased by his skills and his willingness to learn.  You appear to have trained him well in our skills.”

            He could easily see that this compliment was not as well received as such should be.  Again he wondered what conflict there was between master and apprentice, for it appeared this assignment had not been originally intended to be a reward for the youth’s service.  He wisely kept his face neutral.

            Varondil made a show of examining the two blocks that had been worked so far.  “Progress does indeed seem swift.  This is but the third day, is it not, that you have worked on them?  But I see but three blocks here.  Do you need another?”

            “The fourth block has several surface flaws, and has been placed in protective storage until it is needed.”

            “Oh, I see.  You are certain the flaws are but on the surface?”

            “Only one has the indications it goes more than a measure in depth, and it is such it can easily be worked into the cuff of the sleeve.”

            “You are certain of this?”

            “I have experience with the marble from Casistir, after all, having done three life-size figures in it already.”

            “I see.”

            “We do look forward to the delivery of the larger blocks for practice pieces next week.”  He noted that the taller sculptor straightened at the reminder of the purchases Ruvemir was transacting.  Good, if it distracted him from mischief.

            Master Varondil looked about him.  “I thank you for your invitation to see the work this day, Master Ruvemir.  And it is heartening to hear how well Celebgil is working under your direction.”  He bowed and left, barely giving Ruvemir and his companions the chance to do their own courtesies.

            Celebgil looked after, and Ruvemir could clearly see the anger briefly revealed in the youth’s eyes.  “Well, that was quite a visitation,” the mannikin commented.  “We shall all take a break, for I see the servitors from the Citadel are approaching with our luncheon, and then I will begin work on marking the stones for the next round of shaping.”  All nodded and appeared relieved, and turned to the table under the shelter of the work shed.

 *******

            As they ate, Ruvemir looked further through the contents of the courier’s bag.  In it were several packages, which he guessed correctly held marriage gifts for Elise and himself.  He found the next letter he took out had been written by Pippin, whose writing was rather scrawled. 

Dear Ruvemir,

            Just a note to assure you that all is well.  So, you will be returning to Eriador when you are finished with the King’s Commission to do two others, then?  Well, that will be pleasant, and perhaps I can coax an invitation and permission for you and Elise and whoever accompanies you to enter the Shire, then, so you can visit with us.  At any rate, I am certain Merry and I will come out to see you at your worksites, at the very least.  And I understand Frodo and Sam are to be in all three, counting the one you are doing now.  That is good, and I am well pleased, if no one else is.

            I’m not sure about the other one, of course, for that means I will undoubtedly have to see myself repeatedly in the process of making that long journey again and again in the years to come as Aragorn comes more frequently to his lands in the north and I attend on him.

            Merry and I hope that next year in the summer months we will bring our brides down to visit Rohan and the capital, although that is not yet carved into stone.  Hope that sentiment offers no offense, by the way.

            Father has given me my own study now, and I have found, surprisingly enough, I am using it for its intended purposes, although I have also here planned two rather clever tricks to be played on Sam and Merry--just to keep them on guard, you understand.  Mustn’t let them grow complacent, simply because I am now of age.

            Diamond and I are to be married during the Free Fair at Midsummer.  We will spend our honeymoon at the farm at Whitwell.  Hope she enjoys farm life.  I suppose you and Elise will celebrate your own union with your journey to Lebennin and Belfalas.

            How is Pando doing?  And is Ririon still growing as quickly as he was when here?  I’d not realized how swiftly children of Men can change size.  I’d almost expected to hear he’d had a drink of an Ent draught.

            Let me know how things are going.  I still cannot believe I am not only finally of age, but soon to be married.  It is almost frightening.

            With much respect, I remain your humble servant,

                                                            Peregrin Took

                                                            Heir to the Thain and Guard of the Citadel

            He opened the letter from the Thain next.

To Master Sculptor Ruvemir son of Mardil of Lebennin, currently in Minas Anor

From Paladin Took, Thain of the Shire

Greetings.

            I understand that you have received two more commissions already that will bring you back into Eriador, and that these, too, are in honor of Frodo and Sam, and that one will also show the entire Fellowship.  I hope it will be placed somewhere close enough that I may visit it and see the images of the others who took part in the journey Pippin made.  It is an honor to learn that Arnor will also recognize the sacrifices of all who took part in the quest.

            Pippin is doing well, although I have seen that gleam in his eye that indicates he is planning some mischief.  I only hope it is aimed at Merry, who is fully capable of protecting himself from his cousin, and of avenging himself in at least a seemly manner.

            I cannot yet promise that when you return to the North we will be able to allow you to enter the Shire again, although I hope this may be accomplished.  All remember you with deepest respect, after all.

            Fredegar Bolger and Melilot Brandybuck will be married the end of April, and Pippin and Diamond will be married in Michel Delving during the Free Fair at Midsummer.  Considering how many wish to pay him back for one trick or another, I decided to give the dubious honor of marrying them to the Mayor--and as far from the Great Smial as is possible for the time.

            Will Whitfoot is now finding himself relying heavily on the wisdom of Samwise Gamgee, and is preparing him, I think, as his successor when he retires in a few years’ time.  He’d always hoped Frodo would follow him, as I think had been the hope of all.  None could understand why he gave up the post of Deputy Mayor after such a short time, although now we do.  I think that even then, when he still appeared mostly well, Frodo was already aware his time was short, and his spiritual discomfort was obviously deeper than we realized.  Now knowing the nature of his experience, I grieve that I did not give him the chance to unburden himself more fully--not that such came easily to Frodo Baggins.

            Remember us to Folco and Mistress Miriel and young Ririon, and to your intended.  Eglantine and I have sent Folco and his bride also a missive which we hope will reach them as this reaches you, and we forward to you a gift for yourself and your bride.  I hope she realizes how caring and understanding a husband as she is getting.

            And so I remain your humble servant,

Paladin son of Adalgrim

Thain of the Shire

The Great Smial, Tookland

The Shire

Eriador in Arnor

Middle Earth

            Ruvemir smiled solemnly as he refolded this letter. 

            The next envelope was from Brandy Hall, and held three letters.

Hello, Ruvemir son of Mardil.

            We received your posts sent from Tharbad, and hope the damage to your coach didn’t hold you there too long.  I hope to hear soon from you, that you have indeed returned to Minas Tirith safely.

            How is your Elise?  Will you be married at the King’s Head?  Will the King wed the two of you?  If he doesn’t  I’ll be most disappointed in him. 

            Eregiel sounds like an excellent companion, much as Strider was for us.  Was the King surprised to see him?  Were Artos and Joy good companions, then?  Is she still growing?  Is Ririon still growing?  It seems teens of your race grow so swiftly!  Freddie tells us he thinks to become as tall as Aragorn himself, which will indeed be gloriously tall. 

            How is the work on the monument coming?  Where are you doing the bulk of the work?  Are you getting any assistance?  How long will it take you to complete, do you think?

            I have just reread this post, and see I have asked more questions than would any Took.  You must have mistaken it as having come from Pippin, even.  We are all doing well, and preparing for the two weddings of the year, Freddy’s and Melilot’s in late April, and that of Pippin and Diamond at the Free Fair in Michel Delving at Midsummer.  So many wish to come there is not room to fit them all in the Great Smial.  Actually, it is more as if it is neutral ground between the Tooks and the North-Tooks, for there has long been rivalry between the two branches of the family, and Diamond’s formidable grandfather Orimbard swore after a fight with Ferumbras when both were younger he would never again set foot in the Great Smial.  So they have compromised.  Orimbard is actually a fine fellow--only he is as stubborn as any Baggins, I fear.  As his mother was a Baggins, an aunt of Bilbo’s, even, I suppose that is to be expected.  His health is beginning to fail, so I suspect the next family celebration will take place at the Great Smial once more.  He is a hundred eighteen, after all.

            I’ve just finished work on a book on herbology, with special interest in the history of pipeweed we grow here.  I started studying this long ago, before we left the Shire.  I’ll have to send you a copy.  Sam bound it for me, in brown calfskin.

            I think Sam will be our next Mayor.  He certainly knows how to get Will Whitfoot thinking, and then convinces Will that the ideas he plants were Will’s all along.  It’s been interesting seeing Uncle Paladin realizing what we’ve known for years, just how intelligent Sam is.  There was good reason he was the first I involved in the Conspiracy.

            Your coming was good for Sam, I think.  Face it, it was good  for all of us, as it allowed all of us to speak out our love for Frodo, and how deeply we all miss him.  First time many have realized they weren’t the only ones.  But it has especially been good for Sam, has helped him grieve more fully and let the grief take its proper place rather than sitting in front of him all the time.  I hope the Powers are helping Frodo equally, for he, too, must grieve for Sam and us and home.  All the beauty in the universe is no substitute for love, I suspect.

            The nightmares are waning now.  Still have them, but I recognize them as dreams and can deal with them better.  I can more easily wake up, dismiss them, roll over, and return to sleep again.  And my arm doesn’t get as cold and numb in feeling as it did.  Has talking out the grief for Frodo helped deal some with the terrors of the quest, too, I wonder?  Maybe it has.  Or perhaps waking to find Estella beside me is the source of the magic.  Most likely both.  Her love has helped me heal, I know.  I wish Frodo had been able to find such a love. 

            My, this has become long.  I will close then.  Let us know when you come north again, and at least Pippin and I will come out to see you--Sam, too, if we have to drag him.  Two more commissions?  I’m sending drawings of our cloaks that we first wore, then.  You’ve seen Strider’s, after all.  And I found a picture of Sam and Bill that Frodo did that you may find helpful.  Have included them in the package with the wedding gifts.

            Good fortune, then, and may the Valar bless your marriage.  Send me a picture of Elise so I’ll recognize her when you come north again.  I’ll try to pressure folk to allow you to reenter the Shire, even.

                                                                        Yours,

                                                                        Meriadoc Brandybuck

            Ruvemir smiled, replaced the letter, and decided he’d read the others later.

 *******

            The mid-afternoon break found the work on Pippin’s statue advancing.  The basic rough cutting was finished, and now he and Celebgil were working together more closely.  Celebgil had taken an hour’s break, working on a face in the block of stone he’d chosen for a practice piece.  He’d come back relieved of some tension, and he quickly found himself following Ruvemir’s lead as he began taking off long, shallow removes over what would be the back of the cloak.  He was smiling as Ruvemir called the rest.  He unbent that day, answering questions put to him by Ririon easily about his family.  He had lodged for a time with many of the other apprentices, but said he’d become homesick and now slept at home in the fifth circle.  He had three brothers and a sister, and two of his brothers were apprenticed  to their father.  The third was only eight, and would undoubtedly become a writer one day. 

            “Learned to read and we lost him, Corúmir.  Is always walking about planning stories out in his head, or writing them out in booklets he makes.  Just as long as he doesn’t decide to take up stone carving....”  And the look of anger returned.

             Afterwards Ruvemir sent the youth back to work on his face while he marked the next area for clearing in both figures and began the removals about the head and face.  By sunset he’d brought the sculpture close into what would be the features.  He was tired, but it was a good tiredness, he found.  The work was going well.  Several people had stayed to watch the work for long periods, but they didn’t seem inclined as he’d found elsewhere to question all being done.  One boy stood watching, fascinated, for quite some time. 

            Folco and Miriel arrived shortly before sunset to see the progress, and they immediately gathered respectful attention.  Folco examined the diagrams closely, then the work on Pippin’s figure, and others watched his examination with awe.

            Then just at sunset the King appeared, and the crowd around the site became even more respectful as he gently felt edges where cuts had been made and examined the work accomplished since that morning.

            “It goes quite swiftly, it seems,” he commented.

            “Yes, Sire.  But there is one more detail I’ve realized I need to work on for the Lord Frodo’s figure.  His feet.”

            “Oh, I see.  Yes, I can see this is a more crucial detail for the final statue than the initial model.  Give us a few days, and we will see what we can do, Arwen and I.  Now your cart has arrived.  I wish you a good evening.  Oh, and Lorieth does well, as your sister will tell you.”  And with a deep bow and a last fondle of Joy’s ears, he turned to the Citadel and his own rest.

Interlude with Letters

            The tools were stowed, the chests locked, the figures draped, when a Guard from the Citadel approached, explaining he was assigned to protect the site for the night.  Satisfied all would be well for the present, they set out on their way.  Celebgil walked beside the cart to the Fifth Circle, pointing out his father’s shop and kiln before leaving them.  Ririon also walked, Joy at his side, his hand on the cart as it made its slow way through the crowded streets.  Pando sat in the cart, tired after a day’s work alongside Orin and Dorlin, who’d taken it in turn to instruct him.  The Dwarves had taken their own leave an hour earlier, but had indicated they might visit the warehouse later.

            Elise had the boiler lit when they arrived, and after three hurried baths the party walked gratefully to the common room for the evening meal.  Miriel had finished stitching the bodice of the Queen’s dress together, and had taken the final panel of the skirt with her to the Houses of Healing, where she’d finished the embroidery as she sat by the girl Lorieth.

            “They have the room all clean and whitewashed, and tell me it will be done so again once she is released, for they fear infection and know that only cleanliness of the greatest kind will keep it away.  All must breathe through masks, at the King’s insistence.  All must wash their hands in fresh water before touching the burns, and use a clean towel to dry.  It is a great deal of bother, but they say that since the King has started this procedure with major burns there are fewer infections.  Even the window and door are covered with clean fine cloth that is changed daily. 

            “The girl has been sent into a healing sleep.  The right side of her face and body are fair and heal quickly, but her left cheek, the upper arm, and much of her side are badly burned, and all are kept covered with leaves of athelas and fine, clean cloth which has been soaked in cold water in which athelas has been steeped.  They bring snow down from the mountain in which to cool the bowls of water in which the athelas has been steeped.  When the King comes, he changes the dressings, blesses and steeps more athelas, then puts the basins into larger basins of the snow and ice to cool it.  Then he moves his hands above the burns and sings over them, a song of healing, an invocation to the Valar to bless, protect, and strengthen her.  And I will swear that the burns appear to heal as he sings and moves his hands above them.  I was made to wear a mask like the others, but was encouraged to speak to her and to sing, for they say such seems to strengthen those who are so ill.”

            “How is the babe, then?” Ruvemir asked.

            “He had minor burns, but they are healing very quickly.  He was sitting up today, for he had just begun doing so before the fire.  He is very alert, and they tell me he is more comfortable and content today than before.  When the burns are better, they will take the babe to his sister to help her feel that she has not lost all.”

            “I finished the last panel of the skirt, although I had to hide it beneath my cloak when I heard that the Queen was approaching.  Even she wore a mask when she entered, and she also held her hands over the burns and sang the healing invocation over the child.  The girl was definitely more comfortable when she was done singing. 

            “They believe the King will allow her to waken starting tomorrow, if she will.”

            Ruvemir smiled.  He looked at Folco and wondered if he had as yet realized that he would soon have more fosterlings to care for. 

            After the meal Ririon and Pando went with Benril to the innkeeper’s quarters to talk and play games for a time, and Ruvemir indicated he would walk down to the Dwarves’ warehouse to begin work on the Ringbearer’s figure.  Miriel said she would work in her brother’s room to be there when the lads returned, and Folco asked if he might come down to watch Ruvemir’s work.  “I’ve not actually watched you at work as yet, and would like to see what you do,” he explained.

            Ruvemir took his second work smock and some of the rolls of paper and his lesser drawings, and they went upon their way.  The key left by Gimli the previous night quickly unlocked the door, and they entered in and found a single lantern had been left burning low within.  Together they approached the area where the blocks from Casistir had been stored.  Ruvemir found that the Dwarves had placed around the blocks a portable screen, with several blocks of waste stone set in a rough oval around Lord Frodo’s own block; on each of which had been set a lantern ready for lighting.  A low drafting table had also been set there for his use, which pleased and surprised him.  He quickly laid the rolls and drawings upon its lip, and he found that both graphite and pens and ink had been placed there for his use.  He pulled on the smock and took from its pocket his measuring string, then began planning out how he would do the figure he’d envisioned.

            Folco was soon pressed into service jotting down measurements, then standing still and doing a bit of posing as Ruvemir did one last quick sketch of his final figure, with measurements of his limbs to use as references; and at last Ruvemir stretched out one of the rolls of paper and began transferring the final plan for the figure.

            Folco sat and watched with great interest as first one and then another side of the planned statue was inscribed on the rolls of paper, and as each view was completed Ruvemir pinned it to the inside of the screen.  Finally all were done, after somewhat more than three hours of work.

            “Does it usually go this fast?” Folco asked.

            “No, but most of the figures I do are so much larger than I that I must adjust and readjust the diagram paper repeatedly, which tends to lead to errors which must be repaired once the diagrams are pinned up.  It’s a pleasure to not have that to deal with.”

            They heard the door open, and Gimli, Orin, and Dorlin came around the screen to see what had been done.  “Good, then,” Gimli said with satisfaction as he saw that the drafting table had indeed been used.  “Would you like to complete the drawings for Sam here, too?”

            “Maybe when I come back after the visit to Elise’s family.  But tomorrow I will begin with the actual rough cutting, I think.”

            “Aragorn is very pleased with the work accomplished so far at the site, by the way.  And what is it you have done that makes him speak of adding you to his force of gatherers of information?”

            Ruvemir laughed.  “Pippin told me that he often goes out to meet with Captain Beregond outside the gates when the Lord Steward is within the city, and I asked him the other day if he’d been there when he brought the burned child into the city to the Houses of Healing.  Now he speaks of making me one who provides him with intelligence.”

            Gimli looked at him sideways and smiled.  “Maybe he’s right.  Certainly your ability to ask proper questions can give you an advantage in gathering intelligence, and your profession gives you good reason to travel from one place to another.”

            The sculptor shook his head.  “I have no plans to become a spy,” he said. 

            Together they gently covered Frodo’s block and put out the circle of lanterns, then left the building, Ruvemir carefully locking the door after and fastening the key to a chain he had fastened inside his smock for such things.

            Pando and Ririon were both asleep when he returned, so he helped himself to the one seedcake they’d thoughtfully left for him from the day’s offerings, then after changing to his night robe he sat down to read the rest of his letters.

Dear Master Ruvemir,

            I hope by this time you have reached Minas Tirith once more and are comfortably back in your rooms in the Inn of the King’s Head.  All goes well here, and I have noted that Merry’s nightmares have become more manageable since your visit.  He and Pippin still spar together when one visits the other, and he goes through his forms daily for an hour early in the morning.  I’d not thought of it before I married him, what it meant to marry one who has had training as a swordsman.  He and Pippin, however, have determined that if there are any more encroachments by lawless outdwellers they will be ready to repel them.

            Three days ago they rode out of the gates to check reports on an encampment of wanderers on the road to Bree.  They appear to have sent them packing.  Merry did not speak of what they did or said, but he did carefully clean and sharpen his sword before he put it away, I noticed; and his shield was not rehung but sits by the door.  I have the feeling he is on guard for a possible invasion of brigands.  Those on watch at the Brandywine Bridge say that they have seen several ridings of the Dúnedain rangers passing by, and the last of the King’s messengers have been escorted by swordsmen or bowmen--or both.  Merry went out the gate to talk to one of the patrols today, and appeared pleased when he returned.  If the shield goes back on the wall, then I will breathe more freely.

            I suppose you and your Elise are preparing for your marriage, and hope that all is going well for the two of you.  We read your letter from Tharbad with interest, and I am delighted to know you will return to the northern lands when you have finished with the King’s Commission.  Merry and Pippin hope to bring Diamond and myself south next summer to visit Minas Tirith--except they keep correcting themselves as it is Minas Anor again now, they tell me.  I am at one and the same time eager to make such a trip and anxious about it.  But by then you ought to be in the northlands, if your work is finished on the monument.  I would hope to visit with you while we are in the capital.

            Anyway, we send you our love from the Shire, and pray you and your Elise will be happy with your marriage.

                                                                        With affectionate memories,

                                                                        Estella Bolger Brandybuck

            The next letter was from the Master of Brandy Hall.

Dear Master Ruvemir,

            I am told that you have already received two more commissions to do memorials to the War of the Ring, one to the entire Fellowship, and one to the leaving of Frodo with the Elves.  I’d not heard the entire story before the day in the library when you were sketching Merry and Pippin.  What I do know is that I am grateful to the Powers for allowing that grace to my young cousin.

            I keep calling him young, although he was what ought to have been a staid fifty when he left the Shire with the Ring.  Yet, in our hearts he will always be young, young and still the beautiful soul he was. 

            Merry is having fewer problems with his nightmares since you left, and Paladin tells me that the same is true of Pippin, as if the talks we had somehow allowed them to let go some of the terrors.  Estella tells me Merry still has them, but that he wakes up, smiles and kisses her, then goes back to sleep again instead of prowling their rooms for hours on end.

            And Sam--he is so much more lighthearted than he’s been since their return.  I asked Rosie what had changed for him, and she just smiled mysteriously and said somehow you’d given him back some of his hope.  Don’t know what you said to him, but I am grateful.  He’s a fine Hobbit, one of the finest, I’ve found.  Always did like him and the effect he had on Frodo, and now I practically hang on his every word.  A very wise individual, and I am so glad my son and my nephew both are such close friends with him.

            We wish you joy in your coming marriage, and hope you find the pleasure, companionship, and support Esmeralda has given me and Estella gives to Merry.

            I hope you will consider visiting again on your return to the northern lands--you are welcome in Buckland, at least.  Even the Thain won’t try to tell me who is to be denied entry here.

            Again, I wish you joy and thank you for your friendship.

                                                            With greatest respect,

                                                            Saradoc Brandybuck

                                                            Master of Brandy Hall and Buckland

Dear Master Rumevir,

            I hope I did that right, but suspect I have it wrong again.  At least you know I mean you, or I hope you do.

            How are you?  How is my brother Pando?  Is he doing well in his learning?  I hope so, very much.  I never thought to, but I miss him terrible bad.  But the letter we had from him when you were in Tharbad showed he was well pleased with the journey so far, and that he felt he was learning very much from you. 

            Does Ririon really have a dog now, and one who helps him find his way when his vision is more troubled by the sun?  I am so glad.

            Master Samwise has me reading the Lay of Lúthien now, and I find I do love it in Sindarin.  Did they truly sing that at the wedding of our Lord King and Lady Arwen?

            Please let Pando know I miss him, and that his cat does well while I take care of her.  And let him know I want a letter from him.

            And I hope you can return again one day.  The mallorn tree is very beautiful now.  I look at it and think of the White Tree in Gondor so far away, and hope one day to see it, too, the other tree from the Undying Lands where Cousin Frodo has gone.

                                                                        Much Love,

                                                                        Cyclamen Proudfoot

            The next letter was addressed in an uneven hand, but somehow it still struck him as charming.

MasTEr  ScuLptEr RuvEMir

The KiNg’s HEad

SEcoNd CircLE

MiNas TiriTh

GoNdor

DEar MasTEr RuvEMir,

            I hopE as I havE spELT your NaME corrEcT, for I havE aLways  rEad MorE ThaN I’vE wriTTEN.  I Know as your wEddiNg is coMiNg sooN, aNd pray ThaT iT wiLL bE a day of grEaT joy for you aNd your ELisE.  SaM TELLs mE ThaT you havE bEEN givEN Two MorE coMMissioNs Now, boTh of TheM hErE iN ThE NorTh LaNds.  IT is My grEaT hopE as whEN you coME NorTh iNTo Eriador agaiN ThaT your ELisE wiLL bE abLE To coME wiTh you, aNd ThaT you and ELisE wiLL bE aLLowEd to visiT hErE iN ThE ShirE as you did This wiNTEr pasT.

            ALL havE bEEN bETTEr siNcE your visiT ThaN ThEy was bEforE.  I caNNoT bEgiN To TELL you jusT how Much hEaLiNg you MaNagEd To briNg To us aLL.  SaM siNgs agaiN as he hasN’T siNcE MasTEr Frodo LEfT us, aNd hE whisTLEs agaiN as MasTEr Frodo TaughT hiM to do, aLso.  His NighTs whEN ThE sorrows fiLL his hEarT arE far fEwEr, aNd Now hE is MorE abLE to sMiLE Through his TEars.  I ThiNK as whEN the VaLar givE you ThE gifT of asKiNg ThE QuEsTioNs which TEach you ThE iMagE of ThosE as arE goNE, ThEy addEd To ThaT an odd sorT of gifT of hEaLiNg, a hEaLiNg of ThE hEarT.  I aM so vEry gLad as you caME To us as you did.

            How arE Mr. FoLco and Missus MiriEL doiNg?  WiLL ThEy sTay wiTh your dad oN your faMiLy farM as had bEEN plaNNEd?  WiLL your dad bE abLE To coME To ThE ciTy for ThE wEddiNg?

            ELaNorELLE MissEs you soMEThiNg TErribLe, aNd asKs afTEr you daiLy.  Do wriTE To hEr if you caN--iT would MEaN so Much To hEr, To KNow as you ThiNK of hEr whEN you arE so far away.

            GivE My LovE to aLL, aNd EspEciaLLy youNg PaNdo.  You KNow, I EvEN Miss ThE way as hE usEd To spy Through ThE hEdgE oN us aLL.  HE NEvEr MEaNT No harM, I Know.  ANd givE My besT wishes aNd LovE To your ELisE.  I cErTaiNLy hopE as shE rEalizes jusT how forTuNaTE shE is, gETTiNg you as hEr husbaNd. 

            Frodo-Lad is sTarTiNg To TalK Now.  His firsT word was LovE.  For MosT iT’s Da or Ma or Pa or Ba, buT for hiM iT was LovE.  His da wEpT for joy, hE did.  IT’s so woNdErfuL to sEE hiM wEEpiNg for joy raThEr ThaN for griEf for a chaNgE.

            ANd TELL MasTEr RirioN ThaT sEvEral of ThE Lads asK afTEr hiM.  HE LEfT good ThoughTs Toward MEN iN ThE MiNds of the Lads of HobbiToN ThaT wiLL, I ThiNK, do MorE Toward uNdoiNg ThE harM LEfT by ThE TiMEs of TroubLE ThaN your KiNg’s Law forbiddiNg MEN To ENTEr ThE Shire, MEaNiNg No disrEspecT To ThE KiNg, fiNE MaN as hE is.

            WE LooK forward To hEariNg froM you sooN regardiNg the progrEss oN ThE MoNuMENT aNd whEN you wiLL bE coMiNg NorTh agaiN.  If noThiNg ELsE, SaM aNd Mr. MErry aNd Mr. PippiN aLL pLaN To ridE ouT To whErEvEr you arE To worK so as To sEE you, aNd I thiNK as I’LL coME wiTh ThEM, as Much as I haTE ThE ThoughT of LEaviNg ThE ShirE--you havE bEcoMe ThaT dEar To us aLL.

                                                            WiTh Much LovE aLways,

                                                            RosiE GaMgEE

            This letter touched his heart, and he folded it up and slipped it into his smock, determined to share it both with the King and with Elise.

            The next letter was forwarded from Budgeford, he noted.  A fine, scholarly hand had written this note.

My dear Master Ruvemir,

            I understand that you and I will be marrying at almost the same time, so I have written to wish you and your Elise much happiness and joy.  I also understand from Merry, Pippin, Sam, the Thain, the Master, the Mayor, and Rosie that you have already received additional commissions to do monuments for the entire Fellowship and for the sailing of the Elves with Frodo and Bilbo, and that those monuments will be done here in the northlands, for the Kingdom of Arnor and for the Vale of Rivendell.  The last time Merry determined to leave the Shire I refused to follow.  This time I will go with him, hopefully bringing with me my bride so that she can meet you and hopefully come to appreciate you as the rest of us have.

            I find I am full of both anticipation and anxiety as the day of our marriage approaches.  I only hope that I don’t become such a mass of anxiety I faint at my own wedding.  Budgie laughs and tells me this is no different from the fears of every bridegroom.  I hope you are not suffering in this way as I am, at the same time I imagine you are, which is an odd sort of comfort, to think I am not alone.

            I see Pippin frequently, and note that he is less prone to attacks of deep solemnity, which is both pleasant and alarming, as a solemn Pippin is less likely to be planning practical jokes on his kin, although I suspect Merry is likely to be his target more than I am.  His wedding to Diamond is to be held in Michel Delving during the Free Fair, and most of the Shire is looking forward to taking part in the festivities.

            I had the oddest dream, that Frodo and you were sitting together on a bench, watching Sam and Rosie, and smiling together.  I hope this is a good portent.

            Again, best wishes to you and your Elise, and give my respects to the King.

                                                            Yours with fond memories,

                                                            Fredegar Bolger

PS--Budgie, Viola, and Drogo also send their love.  FB

            After reading these, Ruvemir carefully folded up most of them and placed them in the drawer of his desk, then after a time pulled out a rarely used packet of writing paper and his ink bottle, and composed his own letters.

To all within the Shire, I send you greetings from Minas Anor.

            We had more adventures returning to Gondor than we did going north, although we faced fewer flooding rivers.  As was said before, Lord Halladan, Steward of Arnor, met with me in Bree and asked me to accept the commission to do a monument to all nine of the Fellowship and Bill, and then we were met by the Lords Elladan and Elrohir, Glorfindel and Celeborn not far south of Bree with the request I do a monument to the Riding of the Elves with the Lord Frodo and Master Bilbo to the Havens.  I hope to have the assistance of a friend and colleague in completing that project, as he is an expert at portraying riders on horseback while I have never been particularly good at animal subjects.  It should be an interesting enterprise.

            Elise does intend to come north with me, and I have plans to approach a friend in Lossarnach who builds coaches to come up with a special coach in which we may travel and even live with some degree of comfort.  The idea of living out of tents does not appeal to me any more, I fear.  I will speak to him on our journey south.

            Folco and Miriel are doing well.  Miriel finished the last of the embroidery for the Queen’s dress today, the bodice has been completed, and there is only the skirt to be attached.  She is very pleased with how it has come out, and I believe both the Lord King and the Lady Queen will be pleased with the two gifts, both in the giving and the receiving.  Folco has ordered clothing more in keeping with the styles of Gondor, and he hopes to receive the first outfit next week so that he can wear it at the wedding, which is to be held here at The King’s Head.  Master Beneldil is most pleased to allow the wedding to be held here, and is giving a feast for us as his gift to Elise and myself.  The King has agreed to officiate, and the Queen hopes to bring their child, who should be born next week, to the ceremony.  I saw her briefly yesterday, and she looked very well.

            We stopped at Orthanc on the way south and were able to meet with Treebeard and Quickbeam and one other Ent whose name was not told to us, and they send their greetings to you in return for those you sent through us.  Treebeard saw the model for the memorial, and appeared quite pleased with it.  We were escorted then to Edoras, where we stayed as guests with the King and Queen at Meduseld.  I am most impressed with the intelligence and clarity of thought shown by Éomer King.  I have known Queen Lothiriel for about eight years, for I first met her that long ago when commissioned to do my first depiction of Prince Adrahil for the Merchants’ Hall in Lossirin.  Both appear quite happy.

            Not all the news is good--there is trouble and the likelihood of war to the east of what was Mordor; and along with farmers seeking land to cultivate some brigands are moving into Eriador along the Old South Road, and Lord Halladan has sent troupes of Rangers to patrol that area.  I have seen Strider the Ranger once more, and have seen him in action, even.  He is, I sense, a most dangerous individual to cross.  I can say no more than that now.

            Master Gimli has brought blocks of stone for my use from Casistir which he has donated to the memorial, and I’ve begun the shaping, with the assistance of Master Dorlin and another Dwarf named Orin son of Bofur who is also a sculptor from Erebor, Pando, Ririon, and another apprentice loaned to my aid by a master sculptor here in the city.  I am most pleased by the work done by young Celebgil, who is the same age as is Pando but, of course, much taller.  Captain Pippin’s figure will be the first finished, I think, and we’ve begun the rough cutting on that for Sir Merry.  Master Samwise’s stone is now shrouded to protect it until we are able to begin shaping it, while that for the Lord Frodo rests in a warehouse in the first circle for the time.

            Our Lord King has a new patient to deal with in the Houses of Healing--a fire on the Pelennor left a girl badly burned.  Miriel sat by her bed today and spoke to her and sang to her while she finished the Queen’s dress, although the girl lies in healing sleep.  She is recovering far more quickly than any had expected, even the Lord King Aragorn Elessar.  He and the Lady Arwen both have attended on her.  The girl and her infant brother were left orphaned by the fire, and I suspect that my sweet sister is going to talk Folco into fostering them.  She cannot bear to see a child or animal in need of love.  Our home was always full of beasts she cared for when we were younger, and now that she is married I suspect it will be filled with children as well.

            We will leave for the Southlands after the wedding and should be gone for about four weeks.  I dare not go longer.  Celebgil goes with us to learn from my father and Mistress Andúrien some of their ways and skills.  He will be pleased, I think, to learn from Mistress Andúrien, for his first attempts at forming figures were with clay.

            The Lord King looks well, although the news of the situation to the east does not reassure him.  He is most pleased with the plans for the memorial, but has offered to become difficult if it will bring Master Samwise to the city to see him.  He misses all of you, I sense.

            I’ve not yet had time to begin to be full of anxiety for the marriage, as I am simply too busy.  But I promise Master Fredegar that I will try to do so at least the day of the wedding, which will be on the second High Day from today.  I am to meet Elise’s mother, grandmother, and sister on her free day, two days from now.  A house has been offered to our use in the Sixth Circle for when we return, and I am told it is the same house in which you four lived with Mithrandir, Master Gimli, and Prince Legolas during your stay in the city.  It will ease my hip, which began yesterday to ache again as I had to climb up from the second to the seventh level.  Elise has indicated she does not wish to live primarily within the city once this commission is completed.  Indeed, she wishes to travel and see Arnor as well as Gondor, and speaks of the sons and daughters we will have as being well educated and well traveled even as children.

            I hope to see many of you on our return to Arnor.  How long that shall be I do not know as yet, however.

            I send this first to Master Saradoc and ask it be passed on, from each to the next, until all have had the chance to read it.  I will write next time, I think, from my home in Lebennin.

            May the Valar watch over all, and the One guide you.

                                                                        My love to all,

                                                                        Ruvemir son of Mardil

            He then drew out another sheet and prepared to write his second missive.

To Master Sancho Proudfoot and Mistress Angelica Baggins Proudfoot

From Ruvemir son of Mardil of Lebennin, Master Sculptor

Greetings from Minas Anor.

            I am told by Pando he has written you since our arrival, and I wish to send my report to accompany his.  We arrived in the capital a week past, and he has settled in well.  He proudly tells me when he sees a detail that coincides with the stories of the city that he has heard from the Lord Frodo and the Lord Samwise, and does not appear overawed as I was when I first entered through its gates.  He and my ward Ririon have become fast friends, and he has now been introduced to the son of the innkeeper here at the Inn of the King’s Head, who has known Ririon most of his life.  The three often spend their free hours together, and so far I’ve not seen anything in the way of mischief from any of the three.

            On our journey to Gondor we were threatened at one point, and your son assisted our guard and his cousin Folco in protecting us all.  His ability to throw a stone with such startling accuracy (from the point of view of a mannikin who is unable to accurately throw a stone for a distance of more than perhaps ten of my own paces) assisted in protecting us all.  He was able to control his fear, and has been praised by our Lord King himself, who also told him that his cousin would be most pleased with him.  He fair beamed with delight when this was told to him.

            He has done several figures on our journey, although most have been returned to the block of clay when completed.  I will be forwarding to you, however, three pieces that are remarkably fine once they have been fired.  A potter in the First Circle of the city has taken them and was to have committed them to the kiln yesterday.  Two others will be saved and presented to Mistress Andúrien to demonstrate his skill and talent.  It is her practice to keep such pieces and others done at intervals during the period of indenture to show the progress of the skill of her apprentices and students.  I think, knowing her skills, she will be most impressed to see them.

            In the past three days Pando has been learning the skills of rough cutting stone, helping to prepare the blocks provided for the memorial for their final shaping.  He has been a fast learner and takes instruction well, and is proud of his accomplishments.  I am also proud to have had him as a pupil, and will miss him when we carry him at last to the home of Mistress Andúrien, who is yet far better able to free his greatest talent for shaping than I am.

            I have taken few apprentices of my own--as one who prefers to travel between commissions, it is harder to find apprentices who are willing to go so far from their homes or whose parents wish them to travel broadly.  But of the apprentices alongside whom I’ve worked, I’ve seen few with the willingness to learn and do of your son.  You have every right to be proud of him.

            Let Cyclamen know we are both doing well, and that I wish I could see the mallorn tree with her and Master Samwise.  And thank her from Pando for caring for his cat.

            And so I remain your faithful servant.

                                                                        With great respect,

                                                                        Ruvemir son of Mardil

            Finally he took out one last sheet, and smiling he wrote,

Dearest Elanorellë,

            I hope you are well and happy, and that your father and mother hold you on their laps with joy in the evenings.

            I think of you every time I remove my shoes, and am so very glad I got to meet you.  I am sending you this drawing of the White City as we saw it from the ridge as we returned.  Know that I love you and hope to see you again one day.

            Elise sends her love, also, and hopes one day to meet you.

                                                                        Much love,

                                                                        Ruvemir

            He cut the promised drawing out of his sketch booklet carefully and folded it gently, then after preparing the three letters for posting on the morrow, he finally laid himself down for bed.

Lord Frodo’s Stone

            The next day was to be much as the previous, although Ruvemir had carried both one of the logs of wood from Bag End and a block of clay to the site for Ririon and Pando and Celebgil to work with during the time he would be laboring alone.

            Today Celebgil did much of the supervision on the second stone, observed much of the time by Orin.  Now and then they saw the folk of the Citadel coming and going, and once Ruvemir spotted a figure in a familiar stained cloak following Lord Hardorn, Prince Faramir, and two guards around the Citadel, apparently to question again the prisoner from east of Rhun.

            Ruvemir was making much use of his measuring cord and pot of paint this day, as he planned out where the features of the figure must lie within the still imprisoning stone.  Then he plotted the angle of the arms, the length of Trolls Bane, the width of the shoulders, the length of the torso.

            Finally he began actively shaping, coming gradually closer and closer to the body of the Hobbit held imprisoned in the marble before him.  From time to time Pando or Ririon would bring him a cup of water, but now he had started he did not wish to stop.  He worked through the luncheon period, his attention focused on the block before him.  Finally at mid-afternoon Orin and Dorlin, whose arrival he’d not noted, came forward to force him to set down his tools and take a well-needed break.

            He was tired now, but it was the familiar, pleasant tiredness that accompanies accomplishment.  The three youths now came forward to see what he’d done, to examine how the stone had been shaped, how the removes had been angled.  He instructed Celebgil to explain and demonstrate the angle of mallet and chisel he’d used.  He sat with a flagon of ale and watched and listened, and looked on what he’d completed with the feeling of awe he found he often felt after such periods of intense carving.  Finally, after consuming two slices of bread with thick slices of beef and cheese between, he rose and stretched, and turned to check on the progress made on the second block.  Mostly he was pleased, although he saw that in one area the removes had gone deeper than he’d intended for the day, although still not so deep that they endangered the integrity of the figure of Sir Meriadoc.  He opened again the pot of paint, saw he needed to replenish it, and used what was left to mark those sections he wished removed next, then indicated he must return to his rooms and rest for a time, then would work on the last of the diagrams for Lord Samwise’s figure.  With Orin’s assurance he would make certain the three apprentices would not carve anywhere near the section Ruvemir wished left as it now was, the mannikin started off toward one of the guards at the top of the ramp, asking him to communicate to the Lord King he had no need of the pony cart at a later time.  The guard nodded his understanding and wished him a good rest. 

            He paused at the shop in the fifth level to pass a few moments with Master Iorhael, who greeted him pleasantly and asked after his progress, then he started on down through the rest of the circle.  He heard the clopping of hooves behind him and pulled to one side, but was hailed by the rider.

            “Master Ruvemir?” called Lasgon.  “The Lord King heard you had done what you could for the day, and sent me to carry you down to your lodgings, if such pleased you.  I think I must somehow have passed you twice, for I have been down to the Fourth Circle and then back again to the Sixth and did not see you, yet the guards denied seeing you lower in the city.”

            “I paused briefly in a shop,” the sculptor explained.  “It helped me to rest some, but I would gladly accept the ride down the rest of the way.  My muscles are tired from work.”

            “So I was told, although Masters Orin and Dorlin appear impressed by your stamina.”

            Ruvemir laughed.  “From Dwarves, that is, I suppose, a high compliment.  It was one of those days when I knew each placement of the chisel was right, when each blow was truly struck.  I have the stone far closer to the final shaping now.”

            Lasgon assisted him up into the saddle, then walked, leading the horse slowly down through the Fourth Circle, saluting the guards as they passed the gates.

            Ruvemir found himself telling Lasgon of the pictures he’d been shown by Sir Merry and Lord Samwise, the discovery of the signature sign in the Lord Frodo’s drawings and paintings, and of the shells of the water worms in their crystal cases.  Lasgon, who’d been raised always within the walls of the White City and who had been in wilder country so rarely, listened with awe. 

            “Are there truly such things in the world?” he asked.  “I hope one day to see them, then.”

            Ruvemir smiled.  “We have small crabs in Lebennin that do not grow shells of their own, but will steal the shells left by dead snails to protect their bodies.  They live near the river, and as a child I would watch them for hours.  I am told there are similar crabs that live in the sea which again live in the shells left by other sea creatures, and that they will even fight one another for possession of a pleasanter shell.”

            “Well,” said the young man, “I will now look into the pictures given me by Lord Frodo and see if I can find the dragonflies.  You learned much of him, there in the land of the Pheriannath?”

            “Yes, very much.  And the more I learned, the more I came to honor him and Lord Samwise, as well as Captain Peregrin and Sir Meriadoc.”

            The young Guard nodded.  “They are full worthy, sir,” he said solemnly.

            In the third circle they passed through an open market, and suddenly Ruvemir spotted a stall with woven straw hats.  He asked Lasgon to stop and help him down, and walked over to the stall to examine them.  Lasgon remained with his horse and watched with interest as the small sculptor carefully checked each one, finally choosing one that he was certain would fit Ririon’s head.

            “But this will be the wrong size for you, Master,” said the woman minding the stall.

            “It is for my son,” Ruvemir explained, then smiled to realize how he had named Ririon.  Yes, Ririon had become more than ward and apprentice to him.  “For my son.”

            Seeing the look in the mannikin’s eye, the woman smiled.  “May he be worthy of your pride, then, sir,” she said as she accepted his coin. 

            Back at last in his rooms, Ruvemir bathed and lay down for an hour, then began working again on the diagrams for Lord Samwise’s figure when Miriel came in.  Miriel’s eyes were dancing with delight as she asked him to stand up and she took some measurements with her own measuring cord.

            “What is this for, then?” he asked.

            She laughed.  “You, who are to be married in less than two weeks’ time, and by the King himself, must ask?  Will you wear the Lord Faramir’s mantle?”

            “Yes, I’d planned on it,” he said.

            “Good, then.  Now you can go back to your drafting.  But be ready for dinner, as we will be joined for it in a private parlor.”  With that, she disappeared back to her own quarters.

            Ririon, Celebgil, Pando and Joy soon appeared, and Ririon was well pleased with the hat.  “The cloth hat was fine in the cold of winter; but this is better for spring and summer,” he said.

            “That, my son,” Ruvemir replied, “was what I thought, too.” 

            Again, at the title of “son” the boy brightened, and suddenly Man and youth embraced.  “You are like a father to me, Ruvemir,” Ririon said softly.  “I think my own parents must be full glad I am with you and Miriel.”

            “Then this must make you my grandson as well as my apprentice,” said a voice from the doorway.

            Ruvemir straightened in surprise and delight.

            “Adar!” he exclaimed, breaking from one embrace to hurry into another.  “My father!  How glad I am to see you!”

            “Did you truly think I would miss the wedding of my only son, particularly as I could not come to that of his sister?”  Mardil the Carver held his son out from him to examine him thoroughly.  “You look very well,” he said.  “Although your hair could be shorter and become you better.” 

            Ruvemir laughed with pleasure.  “Have you seen Miriel and Folco, then?”

            “Not yet, but I hear your sister coming now.”

            Master Beneldil smiled at the reunions, then led the way further down the passage to the room for the father of his current guests.  Son, daughter, Ririon, Joy, and Pando followed behind to see where he would be quartered, then all returned to Ruvemir’s room where Elise had just arrived to deliver the tea and seedcakes. 

            Elise looked on the tall Man with his hand on her love’s head and knew him immediately, for the features were similar, the color and shape of hair and beard identical, the high brow the same.  Miriel had received his smile, a gentler form of his nose, and the color of his eyes.  “Master Mardil?” she asked, curtseying.  “Then you have indeed arrived at last.”

            “You knew, then?” Ruvemir asked.

            She flushed but laughed.  “Yes, for Miriel told me it was to be a surprise for you.”  She set her tray upon the table, and he moved to assist her.  Once it was unburdened he took her hand and drew her to his side.

            “My father, I present your daughter in all but blood, my beloved Elise daughter of Curion and Lisbet.” 

            Mardil looked on his son’s intended, saw the slight build, the observant eyes, the mouth made for smiling, the hint of pleasant stubbornness in her carriage, and the delight in her expression as his son took and held her hand, and approved.  “I greet you then, daughter.  Welcome to the family.  I come to find my son embracing one who is to be as grandson to me, and my daughter obviously happy in her marriage to her lord husband--”

            Ruvemir and Miriel laughed.  His son cautioned, “You will find that expression one which will shock him, Father.  Pheriannath almost bristle at any mention of implied nobility.  He will tell you of how he has farmed his land and will expound on the beauty of his home; but you will learn how well read he is, how important he is within his homeland, how much he has done for others, how closely he was related to the Lord Frodo, and so on as if it were of no importance.  And I believe the Lord Frodo himself shuddered at the use of his title, as does the Lord Samwise.  By the way, Miriel, where is he?”

            “Gone down to the tailor shop with Master Gimli for a fitting, who was expounding on some of the mischief Captain Pippin indulged in on the quest.  He should be back any time, as he appears to have an instinctive awareness of when the tea and cakes are to be delivered.”

            “And I am keeping you from that, Beloved,” Ruvemir said, stretching up to kiss Elise’s smiling lips.  “I apologize for keeping you.” 

            Elise returned the kiss, then flushed happily, curtseyed, took her tray, and left.

            Mardil looked after her approvingly.  “The kiss was truly given.  Good, then.  I am most pleased.”  He looked about, and asked, “Now, shall I be introduced to these?”

            He sat in one of the tall chairs and accepted the bow of his children’s ward, Pando Proudfoot, and Celebgil, gracefully bowing his own head in return to each.  “And this is my dog Joy,” Ririon added, “who is my friend and helps guard my steps.  The children of Brandy Hall in the Shire gave her to me.” 

            “Ah, well enough, then.  Never too many beasts about our home, you will find.  Now let me see your work.”

            Ruvemir noted that Celebgil had stoppered the bottle of ink and rolled up the diagram while they saw his father’s room, and now quietly thanked him for the forethought.  He noted the youth was startled by this courtesy, and that he was pleased as well that his efforts had been noted and approved.  As Mardil looked over the work done by Ririon, Ruvemir sat upon his bed and watched, and gestured for Celebgil to join him--and noted a contrary expression that quite startled him.  A hint of an idea of what bothered the boy tickled his mind.  He quickly indicated Celebgil should sit in one of the other taller chairs, and saw the definite relief in the young Man’s eyes.  He noted he would need a long talk with his borrowed apprentice. 

            Pando had gone to the table where he was helping himself to the tea and cakes--and dried apples, which had been added on Ruvemir’s request since his return.  Mardi Cook had happily adjusted the schedule of when she prepared the bounty offered by the Ernil i Pheriannath to accommodate the work schedule of their guests, and Ruvemir had noted that this hint of home gave a lot of comfort to the young Hobbit.  Then Ruvemir realized with delight that Hobbit courtesy had taken over, and that the lad was preparing a mug and plate for not himself but their guest.  He felt an abundance of pride as Pando came forward to offer food and drink to the carver, and his father’s surprise and pleasure at the courtesy. 

            “This is typical Hobbit fare, Adar,” Ruvemir explained.  “The inn was endowed to offer it to those guests who take the Pheriannath rooms.  Pheriannath must eat more frequently than do Men, for such is their nature.”

            He saw that his father was considering this information thoughtfully.  “I see,” he said.  “I thank you, young Pando.  Now I suppose you should get your own plate and cup.”  He set the plate upon the folding table and drank from his mug as he examined Ririon’s work carefully.  Finally he smiled.  “It is with pleasure I accept you as apprentice, Ririon.  Your gift is quite apparent.  What other materials have you worked with, then?” 

            Pando brought Ruvemir a cup of water and a seedcake, then offered the same to Miriel and Celebgil before taking his own share.  Celebgil smiled after him.  Ruvemir rose and quietly suggested the youth bathe quickly once he’d finished, then approached Pando to do the same once Celebgil was done.  He doffed his own second smock and brought out his surcoat from the wardrobe and donned it.  His father watched with approval.  “I noted you were working on a diagram for a figure.  Will you show it to me, Son?”

            His father finally bit into the seedcake as Ruvemir, hastily assisted by Celebgil, brought out the rolls of paper holding the diagrams for the figure of Lord Samwise Gamgee and unrolled the first.  Ruvemir gave a meaningful glance at the apprentice, who smiled wryly, gave over the paper and withdrew to the bathing room as Mardil examined the diagram with interest.  He then compared it to Pando, who sat at the low table with his own plate of seedcakes and mug of tea before him.  He finally looked into his son’s eyes.

            “This is one of the four, then?”

            “Yes, the Lord Samwise Gamgee, close friend to the Ringbearer, who went with his Master all the way to the Mountain.”

            His father’s eyebrows rose.  “He must indeed be uncomfortable with the rank bestowed upon him.”

            “He is, Father.  He flushed whenever I forgot and gave him his title.  He would accept me calling him Master Samwise, though.”

            The carver’s mouth twitched with a smile.  “What is he like then?  He looks, on the surface, to be a simple soul, but I suspect there are great depths to him.”

            “Indeed there are.  I do not have time tonight to explain them all, but I will tell you that he is one of the wisest individuals that was ever born to mortals, at the same time he is so self-effacing it is drives his loving wife to distraction.”

            Mardil examined his son’s face closely.  “You have come to respect him deeply, then?”

            “Yes, Adar, very, very deeply.  So do all who allow themselves to come to know him well.  The Lord King loves him second only to his Master, I think, although he loves and esteems all four.”

            At that moment there was a knock at the door, which opened to admit Folco Boffin, a mug of tea in one hand and a seedcake poking out of his pocket.  “Is Miriel here?  Yes, I see you are, Love.  Gimli has returned to the Citadel, for the Lords Elladan and Elrohir have just arrived with Lords Celeborn and Glorfindel to attend the birth of the Queen’s child.”

            “There was a party of Elves who arrived as I did, riding from the North,” Mardil commented.

            “Yes, the brothers to our King and Queen,” his son explained.  At his father’s raised eyebrows, he added, “Foster brothers to the King, actually.  After his father was killed when he was a small boy, the Lord Aragorn was announced to have died of a fever, but was spirited to Imladris where he was raised as if he were son to the Lord Elrond.  The Lady Arwen was not there when he was growing up, I understand, having spent many years east of the Misty Mountains with her mother’s parents in Lothlorien.  She returned to her father’s lands only after the Lord Aragorn came to manhood and learned the truth of his birth and lineage.”

            “Why did they lie about his death?”

            “The Enemy had destroyed the other royal lines in the north, and sought to destroy that of Arthedain as well.  It was a ruse that worked well.”

            “I see.  I find the idea of this King from the wilds of the northern wastes to be intriguing, although all I have seen and heard indicates he is markedly wise and worthy.”

            “There is no question of that.  Wise and worthy indeed.”

            “What does he look like?”

            “Oh, you’ve already seen his image, Father, in Casistir.”

            “In Casistir?”

            “Yes, I wrought it there in the statue to the Lord Captain Thorongil.”

            “I’ve never known you to put the image of another in place of one whose image you could gather from others, my son.”

            “Oh, but you see, he was the Lord Captain Thorongil.”  Ruvemir started to smile broadly at his father’s expression.  “Remember, Father, that he is of the Dúnedain of almost pure lineage.  But I, too, was shocked to realize that Thorongil and the King were one and the same.”

            Once again he produced his sketch booklets, showing the images he’d obtained from the Lady Endeth and the servitors of Dol Amroth and some of the now elderly men who’d served under the mysterious captain, then the image of the King as he’d appeared, sitting by his bedside when he finally awoke in the Houses of Healing.  His father held the booklet and flipped back and forth between the two images, then shook his head with wonder.

            “By the way, Father, you have failed to acknowledge the arrival of your daughter’s husband.  Mardil the Carver of Lebennin, may I present Folco Boffin of Overhill in the Shire.” 

            The tall Man set down the booklets hastily on the mantel and rose to bow deeply to the Pherian, who quickly set down mug and cake, flushing as he bowed in return.  “Folco Boffin, at your service, sir.”

            “Let me see the one who has won the heart of my beloved daughter.”  He examined the guileless face, the intelligent eyes, the capable hands that showed the effects of hard work, and he smiled.  “I welcome you to the family, Master Folco, and greet you as my second son.  I am told you have been both farmer and scholar.”

            “Yes, sir.  I don’t think any of us who were raised near our Uncle Bilbo and Cousin Frodo escaped becoming scholars in one way or another.  But farming tends to be more honored among our people.”

            Celebgil appeared from the bathing room wearing the clean clothes he’d brought down that morning, and Pando went in to take his turn.

            “And you have sold your farm to follow my daughter here?”

            “No, sir, I didn’t sell the farm.   I sold our home to one of my kin, but never the farm.  I get less of a share, since I no longer live there to help work the land, but I’ll still have an income from it and the other business interests I’ve gathered.  Our children, if we have any, will have a claim on the Shire.”

            Even Ruvemir was surprised to hear this.   His father looked at his daughter’s husband with surprise and growing respect, then smiled widely.  “My son has tried to tell me of the sagacity of the Pheriannath, and I think I now begin to understand. So, the land has more meaning than the home?”

            “Yes, sir.  I know little about raising beasts, but I’ll learn well enough.  But I can turn any crops you grow to a profit.”

            “Then we will see to it, then, once we return to Lebennin.  I look forward to it.  Are you related to this one?” he asked, indicating the diagram of Sam’s statue.

            “That’s Sam.  No, not to Sam.  I’m second cousin to Frodo, and more distantly related to Merry and Pippin.  Any relationship with Sam is so distant that even Hobbits don’t keep track.  But he’s a wise one.  I feel honored to have known him all my life.  Has more than the usual gift of growing knowledge, too, although his primary love is flowers.”  He smiled.  “Has he shown you the model yet, sir?”

            “Not yet, but then I arrived here only shortly before you did,” answered Mardil.

            Ruvemir turned to where Ririon sat, fondling Joy’s ears.  “Ririon, get clean clothes and ready yourself to bathe, once Pando is done.”

            “Yes, Ruvemir.”  The boy followed suit readily, and was ready when Pando came out. 

            “Then I will go and do similarly, and then we will go to our meal,” Mardil said, smiling.

            They were led to a different private parlor than before, and the table was sufficiently lower than usual that Miriel, Ruvemir, and the two Pheriannath were well enough accommodated while things were not made too difficult for Mardil.  This room was decorated with stonework and a large stone fireplace, with a great bearskin on the floor.

            “This room is usually used by parties of Dwarves when they visit the inn,” Beneldil explained.  “I understand there will be one more joining you?”

            “Yes,” Mardil smiled. 

            “Very well, then we will serve after all have come.”

            Goblets and cups and pitchers of wine, ale, cider, and water were on the table, and soon all were served with drinks.  Ruvemir was wondering who the other guest would be when the door opened to admit an elderly Man, elderly yet still tall and straight and fully aware.  “Master Faragil?” he exclaimed, deeply surprised.  He rose and hurried forward to make his bow.  “Master!  It is an honor!”  He turned to the table and explained, “I did my own apprenticeship under Master Faragil.”

            “Once the indenture was transferred from your father, that is,” the old man smiled.  “You still refuse to grow, then?”

            “I guess I might have had my chance returning from the north, but the Ents did not offer us any of their draughts.”

            Folco laughed.  “No, they didn’t.  Pity--I might have passed up Merry and Pippin, for I was taller than both before they left.”

            Introductions were made, and Elise and Beneldil and Benril came in to serve the meal.  Soon all were talking and laughing, and Master Faragil was questioning Celebgil about the type of work he did with his usual master. 

            After they were done they returned to Ruvemir’s rooms, and at last Celebgil took his leave.  “My parents knew I was to dine with you this evening, but will worry if I am much later.” 

            They all bade the youth good night, and Ruvemir accompanied him to the door of the inn.  “You will have tomorrow and the High Day free, for I have other arrangements I must make on the morrow.  If you wish, you may come down to the warehouse in the evenings and watch the progress on the Lord Frodo’s stone, though.”

            “Thank you, Master Ruvemir.  May I go to the site and work on my practice piece?”

            “Yes, but we will not do any more work on the figures until I return to the site.  I’ll need to get more of the marking paint as well.  I will also try to stop by your father’s workshop tomorrow to introduce myself, so that he has an idea of the one with whom you are to be traveling south.”

            “Thank you, for he will be glad of that.  I will see you, then.”  Celebgil wrapped his cloak loosely about him and headed up through the streets of the city to the Fifth Circle.

 *******

            An hour later Ruvemir took his second smock and the key, and led his father and former master down to the First Circle to the Dwarves’ warehouse.  The door was unlocked, and inside they found three Dwarves sitting about a block of stone planning out how they would replace a damaged stone midway on the facing of the wall to the Third Circle.  They recognized Ruvemir and greeted him and his guests courteously, then indicating the newcomers would be of no bother to them, they continued their discussion.  Ruvemir led the way to the screen and gestured the others past it, and carefully lit the circle of lanterns about the shrouded stone.  He then uncovered it gently, and folding the tarp set it aside.  His father was examining the diagrams with curiosity, while Master Faragil watched him with interest and approval.  He then approached the stone, then suddenly paused and looked at his former pupil.

            “This stone is not to be approached without care.”

            “So I have sensed, Master.” 

            The taller sculptor nodded, then gently approached, giving a slight bow.  Mardil turned to watch, surprised and intrigued.  Faragil finally laid a hand on the stone, firmly but with respect.  He began to feel for flaws and inclusions, and at last straightened.  “Not too deep, but it is good this stone is housed inside until it is worked.  You learned well.”  He turned to the diagrams himself, and began examining them.  “Did he agree to this pose, then?”

            “I have had to reconstruct his seeming from the tales of those who love him, for he has gone to the Undying Lands.”

            Both taller Men turned in surprise.  “To Aman?” his father asked.

            “To Tol Eressëa.  The quest cost him very, very much.”

            The father noted the deep respect and sorrow in his son’s voice and attitude.  The old sculptor nodded.  “I see,” Faragil said softly.  “Even the Valar do him honor.”  He looked at the block with even more respect.  “No wonder this stone is so defensive, holding such an image within it.”

            “His kinsmen and Lord Samwise all agreed to the model, as has the King, the Elves you saw this day as you approached the city, those of the King’s kinsmen who saw both him and the model, the King of Rohan, the Princes of Ithilien and Dol Amroth, and all remaining members of the Fellowship.  Even the Ents have affirmed it.”

            “There are indeed Ents in the world?”

            “Yes, we have seen and spoken with them near Orthanc.”

            His father examined the diagram with interest.  “He has a physical as well as a spiritual beauty.  Did he marry?”

            He was surprised by the resentment he heard in his son’s voice as he replied, “No, he never did.  The Ring robbed him of the ability to love that way.”  There was quiet for a time.  “He wished to marry, to have children.  He loved children very much, did all he could throughout his life to care for them, to nurture them.  His parents were the same, apparently, and grieved that he alone of the babes they gave birth to survived.  And as he was early born, there was question when he was a babe if he himself would live.”  Again there was a silence.  “All who came to know him loved him.  And I met women among the Halflings who did desire him, and who grieve that they did not take him as husband, though they are joyful in the marriages they have come to.  It is the Lord Samwise he left all to, including the hope of a large and happy family.”  Finally he added, softly, “Even the children of the Shire miss him and mourn his leaving.”

            “And now, even though you never met him, you, too, love him?” asked his teacher.

            Ruvemir looked solemnly up into Faragil’s face.  “Yes, I, too, have come to love Frodo Baggins.  He is the brother I never met, I feel.”  He straightened.  “Will you watch the first remove, sir?”

            “No, I think we should leave you to that.  I think we will return to the inn.  I, at least, am tired after my journey.  But I would not miss your handfasting for the world.”  

            Ruvemir smiled and embraced both taller Men, watched them pass the screen and heard their courtesies to the Dwarves, who also were apparently leaving,  Ruvemir was left in the darkened and empty warehouse, contemplating the block of stone.  Then he heard the door open again and quiet footsteps enter.  At first he was surprised, but seemed to note a shining in the outer room.  He called out, “Here, behind the screen, my Lord King.”

            Aragorn son of Arathorn, dressed in a simple silver surcoat over a creamy bloused shirt and dark trousers, came about the screen, and bowed uncertainly.  “I was feeling crowded in the Citadel, and truly the Elves wish tonight to speak more with Arwen than with me.  Glorfindel sent me here.”

            “No bodyguard tonight?”

            The King smiled.  “Eregiel accompanied me down through the city, and sits at an outdoor table at a nearby tavern, waiting till I am ready to go back.”  He sat on the floor, drew up his knees and clasped his hands about them.  “I hope I do not intrude.”

            “No, sir.  I think I may indeed have been awaiting your coming.”
            Ruvemir son of Mardil, once apprentice to Master Sculptor Faragil of Lebennin, chose a chisel and took up his mallet.  With a prayer to the Valar he approached the stone, gave it a bow of respect, and struck the first blow.  He then gathered the wedge, which had fallen away and presented it to the King, who accepted it with both surprise and respect.  The two, much on a level now, looked at one another, and then Ruvemir turned seriously to shaping the stone.

            Ruvemir worked for two hours, and the King sat quietly watching for a time, then began to sing a song in what Ruvemir realized was Quenya, an ancient and powerful song of what appeared to be shaping and forming.  The work went more swiftly while the King sang, and as had happened above while he worked on Pippin’s stone, each time the chisel was at the proper angle, the mallet just the right force....

            Finally after two hours Ruvemir drew back, wiped his face with one of the kerchiefs Miriel had edged for him taken from the pocket of his smock, and he set down his tools.  “It is enough,” he said quietly.  The King rose with that beautiful grace so much a part of him, and reverently assisted in the draping of the stone, then searched about for a broom and pan to sweep the chips and wedges away, placing them in a large wooden crate he found.  Ruvemir stood looking on as the King offered him this service, and finally took from his pocket the letter he’d put there the previous night.  “I thought you should read this,” he said as he held out Rosie’s letter. 

            The King accepted it with surprise, then read it with a smile on his face.  “It appears that Rosie is as wise as Sam,” he commented at last, returning it.  “Shall I accompany you back to the inn and a well earned drink?”

            “Gladly, my Lord,” Ruvemir smiled, and he turned out the last of the lamps, and locking the door, they left the stone in its solitude.  Eregiel joined them as they walked up the now quiet street to the Second Gate.

Brothers in Light

            Ruvemir rapped at his father’s door, and at the invitation to enter led in his two companions.  Mardil rose, surprised to see his son was not alone, until he realized who the taller of the two Men was, at which time he bowed deeply.

            “My Lord King,” he said with deep respect.  “My son did not warn me you would be with him when he returned.”

            “He did not know himself.  My young cousin, Eregiel.”

            He wore no mark of his rank save the Ring of Barahir, yet Mardil realized this was a Man in whom command was native, and to whom authority was granted by the Powers themselves.  He went to the bell and rang, and stood at the door to ask that wine and four goblets be brought.  The young man now on duty bowed and went to fulfill the request, and soon all were seated at the table with goblets in their hands.

            “The work went well tonight?” Mardil asked his son.

            He noted the smile.  “Yes, full well.  The dross is falling away.”

            “You observed this, Sire?”

            “Yes.”

            “I thank you deeply for the care you showed for my son when he was so ill.”

            “It is my gift, and it is my duty to use my gift as is needed.”

            Ruvemir asked, “How does the girl Lorieth do, my Lord?”

            “We fought the beginnings of an infection today, and it appears we have won, for the moment at least.  I’d thought she’d awaken, but it appears that it is yet too soon.  Miriel sat with her for three hours this morning, with a shirt I believe is intended for your marriage.”

            Ruvemir laughed.  “So I’d guessed.  The gift for the Queen was all but done last even, and I suspect she was awake much of the night attaching the skirts.  And today ere my father came it was measuring strings and notes.”

            They all laughed. 

            For a time they talked lightly of the journeys each had made from the southlands.  Finally Eregiel stretched.  “This is better fare than they served at the tavern.  But if we are to meet with the captains and the Elf Lords in the morning, Lord Cousin, we need to return soon to the Citadel.”

            Reluctantly the King nodded, finished his wine, and set his goblet upon the table.  “Thank you both for your courtesy and hospitality.  I hope to return it soon.  You go to see the house tomorrow?”

            “Yes, and to meet with Elise’s family after, and to dine with them.”

            “I will leave instruction that the cart be here at the fourth hour, then, and that the house be opened to you.”

            “Thank you, my liege.”

            He rose and Eregiel handed him the silver-green cloak from Lorien he’d been carrying.  The King donned it and bowed deeply as he drew up its hood, and as Mardil let them out the door the two Dúnedain disappeared quietly down the passageway and out into the night.

            Mardil watched after with awe, then turned to his son.  “Does he do this often?”

            “What--appear suddenly in the inn?  He’s done it a few times.  Once after the Lady Arwen returned from Ithilien the two of them appeared at my door begging asylum from the court, where both were feeling too closely watched due to the Queen’s pregnancy.  I doubt Master Beneldil realizes that the cloaked figure he has seen in the inn is the King himself rather than one of his kinsmen.  Actually, he was rather quiet tonight.  Something is bothering him.  Perhaps the need to face war again.”

            “War?”

            “There is trouble in Rhun which if unchecked would threaten Gondor.  He was born and raised to be a warrior, but he does not delight in fighting.”

            “This memorial--it means a great deal to him?”

            “Yes, particularly the figure of the Lord Frodo.”  Ruvemir thought for several moments.  “You look into the face of a Hobbit, and you think, this is a simple soul.  Only you are wrong.  Most are rather simple in many ways, but there is a depth of wisdom and courage in the heart of even the simplest and most timid Hobbit that must be seen to be believed.  But in no way was Frodo Baggins simple. 

            “As I said, all who came to know him well loved him, including the Lord King.  He was not King yet, but the Chieftain of the Dúnedain of the North.  He met them in Bree and led them from there to Imladris, only the Ring betrayed them, betrayed the Lord Frodo repeatedly.  The Lord Aragorn again and again saw Frodo defy It, defy the Ring and Sauron, saw him finally take up his courage in both hands to leave them behind that the Ring not destroy them as It was destroying himself.  His honor for the Lord Frodo’s sacrifice knows no bounds.”  Ruvemir’s voice became softer.  “My honor for his sacrifice knows none, either.” 

            He took a deep breath.  “All four of them came to the point of death, Father, every one of them.  Nor would Middle Earth still stand if they hadn’t.  All of them, innocent as they were when they started out, bear scars on their bodies and their souls.  And the Lord Aragorn drew them, each and all, back from the gates of death.

            “But it was worst for the Lord Frodo.  The Ring emptied him of his natural joy, of all hint of innocence, of his health.  He recognized the quest would cost his life and was willing to give it that the rest of the world might stand; but at the last the Ring claimed him completely.  He felt guilty, tainted.  He came away with nightmares the horror of which cannot be told, and on the anniversaries of his worst woundings the full weight of the memories of agony and terrors suffered and survived would hit him and fell him.  All agree that had he lingered only a few more days, till the next anniversary of one of the woundings, he’d not have survived.  He was dying, sir, once again dying.”

            He looked up into his father’s eyes, and the taller Man saw the deep grief and compassion that filled his son--and the pride.  Ruvemir continued, “I wonder if I could have done what he did--to defy that evil for so long, to have made it to the Chamber of Fire itself, still carrying the Enemy’s Ring.  I doubt it.  The Lord Samwise, who carried It for a day’s time, does not believe he could have held out against It for much longer than he carried It on his person.  Yet Frodo Baggins carried It, awakened and actively trying to defile and corrupt him, for six months, and still sleeping for seventeen years before that.”

            Mardil of Lebennin found his own native compassion stirred by that he saw in his son.  “How did he manage to come away?”

            Ruvemir turned away toward the window.  It was some time before his answer came.  “Somewhat over five hundred years ago one of the kin of the Hobbits who lingered here east of the Misty Mountains, whose folk lived near the Gladden Fields, fell into the River Anduin and saw a flash of gold at the bottom, and drew the Ring out of the mud, out of the River.  His cousin and friend killed him to take It from him.  He bore It away into the caverns that lie beneath the Misty Mountains.  Thirteen Dwarves, a Hobbit, and a Wizard were crossing the passes above Imladris when they were captured by goblins and drawn into those caverns, and the Hobbit, the Lord Frodo’s kinsman Bilbo, found It there, where It had abandoned Gollum.  He carried the thing for sixty-one years, not appearing to age while he carried It in his pocket.  Finally the Wizard Mithrandir convinced him to let It go, to give It to his young heir Frodo.  Bilbo left the Shire, and left It, too.

            “Gollum survived the loss of the Ring, and found the Lords Frodo and Sam lost in the Emyn Muil.  He guided them for a time, having vowed on It to guide and protect them.  Then he betrayed them, and they left him.  But he continued to follow them, and in the end, after It claimed the Lord Frodo and he put It on his finger, Gollum bit off the finger wearing It and took It for his own again, and fell with It into the depths of Orodruin.”

            His father drew a deep breath.  “So, that is how he became Frodo of the Nine Fingers.”  His son did not look at him, only nodded gravely, continuing to look out into the darkness outside the window.

            Finally Ruvemir said, “Both the Lord Elessar and the Lord Frodo are equally great in spirit.  Our Lord King was born and raised to be warrior, king, scholar, and healer.  The Lord Frodo was born and raised to bring forth and consume food and knowledge.  Both were born with depths of compassion and love and desire for renewal beyond normal mortal capacities.  For all their differences in seemings, they are the same, Adar.  When the Lord Frodo Baggins abandoned Middle Earth, the Lord Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar lost his mirror image, the awareness of his own soul’s purity and Light.  If I see Frodo Baggins as the brother I never met, the King sees him as the one he knew and loved with the fullness of his being.  I do not know if his grief will ever fully heal.  He will bear it because he must, but it still pains him every day he lives apart from his other self.  And for the Lord Samwise it is the same.”

            At last he turned to look up into his father’s eyes once more, drawing himself as tall and straight as his stunted body could stand.  “I have come to love them all three, both of the Hobbits and the Man who has become our King.”  A simple statement, but full of profound depth of feeling.  Mardil the Carver found himself bowing before the devotion expressed so by his son.

Meeting Prospective Inlaws

            Ruvemir found Folco sitting at the table reading when he returned to his own quarters, while Pando and Ririon stopped their whispering to one another and looked at him guiltily from their beds as he entered the room.  The mannikin looked from one to the other, then at his sister’s husband.  “What is this?” he asked.

            Folco closed his book and looked critically at Pando.  “It appears that Pando had thought to teach Ririon how to spy on folks tonight.  They slipped out of the inn, and were found by Eregiel trying to sneak through the gate to the First Circle, where they intended to slip into the Dwarves’ warehouse to watch you working on the Lord Frodo’s stone.  No great mischief, but not appropriate within the City, either.  They had left Joy here that she not be seen, and she barked as they left the room--I came in immediately that she not bother others, and found them gone.  A quarter hour later, perhaps, they were brought back.”

            “I see,” Ruvemir said, carefully concealing his own amusement.

            “We saw the Lord King heading down to the First Circle to come to the warehouse,” Ririon ventured.  “He did not wear his cloak tonight--Eregiel was carrying it.  Yet no one seemed to see him except us.  Only I didn’t see him--Pando did.”

            “I almost didn’t see him, either.  Except it’s hard even for another Hobbit to hide from Hobbits.”

            “What did he do there, Ruvemir?”

            The sculptor sighed.  “Little enough--sat and watched and sang.”

            Ririon sat fully upright, and Joy looked up to see what he would do next.  “Did he sing?  Oh, then I wish we had got there, for his singing is wondrous fair.”

            Pando sniffed.  “Does he sing as well as Pippin does?”

            “Oh, yes, as well, although it sounds much different.  His voice is far deeper, and it fills your heart.  And the Queen’s voice is secret and fair as the stars in a cloudless sky.”

            Ruvemir was moved at this description given by the boy.

            Pando asked, “Did he do anything else?”

            “Well, after I was done he helped drape the stone again, and swept up after.”

            Ririon was startled.  “Our Lord King swept up stone shards after?”

            Pando again sniffed.  “Well,” he commented, “it was only fair, as Ruvemir had been doing all the work so far.”

            “But it’s not for the King to sweep up after,” Ririon tried to explain.  “He’s supposed to be too busy ruling things.”

            Ruvemir laughed.  “He was not always King, and does not see why he should fail to be courteous simply because kings are usually allowed to avoid simple work.  It is part of what makes him a better king than most--that he willingly does what is expected of others.  Now, it is late, and we must be up early.  Ririon, in the morning you and Joy will attend upon your grandfather, while Pando, I wish you to approach the Elves who work in the garden here and offer whatever aid you can.  They are aware of the love of growing things that dwells within the hearts of the Pheriannath, and I believe they will accept your service.  In this manner will you each serve penance for going out of the inn at night when you are supposed to be sleeping.  This is not the Shire--it is a city, and where there are so many so close packed together there is greater chance for anger, greed, frustration, and recklessness to grow in the hearts of those who have no desire to curb their appetites.  I only rejoice it was Eregiel who found you and not a cutpurse or even simply one overwhelmed with drink.”

            Both apologized, and Folco smiled at his wife’s brother and went back to his own room.  Ruvemir saw that one of his two miscreants had already set a full glass of water by his bed for him, and once he’d bathed again and was ready for sleep himself he drank half of it, set it back in its place, and lay down, smiling slightly at the ways of youths, whether of Men or Pheriannath.

 *******

            He woke early and dressed swiftly, slipping out early to see if any Elves worked anywhere in the area.  He found the two sons of Thranduil speaking together in the main street, and smiled as he approached them. 

            “A Perian needs employment this day?  I would be pleased to keep him entertained for three hours, then,” the darker of the pair smiled. 

            Prince Legolas also smiled.  “Gimli told me that two Hobbits returned with you.  And it is true that both are kinsmen of the Ringbearer?”

            “Yes, my Lord, that is true.  Folco Boffin has married my sister Miriel, and Pando Proudfoot is apprenticed to learn the ways of clay.”

            “Would he be descended from Odo Proudfoot, then?”

            “His great grandson, I believe.”

            The golden haired Elf nodded.  “Ah, yes.  Pippin, Merry, and Frodo all had much to say of that of their kinsmen--and of Folco as well.”

            Ruvemir bowed his thanks and went to check with his father.

            Pando and Ririon awoke when Evren arrived with their breakfasts, attended by a slight girl who appeared amazed when she saw Ruvemir kneeling on the floor, working on his diagrams of Sam Gamgee.  She gave a gasp of surprise and received an exasperated glare from her companion, who quietly but firmly directed she should set the tray she bore on the table and serve out without causing shame to the establishment.  The girl flushed furiously, bowed her head, and did as she was bade.  Evren gave Ruvemir a look of apology.

            “This is Coralien from Lossarnach, who is training to take the place of Elise, good sirs,” she said by way of introduction, explanation, and apology.  “She has apparently seen neither mannikins nor Pheriannath before.  Please forgive her.”

            “And this day she first sees both, then,” Ruvemir noted, having straightened to his knees.  He bowed his head in acknowledgment, then looked to the girl.  “I greet you, Coralien of Lossarnach.  I am Master Ruvemir of Lebennin, and am a mannikin, while my apprentice here--” indicating Pando, who sat up, rubbing his eyes, “--is indeed one of the Pheriannath.  This room is apt for both, we find.  I hope you enjoy your employment here at the King’s Head, for it is, I find, an excellent inn, well worthy of its good reputation.”  He gave a nod of dismissal, and turned back to his work.

            The girl flushed, but did her work as directed by Evren, and finally the two women were through and went back to their cart in the hallway, ready to go to the next room.

            The two youths were soon eating their breakfasts while Ruvemir finished his task, and finally he capped his bottle of ink, cleaned his steel pen, put both away, carefully rolled the diagram he’d been working on, and joined them at table.

            After he saw each to his assigned work for the morning, he himself set out to visit a barber whose shop he’d visited on his earlier visit to the city.  Once he felt his father would no longer be likely to criticize his hair he set off on his way to the quiet street where Elise lived with her sister, mother, and grandmother, and knocked at the door.  He heard the tread of feet approaching the door, and it opened to reveal the mischievous face of the sister.

            “You are perhaps somewhat early,” the girl commented, smiling.  “I am Dorieth, Master Ruvemir.  Won’t you enter and rest for a time?”

            She led the way to a sitting room and saw him seated, and went swiftly to bring him a cup of juice suitable for the morning.  He heard a call from deeper in the house, and with a brief apology the girl left him alone.

            The room was neatly furnished, and he saw with approval the small shelf of books against one wall.  Having finished his juice, he set the goblet on a table and arose to examine what was there, and found they were of several kinds--tales for children, a history of the city, two books of poetry, a history of the Great War--all showing signs of having been read frequently.  His gift to Elise stood here, also, obviously proudly displayed.  He thought that he would gladly see that collection added to, for the delight of his bride’s family.

            A shadow at the doorway heralded the arrival of a small woman who yet stood tall and straight as her height allowed, her hair greying, her eyes evaluative.  He turned to her and bowed politely.  “Ruvemir son of Mardil, Mistress,” he said, “at the service of you and your family ever from this day.”

            Her expression was mixed and somewhat reserved, but indicated she tended to be kindly disposed toward him.  “I am Idril daughter of Lyrien and Dorinion, of the city for four generations,” she said.  “So, at last I meet the one who has captured the heart of my granddaughter.  You like to read, then?”

            “Oh, indeed, my lady.”

            She nodded, now more disposed to like him than before.  “And I am told you are an artist and sculptor, commissioned by the King himself to create the memorial to the Pheriannath.”  She sat herself to listen to his reply.

            “Yes, my lady.  The King himself laid this upon me.”

            “She has told me she has met the King now.”

            “Yes, my lady, she has.”

            “How was this done, then?”

            Ruvemir took a deep breath and explained the visit he’d received just after the Queen’s return from King, Queen, Dwarf, and Elf.  She listened, amazed and even a little amused.  When he was done she sat shaking her head. 

            “Certainly we’ve never heard tales of such visits from our late Lord Denethor, although both the Lords Boromir and Faramir were said to visit the homes of the Men in their followings when they were ill, wounded, or had died.”

            “I’d not been told of such visits, but I can well believe it of both, from what I’ve heard of the Lord Boromir and what I’ve seen of the Lord Faramir.  Both have been worthy Men to follow.  Captain Peregrin and Sir Merry both speak well of both, particularly of the Lord Boromir from their travels together as they came from Imladris to Gondor.  Certainly the Lord Faramir and Captain Peregrin share a mutual respect for one another which is touching to see.”

            “You have met him, then, our Lord Steward?”

            “Yes, my lady, when the commission was officially granted to me, and again in Rohan on our return from the north, after my sister and I visited the land of the Shire.  He is a gracious lord and prince, and I rejoice such as our King has him in his friendship.”

            “He has proven a worthy Lord, the Lord Elessar.  I am also told he attended you in the Houses of Healing.”

            “He does so for all who need his gifts, my lady Idril.  Now he attends the daughter of a crofter from the Pelennor, one who was terribly burned when her home caught fire.  My sister has taken to sitting by her bed as she recovers.”

            “How did you come to receive this commission?”

            Ruvemir found himself laughing.  “It is a long story, my lady.”

            “I am not nobly born.”

            Ruvemir smiled.  “I give the title to those who deserve it by nature more readily than I do to those who have merely received it by birth.”

            She was definitely pleased by this compliment.  “Let you tell me how you came to receive this commission, then.”

            Dorieth slipped into the room with a square of toasted bread in her hand, and sat upon a cushioned stool near the window to eat it as she eyed her sister’s affianced with interest.  Ruvemir acknowledged her arrival with a brief bow of his head and returned his attention to her grandmother.  “It was as the result of my last commission, which was to assist in the construction of a monument to the memory of the assault on the Corsairs of Umbar by the troupes of Gondor under the leadership of Prince Adrahil and the Lord Captain Thorongil.  The King came through Casistir on his way south to Dol Amroth with Prince Imrahil, and both saw the work I’d done on the statues of the Prince’s father and the mysterious captain, and were apparently shocked to see how accurately I caught both.”

            Idril straightened somewhat, then thought.  “Oh, yes, I forget at times that the Lord Prince is of the Dúnedain lineage and has longer memory than most mortals.  And I suppose the same must be true of our Lord King as well.”  Ruvemir nodded.  “How does he know the seeming of Captain Thorongil?”

            “You have heard the speculation that the Lord Captain was of the Dúnedain of the north?”  An her own nod he continued, “Well, that has proven to be true.”

            “I see.  Certainly his speech was not that of Gondor or the city.”

            Ruvemir was surprised.  “You heard him speak, my lady?”

            “Yes, though what he had to tell was not fair.  Yet for all that it was fairly and gently said.  He came to tell me that my husband had died.  Hirigion was in the army, and was assigned for a time under the Captain’s command, although soon before his death he was placed under another captain, whose name I think I forced myself to forget.  It was a troupe led by Captain Thorongil that came upon the remains of my husband’s squadron.  When they arrived, Hirigion was still living, but barely.  He died under the hands of the Captain.  They told me after the Captain mourned for the loss of all who’d died, and that he did the best he could to avenge them, for they had been resting in what they’d thought a secure place when they were slain from ambush.” 

            She sighed.  “I suppose I do have Captain Thorongil to thank for the fact I still dwell in this house.  He argued long with the Lords of Gondor for the need to provide for the widows and children of those who served the nation who were killed in service, and finally they agreed to give us pensions for our maintenance.  But I am told that while he spoke from the care for those who were bereft, the argument that won them was that if we were not cared for, we women would restrain our sons, brothers, and husbands from enlisting in the armies to begin with lest we be left with nothing when they died.  He is not the one who broached that argument, though.  I believe I was told that was presented by the Lord Denethor.”

            “I see.  Do you remember his voice and speech as it was then?”

            “How can I forget it, Master Ruvemir, considering the news it brought me?”

            “Then remember it on the day of our wedding, my lady.”  He smiled mysteriously at her. 

            She examined his face with suspicion, then laughed.  “So, Captain Thorongil was kin to our Lord King?  That is interesting.  And seeing that you were able to learn the seeming of his kinsman by question, he decided to set you to do the same with the Pheriannath?”

            “Something like, my lady.  Actually, I have been able to meet with three of the four, but for the Lord Frodo I have had to ask of his seeming and nature from those who had seen him and known him--and loved him--while he remained here in Middle Earth.”

            “Yet Elise tells me he did not die.”

            “No.  He was granted the grace to sail to Elvenhome with the Lord Elrond of Imladris and the Lady Galadriel of Lothlorien.”

            She stilled, taking in the implications.  Finally she murmured, “Then even the Valar themselves honored him.”

            “Yes, my lady.”

            She thought.  “He looked so small and slight on their arrival here in the White City.  He was, I think, taller than his esquire, but shorter than his two kinsmen; yet he seemed almost like gossamer compared to the other three.  The Lord Faramir laid the Winged Crown gently in his hands to carry to Mithrandir so he could crown our new Lord, and it seemed it was almost as big as he himself.  Yet he bore it steadily enough.”

            Ruvemir’s face became solemn.  “He had been bearing a far heavier burden for far too long.  He was well practiced, I think.”

            “All could see there was deep love between the two, our King and the Halfling, and grief could be seen in our Lord’s eyes as he watched after his friend when the Pherian would leave his presence.”

            “I can well imagine.  He grieves his leaving still.”

            “He was fair, the Lord Frodo.”

            “Yes, surpassing fair, I’ve found.”

            At that moment the door to the house opened and closed, and two voices came near, talking rapidly and with mutual pleasure.  Two women entered the room, Elise with words of greeting for her grandmother, words forgotten as she smiled with pleased surprise to find Ruvemir there before her.  “Ruvemir!  You are early!”

            “I came to tell you that the Lord King is sending down a cart for us to go up into the city at the fourth hour.”

            “Oh, and that comes soon enough.  Let me put these things away and I will join you.”  She turned away quickly, and steps could be heard hurrying upstairs to the bedrooms.  Lisbet, her mother, remained behind to accept introductions to her daughter’s betrothed, and although she remained reserved, she appeared to approve of Miriel’s embroidery on his clothing and the care he obviously took in his appearance.

            “The King sends a cart for you?” she asked.

            “Yes, for it is difficult for me to sustain the climb up the steep streets of the city.  Once he becomes aware of a need, our Lord King tries to make certain it is adequately met.”

            “So we have become aware.  He is a most thoughtful Man, it appears.  And my daughter tells me that he has admitted you to his friendship.”

            “Yes, he has, although there is a distance yet.”

            “We will be coming up to the upper circles, also, and hope to see where our daughter will dwell once you are wed and returned from Lebennin and Belfalas.  Will you be going directly there?”

            “No, for we must go back and collect my ward and other apprentice first; and my father, who arrived last night, also had expressed an interest in going up to see the place.  I hope we do not overwhelm those set to show us the house.”

            She laughed in spite of herself.  “Then you must show us the work done on the King’s commission.”

            “Gladly, my lady.”

            Elise could be heard returning down the stairs, and she came to him smiling, a light cloak over her arm.  He took her hand and smiled, reaching up to draw her down to kiss her gently but with promise.  Then, with words of farewell they took their leave.

            Idril and Lisbet looked to one another.  “There is no question,” Lisbet commented, “that he loves her.”

            “None,” her mother agreed.  “He is a most courteous young man, I must say.”

            “And favored by the King,” Dorieth added.  “His work is progressing, for I saw him at it yesterday when I went up to the Court of Gathering to see.  You watch him work, and you forget the small stature and shortness of his limbs, for he is very graceful and focused in what he does.”

            “Well,” Idril said, “I do not think we will need to worry about her future.  But I fear she will leave the city and not think to return to live here.”

            “She will certainly see many new places, married to one who takes commissions throughout the realm,” Dorieth said with a degree of envy in her voice.

            Her mother looked on her with a smile.  “You may also find such one day, little mistress,” she said.  “Just don’t hurry into it.”  She looked toward the distant door to the house.  “For all he is so odd in his body, he is yet comely, and has care for himself, and appears full cultured.”

            “It will be interesting to meet the father,” Idril commented.

Guild Masters, Kings, and the Gift of Iluvatar

              An hour later Ruvemir and Elise were headed up the steep streets of Minas Anor to the upper city, riding in the cart with Miriel and Master Faragil, Pando, Ririon, Joy, Mardil, and Folco walking alongside. 

            “Mistress Loren won’t be able to show you the house for an hour,” the carter told them over his shoulder, “for embassies from Rhun and Harad are now approaching the city, intent on being here to see the child to be born to the King and Queen; and Mistress Loren is kept busy directing the preparation of quarters for them.  Would you like me to take you to the level of the Citadel, then?”

            After a few moments’ discussion they agreed.  “It is long,” Master Faragil commented, “since I was here in the capital.  It is much the same, and yet at the same time it is more alive, and more beautiful.  Do you look to settle here, Ruvemir, once the King’s commission is completed?”

            “I will have at least two years work to do in Arnor,” Ruvemir answered, shaking his head, “and after that, who can say?  Besides, my bride here speaks of green places and mountains.  I think we will see some such places before we choose where we will settle.” 

            Elise smiled.  “I would indeed like to see somewhat, at least, of the outer world.”

            Mardil asked his son’s former master, “When were you here last?”

            The older sculptor thought carefully.  “It must have been forty-seven years ago.  I had been approached about doing a figure of the Lord Captain Thorongil at the request of a young lord intent on currying his favor.  I came to do studies of him, but he simply looked at me as if this were the one thing in the world he did not wish done.  In the end I had to tell my patron that the subject refused to comply with his wishes, and I returned his retainer.  I did manage to do a few sketches, though.”

            “Do you have them still?” asked Ruvemir.  “I’d like to compare them to my own sketches done for the work at Casistir.”

            “Yes.  When we come back to Lebennin I will find them and bring them to your estate.  He was an intriguing individual.  I remember the discussions of his origins.  I suspected he was from among the northern Dúnedain, myself.  His Sindarin was excellent, but was accented differently from our usage here; and he seemed to be well versed in the lineages of both Gondor and Arnor.  How many do you know here in Gondor who have the least idea of what kings there were in Arnor, much less which of the three northern kingdoms each ruled?”

            Mardil and Ruvemir shared a smile, while Miriel and Elise each hid a grin as they glanced sideways at one another.

            “I wonder if the King will come out while we are in the Court of Gathering?” Miriel wondered archly.

            “It is possible,” Ruvemir answered with a meaningful look at his sister.  “Although with the arrival of the Great Elves and the pending arrivals of embassies from elsewhere he is likely otherwise engaged at the moment.”

            “Other than being resistant to being immortalized in stone, how did you find the Lord Captain?” asked Mardil.

            “He appeared to be superbly educated.  There was a party thrown by Lord Forlong’s father that we both attended, and he recited the Lay of Gil-galad in full, and sang part of the Lay of Lúthien in a voice that I remember to this day.  Knew many of the hymns to Elbereth, I later learned; and I found he even spoke Quenya fluently.  I’d never met anyone who knew any but a few words in that ancient language.  Was totally fluent in Rohirric, of course, as he’d ridden among Thengel’s Riders for several years. 

            “He did carry one odd thing often in his belt--a sort of shallow bowl with a stem to it in which he’d burn certain leaves and breathe the smoke of it.”

            “We call them pipes,” Folco explained.  “And the leaf we call pipeweed.”

            “I assure you, Captain Thorongil was no Pherian,” Faragil admonished.

            “I didn’t say he was.  But we Hobbits taught the folk of the northern lands to smoke pipeweed, Dwarves and Men both.  Apparently, however, Elves never seem to have taken to it, or so Frodo and Sam have told me.”

            “I was a bit surprised to find Eregiel doesn’t smoke pipeweed,” Miriel commented.  “The one other northern Ranger we’ve come to know halfway well certainly does.”  Ruvemir shot her a warning glance, and she attempted to look innocent.  He heard a soft giggle from Elise, who was caught up in the joke.

            “That was one thing I’d not thought much to ask about,” Ruvemir, attempting to change the focus, commented as the cart made its way through the crowd of people on the main way within the Fourth Circle.  “Did Lord Frodo still smoke after he returned to the Shire?”

            “I don’t remember seeing him do so,” Folco answered after a few moments’ thought.

            “He didn’t that I ever saw after he returned to Bag End,” Pando said from his place beyond Folco.  “Sam used to sit where the wind would take the smoke away from him, even.  He did before he left the first time, though.  Not as much as my da--my real da, that is.  He always had a pipe going.  Frodo seemed to smoke mostly after dinner, and loved to sit on the bench outside the door when he did.  Or on market days on one of the benches on the Common.”

            “He used to have a beautiful collection of pipes, many of them left by Bilbo when he left the Shire,” Folco continued.  “They used to sit on the mantel in the study.  But after he moved back into Bag End I never saw them any more.  I saw only a single pipe after that that wasn’t Sam’s--a fine one Bilbo gave him when he still lived in Brandy Hall.  White stone bowl with a silver rim and black birds enameled into the silver.  Dwarf make, I think.  It sat on the mantel in his bedroom.”

            “I don’t remember seeing that when we stayed in Bag End,” Ruvemir said.  “Would he have taken it with him, do you think?”

            “Perhaps, for Bilbo’s sake,” Folco said solemnly.  “But more like Sam has it somewhere.  Like Sting, you know, that Frodo kept giving him, carefully put away in the chest in the study.  Sting always hung over the mantel in the study till Uncle Bilbo left the Shire, when he took it with him.  Now Sam’s sword is there instead, and Sting is in the chest, with the rest of the Ringbearer things.  I suspect Sam has a second chest somewhere, the Frodo chest this time.”

            Ruvemir thought for a time, then looked at where the Hobbit trudged alongside the cart.  “I wonder--have you ever looked into the chest beside Sam’s chair in the parlor?”

            Folco began to smile.  “Now you have me wondering, too.  If we ever go back for a visit, I will be certain to check it out.  That was Frodo’s chair, you know, before he left.”

            “I’d guessed, from the story the Thain and Mistress Eglantine told.”

            Elise asked, “What is the land of the Pheriannath like?”

            Ruvemir smiled.  “It is a green and rolling land, what we could see of it.  No mountains, but low hills and slopes into which they dig their homes most of the time.”

            “The soil is rich and fertile,” Folco added.  “Each village is surrounded by farmlands, barns and byres.  Those houses we build are long and low, not high and narrow as is true here.  And we love our inns, truly love them.  Our gaffers and gammers will be sitting in the dooryards, the gammers shelling peas and the gaffers smoking their pipes, watching the children running over the hills among the chimney pots while the mums are hanging out the clothes to dry and gossiping over the hedges and the das are following the plows and the teens are raiding the fields and the tweens are stealing kisses.  And Sam will be kneeling in the gardens of Bag End, planting the marigolds or weeding the herbaceous border, and Frodo would be sitting at his desk, reading and translating and copying, or sitting in the Common in Hobbiton telling stories to the children....”  His face grew sad and he looked away.

            The guards at the fifth gate saluted as they went by, and as they passed Master Iorhael’s shop he waved at them from the doorway.  A squadron of the Guard were on their way down the streets toward their duties in the lower city while a merchant led a pack pony laden with carefully wrapped bundles up to the sixth level to his shop.  A group of children played jumping games in chalked squares on the pavement, and a goodwife was singing as she swept the walk from her door to the gate in the low wall, singing a harmony to the bird who called from the ash tree rising in her garden.  A boy ran forward to follow the cart for a ways, straining to examine its occupants and attendants, and in a square two old men looked up from their chess game on a low table between them to watch the cart roll by with its mixed retinue, one sipping from a flagon and watching over its rim.  Ruvemir looked about and thought that perhaps this wasn’t so terribly different from the Shire after all, and saw that the sadness was easing from his sister’s husband’s face as he, too, saw the life expressed so abundantly all about them.  By the time they reached the sixth gate Folco was softly singing a walking song he’d sung often on the long journey south.  Mardil listened with interest, and when he finally was done asked  if it were a traditional song from the Shire.

            “Bilbo wrote the words, although the tune is as old as the Brandywine, I think.  He wrote so many of the songs and poems I like best.  We used to sing it when we went along on one of Frodo’s walking trips, to Tuckborough or Buckland, or maybe out exploring Binbole Forest or the Woody End.  Frodo had a much better voice, of course, although Bilbo’s was surprisingly mellow for an old fellow his age.  I remember him teaching me that song when I was a little one and he and I were walking back from Hobbiton to Overhill.”

            The carter paused his ponies and pointed down a street toward the outer wall.  “The house is down there, the one on the right there at the end of the lane, for when you come back down.”  Ruvemir thanked him, and they went on.

            Faragil looked at the walking stick carried by Ririon.  “And where did you come by your staff, young sir?  It is most unusual.”

            “I was given it at a birthday party in the Shire.  It was Prisca Brandybuck’s birthday, and she thought I’d like it for she knew I was a woodcarver.”

            “What is the pattern carved into it?”

            “It’s a dragon.  It’s carved in low relief.  Ruvemir says it’s not as fine as my work, and that is isn’t as good as the snake around the branch that I carved and gave to Merimac Brandybuck for Yule; but that is creditable.”  He turned toward Miriel and Ruvemir.  “For my birthday, I want to give a Hobbit birthday party, where I give the presents.”

            “When is your birthday, Ririon?” asked Pando.

            “In August.  When is yours?” 

            “In October.  October sixth.  Sam says that that was when Frodo was stabbed, after he left the Shire.”

            “Yes,” Ruvemir said.  “At Amon Sul.”

            “I hate it that that happened on my birthday.”

            Ruvemir nodded his agreement. 

            They reached the ramp up to the level of the Citadel, and Ruvemir braced himself with one hand and took a firmer grip on his cane and sketch booklet with the other.  Ririon let go the cart and dug in with the tip of his walking stick and started up.

            All within it held on as the cart started up the last slope.  The guards at the bottom saluted, then returned to their guard.

            At the top the cart moved out a few feet onto the flat and stopped.  Mardil assisted first his daughter and then Master Faragil out of the cart, and Ririon held out his hand to Elise and then his guardian.  Ruvemir paused to speak to the carter, arranging to meet near the shop of Celebgil’s father in the Fifth Circle in four hours time, then turned to the work site.

            There was already a party there, examining the work in progress.  Ruvemir could see Celebgil there, slight and uncertain among the tall forms in colorful, flowing robes about him, and Ruvemir realized that the sons of Elrond and those who had come with them had come to look upon the fruits of their labors.  He went forward as swiftly as he could to greet them properly.

            Celebgil was obviously relieved to see the arrival of the mannikin.  “Master Ruvemir, these have come to see the work, and I am not certain what to tell them,” he explained. 

            Ruvemir could see the practice piece the youth had been working on lying at the apprentice’s feet, the face of a young boy, apparently.  He smiled, and reassured him, “I will do what is needed, then.  Thank you, Celebgil.”  He then turned to look up at those now surrounding the figure of Pippin, and bowed low over his cane.  “My Lords, welcome to the White City.  It is good to see you once again.”

            “And we rejoice to see you once more, Master Ruvemir son of Mardil,” said Glorfindel.  “We have heard your journey in return to Gondor was more troubled than that going north.”

            “Yes, it was.  My Lord Haldir here assisted us mightily, and we were very grateful.”  He bowed again to Celeborn’s escort.  “You did not find any other interruptions to your own journey?”

            Haldir gave a graceful bow in return.  “No, the rest of our journey went well enough.  I am told that the Lord Steward Halladan has seen to it those who attacked you have received the justice they deserve.”  Mardil turned to his son with concern, for Ruvemir had not written him of this.  The son studiously avoided his father’s questioning gaze.  “And how long, do you think, before you come north next to fulfill your other commissions?”

            Ruvemir shrugged.  “However long it takes to complete the work here, and how long that will be I cannot yet say.”

            Other figures were coming out from the Citadel, the figures of Men this time, at the center of them the tall form of the King himself, who, although surrounded by others still walked as if alone, the dark green mantle he wore this day fluttering in the breeze stirred by his own passage.  Attending him were Guild Master Dorion, Lord Elfhelm from Rohan, Lord Hardorn, and two others as well as Eregiel in dark grey and two of Aragorn’s personal guard.  The King appeared to be listening to Master Dorion as they came, until a call came from around the side of the Citadel. 

            “My Lord King,” called an officer of the Guard of the Citadel, “a moment.”

            The King half-turned and looked behind him, sighed, turned to his companions and gestured them forward, then turned back to the approaching guard.  Ruvemir watched as the King spoke with the Man, then spoke to Lord Hardorn, Eregiel, and one of the two guards, who all bowed and turned to follow the other guard back around the Citadel.  The King watched after, straightened as he turned, and accompanied by Elfhelm and his remaining guard followed the path taken by those he’d sent ahead of him to the work site.

            Guild Master Dorion’s eyes lightened as he saw those who stood behind the mannikin sculptor.  “Faragil, as I live and breathe!  And what brings you to Minas Anor?”

            “Have to attend a wedding.  My former apprentice and his lady here are to be married next week.”

            “Master Ruvemir was one of your apprentices?  Does that explain it, then, his skill?”

            “His skill, perhaps; but his talent is native.  It has been a long time, Dorion.  Do you still do work of your own?”

            “Now and then.  It is good to be able, however, to do what I please and not have to worry about pleasing a patron.  And is this your father, Master Ruvemir?”

            Ruvemir smiled.  “May I present my father, Mardil son of Barthond, Master Carver.”

            “It is an honor, Master Mardil.  I’ve had the pleasure of receiving one of your pieces as a Midsummer gift from my wife three years past, a full-sized swan carved from ash.”

            “Ah, then I am pleased to know it has indeed gone to someone who will appreciate the artistry.  I worked six months on the figure, and was grieved to see it leave me for it had come to almost be a part of me before I was done.”

            “How well I know the feeling.  And these?”

            “My daughter Miriel, Master Embroiderer, and her husband, Folco Boffin of the Shire in Eriador, farmer and copyist; and my daughter-to-be, Elise.”

            “You are a Pherian, Master Folco Boffin?”

            “Yes.  We met during the time Miriel traveled north with her brother to learn more of those he depicts here.”

            “Then you know these?” the Guild Master asked, indicating the diagrams pinned to the open screen.

            “Merry, Pippin, and Frodo are all my kin, Master Dorion, and Sam Gamgee is one of the best Hobbits in the entire Shire.”

            “And young Pando is also, then, related to you?”

            “He is one of my younger cousins, yes.”

            “It is a double honor meeting kin to the Ringbearer and his companions, small Masters.”  Dorion bowed deeply, followed by the two men with him.  He then turned back to Ruvemir, Faragil, and Mardil.  “This is Evram son of Isildon of Anfalas, Master of the Lord’s Corps of Engineers, and Mardon son of Maravil of the city, Master Mason.  We were asked to come meet with Master Ruvemir regarding the base for the memorial.  It will not require a great deal of support, as the pieces are relatively small; however our Lord King does wish the pieces to be secure in their setting once completed.”

            Ruvemir bowed respectfully, holding his cane and sketch booklet before him.  “I will be grateful for your cooperation.  I have done a model of the envisioned monument, but did not think its presence would be required this day.  Can I arrange to meet with you in the near future so we can speak of this more fully?”

            “I was going to ask if you would agree to bring it tomorrow evening to the Citadel, Master Ruvemir,” said the King, who’d joined them.  “I’ve asked for these and their wives to join us in honoring the embassies we are receiving from Rhun and Harad, whose forerunners have expressed polite interest in the work being done.  Certainly it will give the evening a focus other than just how soon our child will be born.  I realize that your lady Elise cannot join us, but it would be an honor if your sister, her husband, your father and your former master could attend.”  He turned to the carver and the tall sculptor.  “Master Faragil, it is good to see you here.  And how is your daughter Seraphiel?”

            “She does well, my Lord King,” the Man replied, bowing low.  “I am amazed that you are aware of her.”

            “As I remember, you waxed poetic about her accomplishments when last we met.  Of course, then she was studying painting with Mistress Moiren of Lebennin.”

            “Yes, but that was....”  His voice tapered off as he found himself searching the face of the King of Gondor, then paling and flushing as he realized just what he was seeing.  The King’s face appeared quite innocently attentive, but under it he sensed a quiet amusement.  Faragil of Lebennin stood quite still for a moment as he reflected on memories, then he turned to look down at his former apprentice, who was quite obviously playing at confusion, the laughter barely suppressed as he watched his  teacher’s discomfiture.  He looked back, and finally laughed himself.  “And do you still sing in Quenya, then, my Lord?”

            The King grinned openly, then spoke quietly.  “It has been many years, hasn’t it?  Do you realize now why I sought to avoid your attentions then, Master?”

            Faragil answered quietly, “I think I may just understand that, finally.  And I am honored you remember me at all.”

            “You are still one of the great sculptors of the two realms, Master Faragil; and you are one of the few who appreciated my mastery of Quenya.”

            “Estel,” Elladan asked with amusement plain upon his face, “I take it this is one of those who knew Captain Thorongil, then?”  Elfhelm of Rohan laughed and shook his head with wonder and amusement, and Elise laughed aloud, if softly.  The three artisans who had been in attendance on the King looked confused, for this was obviously a private jest between the King and Master Sculptor Faragil, whose reputation as artist and teacher was well known throughout the realm.

            The King simply smiled widely at his foster brother, then turned the focus of all to the figures at the site.  “Let us have Master Ruvemir disclose what he and his apprentices have done so far,”

            Ruvemir introduced his apprentices to the gathering, and set them to unveiling the other two blocks, Pippin’s having already been uncovered by Celebgil at the request of the Elves.  He showed them the diagrams of the two figures that were so far represented, and how the shaping so far had progressed on the two blocks that had been worked.  “I have one more view of the figure for the third block to do, and then all will be done.”

            “Were there not four Pheriannath involved in the War of the Ring, Master Ruvemir?” asked Evram of the Corps of Engineers.  “The tale you tell stops at three, it seems.”

            “The fourth block has several surface flaws that could leave it open to damage if it were to be exposed at this time to weather.  It rests lower in the city under protection from the elements, Master Evram.  I have completed the diagrams for its figure, and I have them hung there for reference as I clear the flawed exterior of the stone away.”

            “You have begun work on it, then?”

            “Yes, last night I began the rough cutting.”

            “You have made a fair beginning on this one,” noted the mason.

            “Yes, Master Mardon.  Young Celebgil here did most of the rough cutting on this figure, and has worked together with me on some of the closer shaping.  Yesterday I began work in earnest on the closer shaping of the face and torso.”

            Lord Glorfindel gently touched the head.  “This is to be the figure of the Perian Peregrin, is it not?”

            “Yes, my Lord.”

            “It is almost his true size.”

            “Yes, they will be depicted only slightly larger than their true sizes at the time they left their homeland.  As Hobbits, as the Pheriannath name themselves--” he explained to the three Men  “--they do not see themselves as being particularly heroic no matter what the result of their actions and choices.  They are not comfortable with the idea that their likenesses might be magnified much beyond their true size, and indeed have specifically refused to allow themselves to be represented unrealistically.  In fact, the Lord Samwise was and remains most adamant on the matter.  As the Lord Frodo’s heir, his wishes regarding the depiction of his Master were deferred to by Captain Peregrin and Sir Meriadoc, and also supported by the Thain and Mayor of the Shire and Master of Brandy Hall and Buckland, as well as all of the other relatives of Lord Frodo with whom I discussed the project.”

            Folco nodded definitively.  “This is indeed what all of us have agreed.”

            Glorfindel nodded his approval.  “Yes, this is right and proper for dealings with the Periannath.  To depict them significantly larger than life would be a betrayal of their nature.”

            Celeborn indicated his agreement.  “Part of what is significant about the Ringbearer being a Perian is that he was not what one easily recognizes as a great one.  He did not win through by exercising strength or might or even great wit, but by endurance and perseverance in spite of all, even recognizing he would most likely have to die to accomplish his task; and by relying on the hope of the Lord Samwise to sustain the both of them.”

            The others seemed surprised, and finally Evram of Anfalas said, “Yet he survived in spite of all.  He has his life in front of him still.”

            Folco Boffin shook his head as he looked up frankly at the engineer.  “His life in front of him still, you say?  You did not watch him fade over two years, see the recurring pain in both his body and his spirit, see him grieving over the fact he could not know the deepest wish of his heart--to found a family and watch it grow.  Yes, he is most like alive--but is life alone as the single mortal in the whole of the Undying Lands what you would wish for yourselves?”

            Evram looked startled and thought for a moment, then protested, “But there, surely, he will live until the end of Arda.”

            “Is simply being alive the same as bliss, do you think?” challenged Folco.

            “No,” Ruvemir contradicted the Man, “you are wrong, as Ar-Pharazôn was wrong when he, too, thought just entering the Undying Lands would confer physical immortality.  He will still die at the end of his time, as he would here in Middle Earth, as was told to the Lord Samwise by the Lord Elrond.  Indeed, our ancestors were admonished that our ends would most likely come even more swiftly there because our mortal frames cannot sustain the air of Aman.  We cannot begin to understand what is happening to the Lord Frodo in Elvenhome, but he cannot be denied the Gift of Iluvatar.  And most likely when the time comes he will experience it as the great kings of Númenor did, realizing the physical fading is come at last, and then relinquishing his life freely and with thanksgiving for the release.”

            The King said, very gently, “You are one of the few I have met yet who has expressed a true appreciation for what we of the line of Elros Tar-Minyatur experience, Master Ruvemir.  I am honored you have so expressed it.”  He bowed his head in respect, and Ruvemir felt himself flush in response.  However, he maintained his focus on his King’s face.

            “I have had to study the history of the three Ages of Middle Earth, my Lord, and delved deeply into the histories of our ancestors from Oesternesse.  And, to be honest with you, I had simply not taken into account until now that what is told of the Kings of Númenor will also be true for you, and probably for your children and at least your grandchildren as well--particularly in light of your wife’s inheritance.”

            The King’s smile in return was solemn, and he gave a single, slight nod.  “You have expressed the situation perfectly, Ruvemir of Lebennin.”  He gave a sigh.  “It is long and long indeed since one of the line of Kings in either land has managed to survive war, assassination, or betrayal.  Certainly I may still die of such.  However, if I survive so long, that is how I expect to pass from this life.  And I will regret only that I must leave Arwen to follow after me, for as one who has lived for so long as one of the Firstborn, she will fade once I am gone.”

            Ruvemir felt a great wave shake him of compassion and even pain for what the Queen most likely would face at the end.  He had never considered precisely what her ending must be--only that she, now having embraced mortality to cleave to the King, must one day die as do all other mortals.  He looked up into the faces of the Queen’s brothers, and saw there reflected a level of grief for what their sister would face and perhaps for what they would themselves face in the losing of her, and realized that they still did not fully understand what it would in the end be like.

Looking to the Future

            The quiet lasted for some moments, and again the King turned the attention of all back to the work of Ruvemir and his apprentices.  He asked Ririon, then Pando, and finally Celebgil to describe the instruction they received from Ruvemir and the Dwarves, and asked to see the practice pieces each had done and describe what they were doing with them.  Masters Dorion and Faragil were both approving of Ririon’s patterns and Celebgil’s face, and even of the experiments with different types of strokes that Pando had been doing, to his surprise.  When he showed them the practice piece he’d been doing in clay, which he explained was of the face of his sister, however, all the artisans were in agreement with Ruvemir that indeed he needed primary training here, for he did indeed show a gift.  That Ruvemir encouraged them to work with other materials and provided them for use during the times they were not employed in working the stones for the figures was universally approved.

            During part of the time the other artisans and the Elves were looking at the work of the three apprentices the King pulled Ruvemir aside.

            “I thank you for not telling others freely that I was Thorongil, and I do not believe the master artisans who accompanied me realize yet the meaning of the exchange I just had with Master Faragil.  I do wish you and your guests to attend the formal dinner tomorrow, and if you will wear one of the costumes decorated by your sister it will make an excellent impression, particularly on those from Harad.  It will be good to have one I consider a friend at hand.”

            “Then the Lord Faramir has left the city?”

            “Yes, he has returned to Emyn Arnen to gather and direct the movement of those of his forces he must send with mine, and to secure his own princedom before returning to take up the Stewardship while I am on campaign.  He will return in two days, only just in time, I fear, to see the birth of our daughter, which he must witness as Steward of the Realm.  Lord Halladan will also arrive about the same time, as will Éomer King and Elphir of Dol Amroth.  Gimli and Legolas will be off on other business from this afternoon.  Is there someone responsible you can leave in charge of Pando and Ririon?  Eregiel and I saw them slipping from the King’s Head last night, apparently intent on spying on you.  I would not see them in mischief, for I know all too well what young Hobbits are capable of doing, even when attended.”  He smiled.

            “Yes, I suppose I do, for certainly Pippin and Merry told tales on themselves and each other and what they did during the time they were with you.”  He thought for a moment.  “Perhaps I can have Celebgil watch over them.  I will speak with his parents when I go back down through the city.”

            “He lives with his parents?”

            “Yes.  He has told me that he lodged at first with others of the apprentices of Master Varondil, but that he felt too homesick and received permission to spend nights with his own family as they were so close to hand.  However, I think there is another matter there which I would investigate before I speak further of it, that I cause none discomfort with idle speculation.”

            The King nodded. 

            Ruvemir continued in a soft voice, “The business as you came out--is your eastern guest causing difficulties?”

            The King again gave his face a thorough examination before he answered finally, “Yes.  He was demanding to see the Ranger Strider, and then when told the Ranger Strider had other calls on his time he demanded to see the King, whose face he has not yet seen.”

            “You have men who speak his tongue?”

            “Two others beside myself.”

            “I see.”

            “Actually, he understands the Common Tongue well enough, but pretends not to do so in order to gather information.  Those who attend on him and who work near the place where he is kept are commanded to speak Sindarin or Adunaic at all times, when they must speak at all.  I am glad that during the time we were in Edoras Éomer never spoke my name nor denoted my rank before him.  ‘My Lord’ was sufficiently vague as to leave him with question as to my relationship to the King.”

            Ruvemir found himself in sympathy with the Easterling still held in captivity.

            The King continued, “The game will end in formal audience once the Lord Steward returns to the city.  Before his own people he will no longer be able to dissemble.”  Ruvemir remembered the description Captain Peregrin had believed the King’s expression must have merited when discussing the embassy with those of Umbar, “Most grim.”  Most grim indeed were his eyes as the Lord Elessar contemplated his coming confrontation with the prisoner.

            Their speech had been in Sindarin and very quiet, and Ruvemir was aware that they were both under scrutiny from the Elves.  The King noted his glance at the sons of Elrond and their companions, and shook his head softly.  “They already know what is happening and will keep their own counsel well enough.”  He then smiled.  “And I wish to thank you once again for allowing me to attend the starting of the work on Frodo’s figure.  I am finding myself missing him very strongly.  The word that his own see his Light to the West was comforting.  I would like one day to see this Ferdibrand Took.”

            “Of those I met there, I believe he was closest to the nature of Frodo himself.”

            The King’s face now held a gentle smile.  “Then I will try to make certain he is particularly invited to the Bridge when I go north at last.  I grow restive at times here in the south, and wish to see my own lands again.”

            With a gesture they returned to the others.  The King spoke to Elise about the coming wedding, and then to each of those who were of Ruvemir’s party individually, and finally indicated to his own guests that he needed now to return to the Citadel.

            “I am expected in less than an hour’s time in the Houses of Healing, Masters, so if you will follow me we will finish our business so I can ready myself for my other duties to the people of the Realm.

            “Master Ruvemir, I will send the cart for you two hours before sunset tomorrow.  Master Faragil, it has been an honor to greet you once more.  I look forward to your attendance tomorrow night at the dinner.  Master Mardil, my lady Elise, Mistress Miriel, Master Folco, Celebgil, Pando, Ririon, Joy.”  The dog nuzzled against him to have her ears scratched, and with a bow he took his leave, the three artisans and the guard following close behind. 

            Lord Elfhelm lingered for a moment to share courtesies.  “You have done a good job of achieving their seemings.  And word from my King is that he is well pleased with the design for the memorial and the seeming of Merry.”

            “Sir Merry bade me bear his greetings to you, if I saw you.  He remembers you with full honor.”

            “Honor from those who deserve honor themselves is to be treasured.  I bid you a good day, Master.”  And with a bow, the emissary of Rohan followed the King of Gondor back to the Citadel.

 *******

            There were others waiting awkwardly to look at the figures underway, Dorieth watching with fascination the King as he returned to the Citadel.  Ruvemir introduced his father, former master, sister, and others to Elise’s grandmother, mother, and sister.  He again explained the work in progress, showed the diagrams, allowed them to touch the two figures that had been worked.  They quickly indicated their pleasure at seeing the work Elise’s promised bridegroom was engaged in, and stepped back.  Ruvemir now had the chance himself to look at the work done by his apprentices on their own practice pieces, and took the time to have them evaluate their own work, give some instruction, and finally signed they should secure their work and the site.  Master Faragil and his father assisted in the covering of the figures, and Ruvemir checked to see the panels over the diagrams were closed and fastened, his chests were properly locked, and that Celebgil had also secured his own tools.  Taking a moment to speak with the guard watching the site, whom Ruvemir had noted had been watching the actions of those examining the figures closely, the small sculptor finally indicated he was ready to leave.  He paused as he walked away and looked back  briefly, then led the way to the ramp back to the Sixth Circle.

            Mistress Loren stood waiting on the step of the house, and as she admitted them thanked them for their patience with her as she sought to meet the many demands on her time this day.  She gave copies of the keys into the hands of Ruvemir and Elise, and led the way into the day room.  “We have used the quarters only twice since the leaving of the Pheriannath, so little is disturbed, except for the fact the beds have been returned to the chambers above, and the legs restored.  However, the King indicated he wished the preparation of the legs of the furniture not be permanent, for he had hoped that perhaps one day the Lord Frodo might consent to come to the city to dwell here, though he knew this was not particularly in the nature of the Pherian.”

            “I fear I would disturb the order of the house once more, then,” Ruvemir said, smiling.  “The Pheriannath by nature avoid sleeping in upper chambers; but for me the avoidance is due to the state of my legs and hip, which do not tolerate climbing well.  I would ask that a bed comfortable for my bride and me be brought back down the stairs and placed in the library, which I understand was the room favored by the Lord Frodo and is most apt to the purpose.  And if the desk and chair there may be amended and perhaps a lower couch placed in the parlors and the day rooms as well as furniture apt to folk of normal stature, and a foot stool and somewhat higher chair prepared for my use at table, I do not believe we need to do extensive changes to the rest of the furnishings.”

            “That may be done easily enough.  The Lord King had constructed chairs for the Pheriannath to use when dining in the feast hall or with those in the Citadel that would probably be apt for your use and for any others you may host here, Master.  I understand these are your sister and her husband, and your apprentices.  Will any of you reside in the house?”

            Folco, after exchanging a look with Miriel, bowed and said, “No, we will not.  Pando goes to Belfalas to study sculpting of clay, and my wife and I and Ririon return to Lebennin with her father.  But we may come from time to time for visits, and I think I can bear sleeping upstairs if that is where the sleeping chambers usually are.”  He saw the questioning look given him by Ruvemir, and smiled.  “I can bear such for limited periods of time, and steps do not of their own bother me as they do you.”

            They were shown the house then, and Ruvemir was glad to see the bathing room was on the lower floor and had a decent boiler, and proper pipes to preclude having to fill and drain it manually.  It was explained there was a reservoir higher on the slopes of the mountain that was fed by the melting snow from the cap of the mountain, and that there were also wells, and pump houses for drier summers to bring water from the river. 

            “The King has given us word, however, that when there are restrictions on the use of water in times of dryness, those of the Citadel and the guest houses on this level are affected with all others.  He will not deprive the folk of the city for the frivolous pleasures of those who guest in the city, and he himself follows his own laws.  He is a far different sort of Lord than Gondor has known for many lives of Men, and all respect him for the fact he asks nothing of others he will not ask of himself.”  Ruvemir saw the growing respect in the eyes of his father, while he noted simply a nod of approval as if this was what he’d expected to hear all along by Folco.

            The library was a larger room than he’d expected, although it would be somewhat crowded with bed, wardrobe, and clothes presses.  Elise, however, saw it as more than comfortable, and she examined the rest of the house that would be hers with open curiosity and growing satisfaction.  Ruvemir accompanied them upstairs to examine the rooms there, and found them satisfactory, but by the time they returned downstairs his hip was beginning to ache.  He remained then in the parlor, seated on a couch while his bride-to-be and her family examined the cellars and Master Faragil indicated he would walk along the street and examine the decorations on the houses.  After Mistress Loren left them on their own to return to her own duties, Elise’s family went through the rest of the house once more accompanied by Miriel, Pando, Ririon, and Joy.  Folco sighed and sat himself in a somewhat lower chair, took out his pipe and filled it, then brought out his tinderbox and lit it expertly.  Mardil stood out on the lower balcony, looking out on the Pelennor, then returned to look at his son where he sat, rubbing his hip.

            “Shall I ease it for you, my son?”

            “I’d be grateful, Adar, although I should also do the exercises taught me by the King, as they also appear to ease the pain.”

            He lay sideways, and his father came near and began massaging the aching joint with practiced fingers.  “It is long since I’ve done this,” Mardil commented.

            “You have not forgotten the ways of it.  Thank you, Father.”  At last Ruvemir signed it was enough, and he quickly ran through the exercises under the eyes of his parent, then sat back up again.  “I will have to have you teach that to Elise, then, and have Miriel show how to assist in the exercises.”  He sat quiet for some moments, then looked up.  “I cannot believe it, Father.  Last year at this time I was in the Crossed Keys in Casistir, and now I am to be married and dwell here for a time.  And I have been on a long journey and met such as my new brother here, and come to esteem them so dearly.  Things have changed so markedly for me.”

            He laughed.  “I sent word to Fredegar Bolger, Folco, that I was not yet full of anxiety for my marriage as he says of himself, but right now I think I feel such coming upon me.”

            Folco leaned back and blew a ring of smoke toward the open doors to the balcony.  “You saw me the night before we wed, certain I would forget all and that I would fail to please my bride.  You will do well enough, I think.”  He took another puff on his pipe, and commented, “I am so glad Fredegar will marry after all, unlike Frodo.  Certainly the Widow Rumble was right that Narcissa was deeply smitten by him.  I wonder if she will ever marry now, with the grief that he is gone.  Most of the rest of us felt wonder and even relief along with our mourning when the word came he was indeed gone and where; but Narcissa was flat torn.”  He sighed.  “She is a gentle one, Narcissa, gentle and quiet.  And she, too, wanted to have many children--and by Frodo, if at all possible.  It is too bad you didn’t get to meet her, for I think it would have helped her recover.”

            Ruvemir sighed.  “I could not meet all.  Why did she not come to the wedding?  Was she not invited?”

            “She’s not attended a wedding since he sailed.”

            Miriel came back to the room and sat by her brother, rubbing her own hip.  Ruvemir laughed as he gave up his place to her, and her father eased her as he’d done his son.  It was to this that Elise’s family returned, and Ruvemir saw another look of approval from Mistress Idril.

            Finally Elise went through the rooms once more to make certain all was closed and fastened, and Ruvemir realized she felt toward this place the pride he felt toward his worksite on the level above.  She carefully locked the door after they left, and placed the key on the ring she carried in her wrist satchel.  Smiling into the eyes of her bridegroom, she said, “I can barely believe that this is to be ours, Beloved.  Even if it is to be only for a time, I have seen what will be my first home as a married woman, and I am pleased.”  She leaned down to kiss him, and both appeared surprised by the ardor they shared.  She straightened slowly, then smiled a deeper smile.  “I am so looking forward to next week, when we are man and wife at last.”

            He smiled gently as he returned, “And the same is true for me as well, my Love.”

            Dorieth tittered and received a scathing look from her sister and glances of reproof from mother and grandmother; and although she desisted she still did not look repentant.

            They walked now to the Houses of Healing, where they were admitted and shown the way to the doorway to the room where the girl who’d been burned lay.  As they approached the curtain of gauze that protected the doorway, the King, a mask over mouth and nose, looked up to acknowledge them, then back to the girl.

            “Here now is Mistress Miriel, who has sat by you in previous days,” he said gently.  Ruvemir saw the girl was young, not more than six years at most.  In the King’s lap sat an infant, its lower face also swathed in gauze.  He could see the scars left by the fire on the girl’s face, and saw that the left side was almost all involved, from brow to lower cheek.  Fortunately her eye did not appear to have been hurt, and her mouth was not deformed, but she would bear that scar, he knew, for the rest of her life. 

            She looked with curiosity at the doorway, and then looked back to the King’s eyes.  His own eyes smiled back, and then he turned to address them through the gauze.  “Lorieth has only awakened an hour since, and is still not certain what to think of things.  The pain is diminishing, and with the added assistance of my brothers she is healing very nicely indeed.  Now she is seeing her little brother for a time, and soon she will rest again.  She says her face hurts her, but not as badly as it might.”

            Miriel’s face showed a level of pride and relief, and Folco, Ruvemir noted, was looking at his wife with a level of indulgence which told the sculptor that he understood her nature and her desire and was willing to give her that for which she wished.  Ruvemir gave a glance over his shoulder at his father’s face, and saw his expression was mixed, awareness, acceptance, and a level of amaze at his daughter’s capacity for caring.  He’d been long aware, after all, of her compassion to those creatures that were injured, and that her compassion would one day reach to children as well was only to be expected, he supposed.  He noted his son’s examination and gave a smile.  “What else can I do?” he asked.  “I fear your room may be occupied when you return for visits, though.”

            Ruvemir and his father laughed, and Mistress Idril and her daughter exchanged looks indicating added approval of the family into which their daughter was prepared to wed.

            They walked down to the Fifth Circle, and Ruvemir explained he needed to meet with Celebgil’s parents and suggested the rest of the party stop for luncheon and he would join them as soon as he was done.  Leaving them at a decent-looking establishment and entrusting his sister with his sketch booklet, he set out for Hirdon’s pottery.

            Hirdon Potter was placing items in his kiln when he heard the bell on his shop door ring.  He sighed, for he had many items to insert into the oven, and he wished to get them placed and the fire well lit before mid-afternoon.  He made sure the tray of bowls to be fired was in no danger of falling, and went out into the shop to see what was needed.  He found himself facing a very small individual with carefully groomed beard and hair, finely dressed in a magnificently embroidered surcoat and shirt, leaning on a cane of lebethron.

            “Master Potter Hirdon?  I am Master Sculptor Ruvemir of Lebennin.”

            Hirdon was amazed, for the one thing neither his son’s master nor Celebgil himself had told him that the boy’s temporary master was a mannikin.  Finding himself staring, he flushed.  “I am sorry--enter and be welcome.  I was filling the kiln.  Would you care if I continue while we speak?”

            He led the way into the courtyard behind the shop and indicated a bench where his guest could sit while he worked.  He made fine porcelains, his clay coming from a rich deposit found in the family’s estate in Lossarnach; and today he was firing part of a set of serving dishes commissioned by a wealthy lady whose husband served as Master of the Merchants’ Guild for the city.  He returned to his careful placement of items within the kiln, and noted the artisan visiting him was watching with open approval of his deft movements and obvious care.

            “I did not mean to be rude out in the shop, but my son had not--had not described you, sir, other than that he believes he has learned much under your instruction.”

            “I am honored, sir, and would tell you I am very pleased with his work and his willingness to learn.  He shows all the signs of doing well so far as I can tell through my experience with him to date.  I had thought to introduce myself so that you would know with whom he will be traveling when we must go south in the next month.  My father is Master Carver Mardil of Lebennin, and we will be visiting his workshop where your son will receive several days’ instruction and experience in the shaping of wood.  My ward Ririon will be staying there to continue his own apprenticeship under my father’s instruction.  We will then go down to Belfalas where we will be delivering another youth entrusted to my temporary instruction to Mistress Andúrien, for he shows great promise in sculpting wax and clay.”

            “Has she agreed to accept an apprentice, then?  I’d once thought to send Celebgil there, but his mother could not bear the idea of him being so far away from us for so long.”

            “I wrote to her from Eriador, and her reply was waiting me on our return to Minas Anor, telling us that she is willing to consider accepting Pando, particularly as he has come so very far already on my recommendation.  I do not believe she will be disappointed in his promise and willingness to learn.”

            “Celebgil tells us that the work on the memorial for the Pheriannath goes more rapidly than you had expected.”

            “Yes, and it is in part due to his own skill and industry.  He has been a great help, and both accepts instruction well and is able to work independently for when I must see to the instruction of Ririon and Pando or am interrupted to speak with those come to see the work in progress or must be elsewhere for a time.  And I have not found one so apt to work in concert in doing the closer shaping since I was accepted to the Guild.”

            “This is heartening, for the reports we have received from Master Varondil have been less detailed and with little in the way of praise since shortly after he began his indenture.”

            The bell on the shop door sounded, and they heard first the sound of the door closing again, and then the voices of two individuals approaching the second door out into this enclosed court.  A young man and a youth about two years younger than Celebgil came out, carrying slung between them a large wooden crate closed with four great wax seals.

            “The clay did indeed arrive today, Adar.  Shall we uncrate it now, or leave it till tomorrow?”  asked the elder.

            “I think we can wait till tomorrow.  Maderil, I want you to finish loading the kiln.  Elpheron, you have half a tray of bowls to be cleaned and smoothed for the Lord Elfhelm’s order.  I have six tureens to finish decorating for the order for the Citadel that I’ve not had the chance to work on yet today, and we must redo the pouring for the set of platters for the Merchants’ Hall.  Maderil, you added twice as much water as I directed.  It had best not happen again.  Master Ruvemir, we will move to the workshop, then.”

            “Oh, are you the Master Ruvemir?” asked the boy.  “Celebgil says you are very good with a chisel.”

            Ruvemir smiled as he slipped off the stool.  “I feel the same toward him.”

            “This way, Master Ruvemir,” the father said, leading the way through the doorway of an adjacent inner building into a large, decently lit workshop.  The young man followed after with the crate of clay, which he set near a large, covered stone storage basin, and went to a table to the right where a tray half filled with drying bowls lay near a shelf set with molds.  Hirdon went to the left to another table on which stood a variety of items of bisqueware, prominent among them a set of six magnificent tureens each large enough for an infant of six months to lie in.  He hooked a stool to the table and sat down, carefully unstoppered a labeled pot of glaze and chose a fine brush from a ceramic crock, wet it in a small crock of water, then shook off the excess, and after checking the consistency of the glaze to see it was right, began to paint a design onto one of the tureens, following the lines of the embossed pattern from the mold.  Seeing a second high stool nearby, Ruvemir drew it near and climbed carefully onto it, careful not to jar the table.  Finally on a level, more or less, with the potter, he began.

            “I’ve not taken a personal apprentice before, being one who has preferred traveling between commissions and preferring to take such as please me and not tie myself to one patron’s whims.”  The potter nodded and continued to work.  “I’ve used the services of other masters’ apprentices before, particularly for rough cutting, as such is far more laborious for me than it is for most, but Celebgil is the first I’ve seen apt to assist in closer shaping alongside me.  Also, the practice piece he’s chosen to do in his quiet times is finely done indeed, and has been praised by he who was my own master, who has come to the city for my wedding next week.”  Hirdon paused and looked with some surprise at the undersized artisan who sat by him.  Ruvemir laughed.  “Yes, even we mannikins can, with fortune, find love and caring, Master Hirdon, as I have done at last.”  He smiled.  “Part of the reason for the journey is to serve as our wedding journey, although we will be accompanied, Elise and I, by the youths entrusted now to my tutelage.  I have never learned to drive a team, and the coach provided for us is too high for me to manage in any case.  When Celebgil offered to drive the team for us in return for the chance to experience the teaching in other materials those we visit will offer, we accepted and the King approved, as it spares him again finding one to accompany us.”

            Hirdon nodded.  “He learned to drive a team in Lossarnach, driving the wagon my brother uses to transport the clay from the deposits to the sheds where he checks it for impurities and cleans it.  Tell me, what masters will you be visiting, and how long will you stay with each?”

            After a quarter of an hour’s discussion, the father finally nodded.  “He will have a good exposure to other materials and varied teaching.  I believe this will do well enough, then.”

            “He will have his own room in each inn, once Ririon and Pando are settled with my father and Mistress Andúrien.  Is he responsible enough, do you think, to accept such well without needing supervision?”

            “Certainly.  I was a bit surprised he wished to return home for his sleeping, once he was apprenticed and could move into their lodgings with his fellows, for ever he expressed the idea we watched him too close; but he allowed perhaps we give more freedom than masters after all.”

            “Then were these lodgings in the house or part of the workshop premises for Master Varondil?”

            “No, they are actually down in the Fourth Circle, in the Street of Bakers.  It appears, however, that Master Varondil does seek to keep a closer eye on his apprentices than most, and that, as I’m certain you appreciate from your own days as such, can seem onerous to those on the verge of manhood.”

            “Oh, indeed,” agreed Ruvemir, at the same time his mind was finding such a further indication there was something awry with the situation surrounding the apprentices of Master Sculptor Varondil.  More than ever he found himself wanting to see Celebgil’s indenture transferred to himself.  However, doing so without a true understanding of the situation between master and apprentices could be difficult to accomplish and fraught with problems, as those who feel others pry too closely can cause great difficulties, he knew.  He was, after all, an outsider here; and even with the King’s patronage he could still make powerful enemies within the guild if he acted in an impolitic manner.

            A woman entered the workshop from the street, followed by a young boy who must be Celebgil’s younger brother, who walked clutching a book to his breast.  Then the workshop door opened and closed once more, and a boy with quite dark skin entered, laden with packages of various sorts and passed on through an inner door, shepherding forward the younger boy.  The woman smiled at Elpheron, who smiled back, although he didn’t pause in his work; and then she came to stand near the potter.  “We found the earths you need for the brown glaze, Hirdon,” she said, as he paused to look up at her.  “Gabon and I will need to find it amongst the purchases, and then I will have him bring it to you.”

            “Thank you, Beloved,” Hirdon said, plainly smiling up into her face.  “This is Master Sculptor Ruvemir, who has come to introduce himself and to describe the journey south which Celebgil will take.”

            “Master Ruvemir?  It is an honor, I am sure.”

            Ruvemir remembered his other request.  “One other thing--tomorrow even I am requested to attend a dinner honoring those embassies that have come to attend the birth of our Lord and Lady’s first child, along with my father and former Master, my sister and her husband.  May I ask your son to stay with my ward and other apprentice, who only last even were into mischief?”

            “Yes, I believe that would be acceptable,” Celebgil’s mother said.  “He has always been a responsible boy.”

            “I thank you,” said Ruvemir.  “I must return to them now, for the cart will soon be here to take us back to the Second Circle.  It has been an honor, Sir, Mistress.”  He slipped from the stool and bowed, and was shown the way out by the potter’s wife.

            “It is an honor to have our son working on such a commission, and for the King himself.”

            “Yes, and so it is for myself as well.”

            “And he tells me you are to marry?”

            “Yes, next week Highday, an hour after noon.  Will you and your family do us the honor of attending the handfasting?”

            “We would be well pleased.  Where is it to take place?”

            “At the Inn of the King’s Head in the Second Circle.”

            With her agreement, he gave her a final bow and turned at last to return to his family.

            He was able to eat a quick meal himself before the carter appeared, and seeing the sculptor’s party sitting at an outdoor table for the inn where they’d taken their meal, he came to explain he’d had to leave his cart and ponies in a nearby alley for the moment, as word had come the embassies from Rhun and Harad had entered the lower city and would reach this level quite soon.

            “And until they have passed on, we shall not be able to move.  So, do not hurry your meal.  As they must pass this way, you will undoubtedly get a good view of them, as well.  I will go to wait with the cart and my ponies, so as to keep them calm and reassured.”

            Ruvemir thanked him for his courtesy, and asked his sister for his sketch booklet, which he hoped to have ready when the ridings came by.  Accepting a second goblet of wine, he waited for his first glimpse of these former foes of his homeland, now come to honor the birth of the first of the Lord King’s heirs.

Ifram b’nto Agharan of Rhun

            Ifram b’nto Agharan, recently named ambassador to Gondor by his brother, Shkatha Moritum b’nto Agharan, chosen by the folk of Rhun to rule them in the wake of the War of the Ring, watched the party from Gondor approaching from the opposite side of the border between the two lands.  Riding before the group from Gondor was what appeared to be their officer, attired as a Ranger of Ithilien, wearing the green, hooded cloak and leather gambeson worn by such, but in his case decorated with the embossed and tinted White Tree, Seven Stars, and Silver Crown denoting his rank and allegiance to land and King.  He was accompanied by six armored knights, also mounted, armed with lances and swords; fifteen Rangers armed with bows and swords; and six foot soldiers, knights and soldiers attired in the black and silver of the standard forces of Gondor.  He was also accompanied of one of Ifram’s own scouts, who looked embarrassed and shrugged as the two parties came forward to their meeting at the border.  As the Rhunish party made the last few yards of the no-man’s-land between the two realms, five more Gondorian scouts came out of the forest, accompanied by the other two Rhunish scouts.  They walked to the center of the border area where the Gondorian scouts stopped, and the Rhunish scouts moved forward to join their own people’s party.

            There was no animosity on the face of the officer from Gondor.  His party stopped precisely within the boundary stones for their land, and only the officer rode forward into the no-man’s-land to greet them, signing his own scouts to turn back and stand with their fellows.  “I am Morgion of Ithilien, a Captain of the forces of Gondor and kinsman to our Lord Steward, and usually command those who serve in this part of the Wilds on the boundaries of our nations,” he said in Ifram’s own language.  “I am to accompany you along the first portion of your journey in our lands.  I hope you take no offense that we have stopped your scouts, although I will allow them to work alongside ours as we go back toward the Road.   Although Sauron himself is no more, yet there still remain hidden in the desolation left by his fall many of his creatures who have no love for Men, Elves, Dwarves, or the rest of the Children of Iluvatar.  Our own scouts will be watching for any threat such may pose to us.”  Pleased by this, Ifram indicated the three of his own scouts should move alongside their Gondorian counterparts.

            Ifram gave his own retinue a glance--his half-brother Shefti who would serve as his scribe, the ten armed men who would be his personal honor and body guards, the single wagon that carried their personal goods, then looked after the three scouts.  At his signal those behind him moved forward to join the group from Gondor. 

            He had last made this journey five years past when he’d followed his brother to the Black Gate, where the folk of their district were to fight for Mordor against the troupes of Gondor.  Their squadron was not sent to Minas Tirith, but instead was held in reserve outside the walls of Mordor, and when the Army of the West approached, again they were assigned to serve as reserve troupes.

            His brother Moritum had taken him forward to look down on the forces of Gondor as they set themselves in array to face the Black Gate and the Towers of the Teeth, and it was plain he was deeply disturbed by what he saw before him.  “I like it not, for they are too few.”

            Bravam’to, his brother’s chief lieutenant, looked at his commander with surprise.  “You have heard what was told by the Mouth of Sauron when he gave us our orders, Moritum--this is all that was sent from their capital, and many have already fallen away, back to the city of ruins or north to their fortified island.  Mordor’s army can easily fall on them and destroy them--and we have both their king and the king of the Horse People of the north and west also.  Then we will have prize picking for our own peoples.”

            “I like it not,” Moritum had repeated.  “They are too few, far too few.  No matter how great are the individuals who stand there, still the force is not the fullness of their strength.  No, I fear if we engage against them we will be destroyed.”

            “By those few?”

            “No, by the gods.  The ones who are their Kings come almost alone.  It is an act of sacrifice to draw the aid of their gods to their side.  Their gods will fight for them, as they did when Morgoth was thrown down so long ago.”

            Moritum looked down at the forces again, then signaled his own troupe to pull back.  He, his brother, and Bravam’to, however, remained where they might watch; and when the great Eagles came Ifram realized that perhaps his brother was correct.  His family had held a slave from Gondor when he and Moritum were children, and Staravion had not only taught them the languages spoken in Gondor, but had also told them stories of the history of his people.  The coming of the Eagles may not have heralded the actual coming of the gods this time, but to watch the destruction of Barad-dûr and see the shadow of Sauron rise up and then blow away on the West Wind was shocking. 

            Moritum’s entire troupe returned unscathed to their own land, and in the end the people of Rhun elected Moritum Shkatha for his wisdom.

            As they rode further west toward the River Anduin and they moved through areas patrolled by different squadrons, the troupes surrounding them were changed frequently, although Morgion indicated he would remain with them until they reached the city of Osgiliath.  Ifram and he spoke together in both the Common Tongue and Rhunic as they rode, each pleased to have a chance to practice speaking the other’s language.  Ifram had many questions about the government of Gondor.  Morgion’s answers were selective, but still instructive.  The Lord King was happy in his marriage to the Lady Arwen, and they looked forward to the birth of their first child.  He was a good king, a fine lord for all his people, and he was most beloved.  He was the greatest swordsman in Middle Earth, and was as good as a Ranger as he was on horseback or leading a charge on foot.  He was a skilled bowman, and could center a knife on a target consistently.  His friendships were broad and varied, and the people of his land rejoiced to receive the teachings and assistance of the Dwarves and the Elves.  His people in the northern kingdom missed his presence, but his kinsmen from the northern kingdom took pride in serving him in Gondor.  He was a skilled healer as well as a warrior and a scholar.  He read the hearts of his people, and had compassion for those who needed it.  Representatives of both the northern and southern kingdoms sat on his Council, and all were respected for the wisdom they shared.  The city of Minas Anor was renewed, and grew in splendor and beauty.  The lands of Gondor and Arnor grew in glory, and their people flourished. 

            As they approached the southern borders of what had been Mordor, Ifram began to feel tense, remembering his last time looking down on the Black Gate.  But things were far different than they’d been there.  No longer was all dark, dead, and drear--now there was grass beginning to grow in the hollows, saplings on the sides of the hills, brambles and shrubs along the margins of the mountains.  Ifram was shocked to see life coming back to a land he remembered as stark and dead.  No walls stood in the gap in the mountains, no gates surmounted by troupes of orcs, no towers lit with the light of the Red Eye.  Even the mountainsides seemed to have softened from stark black to a more dreary greyish brown touched by early hints of golds and greens.  To the north, in the distance could be seen grass growing around the margins of what had been the Dead Marshes--dead no longer.  Reeds and sedge now grew green between the pools; blackbirds sang in the now flowering shrubs; ducks and geese rose from the water to fly, calling over the water; mink and weasels waddled across the raised ground, fish flashed in the water.  No longer were travelers drawn after the dead lights; the faces of those who had died so long ago were no longer seen lying beneath the surface of the pools, and their spirits were at peace.

            Morgion looked about and smiled.  “Even here Sauron failed in the end, for life has begun to return to these lands in spite of all he did.  The King and his Lady came here, a year after the Ring went into the Fire and Mordor fell, to give thanks and to pray that the Valar and the One would grant these lands full life once more.  We give thanks daily for the faithfulness of the two who entered those lands to take Sauron’s Ring back to Orodruin, and for the healing our lands now experience.”  His expression as he looked southward into what had been Mordor expressed honor.

            They turned south not far beyond the gates, traveling along the north-south road that ran parallel to the Ephel Dúath.  They stopped for the night at a rest house built not far west of the road on the edge of a large open area.  Morgion indicated the large field with its scattered copses of trees and flowering bushes.  “This is the Field of Cormallen.  Here the armies of Gondor and Rohan retired after the battle before the Black Gate, for the wounded to receive treatment and to recover, and to await the awakening of the Ringbearers,” Morgion said.  “It is now a place of pilgrimage for many who served then in our forces, and so a rest house was built here for those who come to honor those who labored against the Enemy of all.”  Their quarters were spacious and comfortable, and the meal they were served included two dishes that were Rhunish in origin.  Ifram was again impressed--their hosts had taken time to learn the ways of their expected guests, obviously, and they sought to offer them honor at the same time they invited the Easterlings to explore the cuisine of Gondor.

            After an early dawn meal they set off southwards again, headed for the Crossroads and then for Osgiliath.  Morgion pointed out, far to the south, the site of the growing town of Emyn Arnen on the ruins of the old city which had been abandoned generations before, the habitation of the Lord Faramir, Prince of Ithilien and Lord Steward of Gondor under the Lord King Aragorn Elessar Telcontar.  Ifram had not traveled this road before, and was amazed by the greenness of the countryside, the constant sound of rushing and falling waters.  Morgion and his men all were obviously quite familiar with their surroundings, he noted, and smiled constantly as they listened to the singing of birds and breathed in the sweet odor of growing things. 

            When they at last reached Osgiliath Ifram saw that the city was beginning to grow once more.  The great bridge had been rebuilt, and even most of the minor bridges  were now intact.  Walls of damaged buildings had been cleared away, and many houses and buildings had risen from what had been rubble, the pavements of squares had been laid anew, trees and flowers now bloomed.   They were led to a fine house on the west side of the city where they were to be housed for the night.

            Morgion bowed as he saw them into their quarters.  “You will shortly be joined by the embassy from Harad, which is to enter the capital alongside you.  I now surrender my escort duties to Captain Mablung.  I welcome you again to Gondor, and wish you a pleasant stay in Minas Anor.”  With a deep bow, the Captain of Rangers took his leave.  Ifram bowed back, and gave his attention to Captain Mablung, who stepped forward to take Morgion’s place. 

            Mablung wore the full uniform of an officer of Gondor, the black and silver of the Army.  “I welcome you, Lord Ambassador.  It is an honor to welcome you to Osgiliath.  Tomorrow we will finish the journey to Minas Anor.  The two embassies will travel side-by-side, literally side-by-side, from here to the capital, and enter the city in that manner as well.  We cannot and will not offer more honor to one than the other.  The King and Queen will rejoice to welcome you on the level of the Citadel on your arrival in the city, and on the following evening there will be a feast to welcome you to Gondor.  The evening meal will soon be offered you here.  Would you prefer to come to the dining room or receive it in your quarters?”

            Ifram and Shefti and the captain of the guard consulted briefly, and chose to eat in their quarters.  Mablung bowed.  “So it shall be then, my Lord Ambassador.  I will let the staff know your preferences.”

            Again the meal included both Rhunish and Gondorian dishes, and Ifram saw that most of his guards were relaxing more in their strange surroundings.  He only hoped they did not relax into unwarranted complacency.  Not long after their meal was served they heard the arrival of the Embassy from Harad, and soon dark-skinned Men in the red, black, and gold of the Southlands could be seen being led to their quarters in the southern wing of the guesthouse.

            Again they set out fairly early at an easy pace.  They could now see clearly the rising wall of the White Mountains, and what seemed a hill of shining white on the near spur of the range, a hill that as they approached resolved itself into a shining city built in tiers on the side of the mountain spur.  Ifram looked up at the White City of Gondor, its capital Minas Anor, Tower of the Setting Sun, with awe.  Never had he seen such a great city, and he was amazed his folk had assailed it alongside the forces of Mordor in the great war.  How could any hope to enter such a place through force of arms, he wondered?

            The gates of the city were closed, he saw as they came closer, great gates of steel faced with silver--no, he’d been told it was not silver, but instead mithril, that most rare and strong of all metals, more precious than gold, even.  The escorts for the two embassies drew in closer to their wards as the gates opened soundlessly, welcoming them into the heart of the two realms of the Sea Kings.  He looked at the figure over the arch of the gate, and the three on the leaf to his left.  Mablung explained: “The founders of the realm and three first co-rulers of Gondor and Arnor together--Elendil the Tall and his sons, Anárion and Isildur, their wives, and their principal heirs,” as they passed through the gateway, pointing up, left, and right. 

            As the two columns entered the city, it could be seen the way was lined by the populace of Minas Anor, while inside the gate stood a double line of grey-cloaked archers, tall and straight, each armed with a long knife as well as the great bow carried at the ready.  Mablung again explained, “You are greatly honored.  The Queen’s own kin serve here as our escort, for these are the archers of the Galadhrim and the Imladrim.  Seldom do the Elves serve so.  There are none more accurate with a bow, or more deadly in the use of their edged weapons.”

            Ifram felt alarmed until he saw that the eyes of this troupe were aimed outwards as they moved into place to flank the columns as they started upward through the city, watching for any sign of threat in the watching people--not that he could see any hints of threat there.  The people among whom they passed might look in many cases guarded, but none appeared threatening or angry; and the eyes of the children were not fearful in the least, but instead curious and aware.  Everywhere he saw signs of prosperity--clean streets, shops with full windows and open doorways, women with bundles of packages or fascinated small children in their arms, groups of workmen and merchants mingling together.  He smelled no sewage, but instead the odors of flowers from the myriad of gardens, the scents of spices and rich food from market stalls and eating-places.  He heard in many places the sound of water in fountains and the songs of birds and the laughter of children.  He glanced across Mablung’s horse and saw that his opposite number from Harad was also surprised at the peace and prosperity he saw in the eyes and attitudes of the folk of Minas Anor.

            Colors were largely muted, but fabrics were rich.  There were many men among the populace who bore the scars of war in missing limbs, disfigurement, and so on; but they stood as tall as those they stood among, clothed not as beggars but as equal citizens.  Great ladies and more humble housewives stood side by side; those attired in silks and brocades alongside those in more simple hand-woven or knit shawls.  This was a city no longer on guard for itself.  No fear did he sense anywhere.

            The winding way was lined, he realized, throughout all of the levels of the city.  Up and up the column wended its way, watched continuously by the citizens of Gondor.  Throughout the entire ride they continued to be flanked by the tall archers, and never did he see any sign that this guard was needed.  Folk stood along the street, looked down from balconies on the walls and tall houses, sat even on patios of eating establishments and watched them go by.  Such he saw repeatedly.  He saw scaffoldings on which Men stood side-by-side with heavily bearded smaller figures he realized must be Dwarves, and now and then other Elves alongside women and older children would rise from gardens to look after them, pride in the beauty of the city reflected on all sides.  He saw little in the way of horses or draft animals, although in the fifth level he saw an open cart of sorts intended to carry people rather than goods, and on the sixth another wagon loaded with freight, both waiting in side streets for the main way to open again once the procession was past at last.

            Finally they came to the ramp to the seventh level, and Mablung halted the double column, swung down from his horse, and gave it over to a waiting soldier in the black and silver of the realm, and then indicated to the rest they should do the same.  Ifram felt reluctant to leave his horse in the care of strangers, but did as indicated, snapping free his saddlebags and dispatch case as had been advised before they left Osgiliath earlier.  Shefti signaled one of the soldiers forward to take Ifram’s bags as well as his own, and so with only the dispatch case was Ifram burdened as they paced alongside the Gondorian captain up the steep ramp to the level of the Citadel.

            Waiting near the top of the ramp stood the King of Gondor and Arnor, wearing a formal black robe embroidered with the White Tree and Seven Stars done in silver thread and gems.  He wore not the Winged Crown, but instead a mithril circlet set with a great single gem, and his white mantle was held fastened by a great brooch set with a shining green gem.  He was tall and straight in his carriage, and the pommel of his great sword was ready in case he needed to use it.  At his side stood a woman of such beauty it caused Ifram to catch his breath, hold it in awe, and let it go in a great sigh.  She was heavily pregnant, yet stood tall and proudly nonetheless.  Flanking them were six others, two Elves with hair as dark as that of the Queen of Gondor and Arnor; another Elf with hair golden as the dawn and eyes more ancient than the Sun; a tall, regal Elf whose hair was as pale as moonlight; a fifth Elf with hair like a raven’s wing and a face that seemed youthful by comparison with those of the others; and a Dwarf with fair hair and beard, both elaborately braided.  Behind them stood six Men, three in the black and silver of Gondor, and three in grey cloaks closed with silver stars on their left shoulders, each of these armed with bow and quiver as well as swords and knives.  To their right stood three other Men, tall, bearded, their hair gold as ripe grain, each holding helmets under their arms, the one held by the central man surmounted by a horsetail.  Their cloaks were of a rich green, clasped with golden horse head brooches, and the pommels of their swords were decorated also with horse heads.

            The King and Queen bowed, the King deeply.  “We welcome you to Gondor and to Minas Anor, my Lord Ambassadors,” he said in the Common Tongue, then said this again in the tongues of Rhun and Harad.  “I am the King Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar, King of Gondor and Arnor.  My wife, the Lady Arwen Undómiel.  Her brothers, Elladan and Elrohir, sons of the Lord Elrond Peredhel formerly of Imladris.  Her grandsire, Lord Celeborn, Lord of the Galadhrim.  Lord Glorfindel of Imladris.  Prince Tharen Thranduilion of the Forest of Green Leaves.  Dorlin son of Dwalin of Erebor.  Lord Elfhelm, Second Marshall of the Riddermark, ambassador from Rohan.  That your nations have chosen to honor the birth of our first child with your presence has caused us great joy.”

            Ifram and his opposite number from Harad looked at one another, and Ifram indicated he was willing for the representative from the south to go first.  The Man smiled, gave a short bow, and turned to their host.  “I am Rustovrid of Harad, Captain of the Hosts, sent by our King to represent our people at the birth of your first child.  Our King sends his greetings to you, and this as a gift for the child to be born.”  He signaled two of those who followed him to come forward carrying between them a heavily carved cradle, which they placed at the feet of the Queen, who leaned down with pleasure to examine it.  The two men stepped back into place and together the party from Harad bowed in respect to the sovereigns of this nation that had once been Harad’s greatest enemy. 

            The King of Gondor and Arnor bowed in return.  “We thank you for your gift, which is of great beauty and workmanship.  We thank the people of Harad, and are grateful for their friendship after so long in enmity.”  The Queen also inclined her head gracefully in thanks, smiling fully in recognition of the gift.

            Then Ifram stepped forward.  “We have not come only to witness the birth of your first child, Lord Elessar,” he said, opening the dispatch case, removing a rolled parchment and proffering it to the King.  “We seek to place a permanent embassy here in your capital, that we may have open communication between our two nations. 

            The Lord Elessar’s eyebrows raised, and he accepted the scroll with an inclination of his head, examined its seal, then producing a small knife from his belt lifted the seal, which he caught and handed to one of those who stood behind him, unrolled the parchment, and read it.  Finished, he raised his eyes to those of Ifram, and examined his face at length.  Ifram stood still, his face carefully neutral, caught in spite of himself by the intensity of the gaze that searched his visage.  The King’s eyes were grey with a hint of blue and green, and Ifram sensed that this was a Man well schooled in recognizing the natures and motivations of those who faced him.  Well, let this King search his visage as he would, he’d see no lies in the face of Ifram b’nto Agharan.  Or, was the Man looking for something other than lies?  At last the King of Gondor appeared satisfied, and handed the communication to the golden haired Elf, who read it and then handed it back to the King, who then gave it to the same guard who had received the wax pressed with Moritum of Rhun’s seal.

            “We are pleased, honored, and humbled to receive your embassy to our city on a permanent basis, my Lord Ifram,” the King said at last.  He then spoke to both parties equally.  “While you are within the city, you may have the choice of being quartered within the Citadel itself or accepting the use of one of the guest houses in the Sixth Circle.”  Again he turned specifically to Ifram.  “As you have indicated the will of your people to establish a permanent embassy, we suggest you will be more comfortable in such.  One of the two  houses prepared for your coming is particularly apt for such usage.  There are rooms suitable for entertaining as well as offices on the main floor, and lesser offices on the upper floors along with chambers appropriate for private quarters.”

            Ifram again bowed.  “That would be most acceptable indeed.”

            The King indicated the guard in the grey cloak and silver star to whom he’d entrusted the writ establishing the embassy from Rhun.  “Lord Hardorn is my officer of the Privy Purse as well as chief of my personal bodyguards.  He will meet with you in two hours’ time to discuss your further requirements.  And you, my Lord Rustovrid--where will your people rest while you remain in Gondor and the city?”

            “I think we will take the house, my Lord Elessar,” the Southron replied.

            “Very well, then--Lord Hardorn will accompany your party, Lord Ifram, while I will accompany the party from Harad to the house most likely to please you, Lord Rustovrid.  If there is anything else that we can do for either party this afternoon and evening?  Would you prefer to eat alone in your houses this day, or to return here later in the day?  We have given orders to the cooks to be prepared to fix food to be sent down to the Sixth Circle at the time for the meal at sunset.  We will allow you time to rest, perhaps see some of the city if you will, and to accustom yourself to your quarters this day.  Tomorrow is our High Day, and many of the notables of our realms are scheduled to arrive during it or the following day.  We will host an evening feast tomorrow starting shortly after sunset, and several of our Guild Masters, who are most anxious to question you regarding trade, have accepted invitations to join us as well.  We would have set it later to accommodate the return of our Lord Steward from Ithilien, but I suspect that we will be otherwise occupied at that time.”  He shared a smile with his wife, whose own smile was a thrilling match to that worn by her lord husband.

            “Oh, I suspect that we will indeed be otherwise occupied, Beloved, for this one is becoming impatient to see the world.”  She caressed her belly gently, and the King’s own smile softened as he looked down at the evidence of the small life readying to emerge into the richness of Minas Anor.

            With more bows all round and indications that both ambassadorial parties would prefer to dine in their own quarters, they separated into two groups.  The King came forward first to Ifram, and offered his hand to grasp, again welcoming the folk from Rhun to the capital of Gondor.  Then the Lord Hardorn came forward, his grey cloak thrown back to show he wore under it a fine coat of mail under a grey leather gambeson embossed with the sign of the Seven Stars.  They were quickly led back down the ramp to the Sixth Circle, then shown a street out to the walls and the house on the end on the left, a large, three-storied structure taking up much of the street. 

            Before it was a garden full of flowers and formal plantings of sweet-smelling herbs and shrubs.  The windows were shaded by young, shapely trees that still managed not to block the view unnecessarily.  The house was detached and surrounded by a low wall surmounted by an iron railing.  A servant stood in the doorway, waiting to admit them.  Ifram and Shefti and their guards examined the entire building under the guidance of the servant, Lord Hardorn having taken his leave temporarily while they became acquainted with their quarters.  Finally they felt they had a good feeling for the building, and could see no sign there were hidden passages or other means to spy on them, and they returned to the front room of the house, a very formal sitting room.  Ifram looked out of its windows, feeling decidedly odd, for his people never built such great buildings as residences.  This was going to require some time for him to adjust to living in such a place, one so different from the flat and sparse lands of Rhun.

            “If the furnishings are not to your liking, they may be easily changed to make things more in keeping with your own ways, my Lords,” the servant said.

            Ifram shrugged.  “I think we will want some changes, but hopefully not many.  Tell me of the others who live on this street.”

            “The house just opposite the doors belongs to a family whose members serve in the Citadel and the Houses of Healing, which are on the southern side of the Sixth Circle.  The house to the left, there on the end, is now empty, but will be inhabited by the sculptor who works on the King’s Commission which will grace the area between the Court of the White Tree and the Court of Gathering before the Citadel.  Master Sculptor Ruvemir is to be married next week, and he and his bride will first go south to Lebennin and Belfalas, and they will take up residence, I believe, on their return--although they may spend their wedding night there, if that is their choice.  The house to the right holds the quarters for the Lord Hardorn--for when he leaves the King’s side, that is.  They are kinsmen and cousins.  The house further on is another guesthouse, one that is now empty.  The one house beside this one houses the widow of one of the guards of the Lord Denethor from the time before the coming of the King.”

            “I see, and thank you.”

            “We have brought in foodstuffs such as the Lord King indicated are commonly eaten in your lands, enough for fifteen for five days, I believe.  After that you may arrange for your own shopping to be done in accordance with your ways.  Will you require servitors?  I can recommend a few who are available at this time.  My own place is within the Citadel, so I will not be able to serve you myself.”

            At last the servant departed back to his own duties, and a ring at the bell indicated the arrival of the promised meal, followed at last by the return of Lord Hardorn.

            He remained with them for an hour and a half, by which time Ifram was content that the King was indeed concerned with the comfort of his outlands guests and intent on seeing to it they felt welcome.  The other thing of which he was convinced was that the folk of the city and the land loved their King. 

            Finally they placed the empty dishes on the trays as they’d been directed and set them on the heavy table that sat on the porch for servants of the Citadel to remove, and they examined the stores that had been provided for them.  All were amazed to see that the food was indeed of the sorts they were most accustomed to, but of better quality than most folk of Rhun would ever see.  There were three sets of dishes, one of which was made up of serving dishes and implements commonly used in Rhun.  There were two casks of wine, and another that they’d been told was of the juice of apples.  In a cold room hung a side of beef and another of mutton, and in bins were stored vegetables and a tub of butter and a basket of eggs and other perishables.  They had sufficient rice and other grains to meet their needs.

            Together with the captain of the guard they decided how the watch would be kept.  While they were meeting they heard the rumble of a wagon out in front of the residence and realized their goods had been brought up to them.  Ifram, Shefti, and the captain chose their own quarters, Ifram choosing a suite on the third floor; and once the members of the guard detail and the scouts had chosen theirs, all began to settle in.

            The bed was far softer than he’d ever slept on before, and Ifram lay long awake in it.  He was now in Gondor, the home of Staravion, who so long ago had watched over him and his brothers, had taught them his languages, his stories, his histories--until the day when Ifram was fourteen and came to find that during the night Staravion had finally managed to escape his quarters, and had chosen to return, if he could, to his own people.  Once again he wondered if he would find his family’s one-time slave now that he dwelt in Minas Anor.  He rather hoped he would. 

            He’d opened the window, and from the house opposite he heard the voice of a woman singing.  He smiled as he let himself fall at last into his rest.

Dinner with Family-to-be

            Ruvemir watched the double column riding up the main way from the city and began drawing swiftly.  He knew nothing about the Gondorian officer who rode between the two lines of Men save that he saw his duty very seriously.  Somehow, from the Man’s expression, Ruvemir found himself believing this officer was finding his current position of leading lines of soldiers from two of the peoples of the world who once were Gondor’s fiercest enemies within the world of Men to be highly ironic.  

            Flanking the line were Elves in the silver-green cloaks of Lothlorien and silver-grey of Imladris, each armed with bow and long knife or softly curved sword.  The nearer of the two lines, those on the right in their own orientation, had darker skin, eyes so deeply brown they appeared black, and tightly curled black hair, similar to that of the youth Gabon he’d seen in the house of Hirdon the Master Potter.  Those on the left had swarthy skin, hair a rich dark brown to black with a much looser natural curl than seen in the Southrons, noses with pronounced bridges, all remarkably slender, eyes darting back and forth suspiciously--save for the eyes of their leader, who looked about not with suspicion but with curiosity and even approval at what he saw about him.  Why Ruvemir felt drawn to this stranger he could not say, but he was caught by his attitude, and sketched his face and expression swiftly, impressing the features on his mind as he rode by.  The Easterling saw the pony cart in the alley beyond the inn where they’d dined, Ruvemir noted, then turned his head to look at a group of children on his other side, paused in their play to watch the riding of the guests of the realm.  Ruvemir suddenly found himself proud of the folk of his nation and the capital, how their attitudes spoke not of suspicion but of the pride of the nation of Gondor.  He smiled, and watched after as the two columns continued to ride upwards toward the Citadel at the top of the city.  He wondered  briefly where they’d be housed, then sighed as the last of the flanking Elves disappeared after their charges, and the way at last cleared.

            He paid the one who’d served them, and rose with the rest of his own party and walked in a leisurely manner to the alley where he was aided into the cart with Elise’s grandmother now at his side, Miriel and Master Faragil opposite him.  Finally, as the congestion of the streets at last ebbed, the carter mounted the bench on the front of his vehicle and shook the reins, at which the ponies moved out and headed down the streets. 

            Faragil and Idril, seated opposite one another, were discussing the ways in which the city had changed from what they remembered from younger days.  Dorieth was walking between Celebgil and Pando and regaling them with some story of which, Ruvemir was certain, her mother would not approve were she walking on their side of the cart.  Pando’s eyes were quite wide with surprise, and Celebgil was darting swift glances to the side to make certain the adults weren’t overhearing the soft exchange among the young ones.  Elise and her mother walked with Mardil and Ririon on the opposite side, and Ruvemir noted his father watching the three young ones on the right side of the cart with an indulgent expression that recognized the vagaries of youth.  Miriel was pointedly looking at her brother, but was actually listening to the talk of the three young ones, and at one point she gave a slight shake of her head at what she heard.

            At last they came to the Second Circle and turned into the drive to the King’s Head, and all came forward to assist those in the cart to dismount.  Ruvemir thanked the carter, who refused as always the offer of coin, saying he was already paid for doing his job, and the Man gave a sketchy salute and left, headed for the stable outside the great Gates where the city’s vehicles and their teams were housed.

            All were relieved to enter the King’s Head, and seeing them the young Man who manned the desk on the days Beneldil and his family took their own days of leisure from their duties to guests asked if they’d like to use the Dwarves’ parlor to continue their visit.  Soon they were sitting about the room, laughing and talking still, enjoying the company and the day.  Finally Elise’s family took their leave reluctantly, reminding Elise and her intended they were expected to the evening meal in two hours’ time.  Mardil again stated he would watch the three younger ones while his son and Elise were gone, but Ruvemir saw his father looked out after the departing women with regret.  Faragil, on the other hand, made a point of escorting them home, and Ruvemir saw there were signs of possessiveness in the older sculptor’s eyes as he laid his free hand on the hand of Idril which lay on his elbow as they walked.  Ruvemir looked into Elise’s eyes and smiled.  “It appears the women of your family all cast a similar spell on those gifted with artistry,” he commented, and her eyes first widened with surprise, then crinkled with laughter as she realized that Celebgil was looking after her sister with a look of longing on his face and her beloved’s father had a similar expression looking after her mother.

            Elise stayed an hour longer, then took her own leave reluctantly, and this time it was Ruvemir who accompanied her to the door, where she decidedly kissed him and set out for her home.  Ruvemir watched after, feeling as if the next week would take forever to pass.

            An hour later he presented himself again at the door to the house of Idril and knocked.  Elise admitted him this time, and now she was beautifully dressed in a soft gown that set his heart beating wildly.  She saw the effect of her choice on him and smiled happily, drawing him in and swiftly kissing him before her sister could discover he’d already arrived. 

            “Mother has been keeping Dorieth busy in the kitchens, which has left her feeling most abused,” Elise reported, and Ruvemir laughed.  She showed him into the same day room as this morning, and Idril offered him a glass of wine, which he accepted and sipped at slowly, gathering another look of approval from his beloved’s grandmother.

            They asked him about his youth and the estate on which Ruvemir had been raised.  They were positively impressed when he described working among the cattle and his enjoyment of the calves when they were born in the spring, of days spent with his father in the workshop, of his discovery of how much he enjoyed working stone, of his feelings of being displaced when his father made the conscious choice to change his son’s articles of indenture to Master Faragil but how those feelings passed swiftly when he realized just how much satisfaction he received from doing his first large practice piece. 

            Lisbet found herself describing her late husband, who’d been a mason.  “He died when Dorieth was about eight.  It was a hard business, for a scaffolding collapsed with six masons upon it as they were seeking to repair damage to the tower of a building in the First Circle, the hall for the Guild of Cooks.”

            Idril sighed.  “This was a great tragedy, for four of those on the scaffolding died, and one was permanently injured and died a six-month later.  Had the Lord Captain Thorongil remained in the realm it is likely it would have been avoided.  He had been attempting to convince the Steward there must be regulations to check scaffoldings for safety, for he’d assisted in a similar collapse during one of his stays in the city when two men broke their legs and one suffered a cracked skull.  All three recovered completely, but it was certainly not due to the care shown by those who erected the scaffolding on which they’d been working.”

            “At least it won’t happen easily again,” Lisbet said, “for the King has passed such a regulation, as well as other regulations intended to protect those who labor in potentially dangerous situations.  They were passed soon after he accepted the Crown, in fact.  That he would think of such things, he who was raised in the wilds of the north, was a subject of amazement to those in the city, most of whom are willing to pay more up front if it means they are less likely to be killed or injured when they work.”

            “Well,” Ruvemir noted, “he is a healer, after all, and he has undoubtedly seen such injuries elsewhere during his long life.”

            “Exactly how old is he, I wonder?” asked Dorieth.

            “He ought to be nearing ninety-three now,” Ruvemir answered.  At her look of startlement he reminded her, “He is, after all, of the blood of Númenor almost unmingled.  He will outlive all of us, most like.”

            “How do you know how old he is?” asked Lisbet.

            “I asked him when I awoke in the Houses of Healing last fall,” Ruvemir answered.  “I recognized his features at last, and realized he was far older than I’d realized.”

            “Recognized them from what?” asked Mistress Idril.

            Ruvemir smiled, but shook his head.  “I met him first in Casistir in Lebennin, where he first laid on me the commission to prepare the memorial for the Pheriannath.  He came to me dressed in his garb as a Ranger of the North, and I had no idea who he really was until I awoke in the Houses of Healing and found him sitting beside me, still dressed formally from meeting earlier in the day with the embassy from Umbar.”

            “He was a Ranger in Arnor, then?”

            “Yes, and I’m told by his cousin Eregiel who accompanied us southwards through Eriador that even there he was considered the greatest warrior, tracker, and healer among their people.”

            “Tell us about your visit among the Pheriannath.  How do they live?”

            Idril watched her granddaughter’s betrothed with interest as he described his visit to the Shire, and saw he had developed a deep fondness and respect for the Hobbits, as he told them they named themselves.  This also positively influenced her, as had the flowers he’d brought for each of the women of the house.  That Elise should be drawn to such a one, and see beyond his physical seeming to the shining heart of him, his empathy, his gentleness and love of beauty, was reassuring.  That he now knew the King personally and felt such an obvious personal love and respect for him, and that he’d come to similar feelings toward the Pheriannath was heartening.  She’d raised her daughter and granddaughters to be discerning beyond the outward seeming, and Elise had chosen a husband full worthy of honor and respect.  Now, if only Dorieth would follow suit.

            Ruvemir was describing the Pherian Samwise, the Esquire to the King’s Friend, except it appeared he was truly his gardener and almost younger brother.  She saw the humor in the mannikin’s eyes as he described his shock at realizing what Frodo-Lad Gamgee was using as a teething ring, then saw the respect that followed as he described how Sam had looked as he donned his circlet of honor and the love and pride he’d seen in the eyes of Sam’s wife Rosie. 

            Lisbet was shocked at the tale.  “I would hate to see how the King would react to such news,” she said.

            “Oh, he began to laugh when I told him, laughed loud and long, setting all within the Hall of Meduseld laughing with him.  He says that this is so in keeping with Sam’s habit of self-effacement that he ought not to have felt surprise at all.  He told me the other day that he has sent a proper teething ring to the Gamgees for their new babe, who is due at any time as is that of the Queen Arwen.  His love toward the Lord Samwise, Captain Peregrin, and Sir Meriadoc is very obvious, as is his sorrow that he will not again see the Lord Frodo.”

            “I can still not imagine what that journey must have been like for him and his friend,” Dorieth said.  “To go through such hardship, and to have to slip unseen among the Enemy’s creatures--it must have been torture,”  She shuddered.

            Ruvemir nodded.  “It was very bad--both have said so.  The Lord Frodo came so very close to dying while in Mordor, and it fell to the Lord Samwise to sustain him as he could.”  At Idril’s look of question, he added, “The Lord Frodo was commissioned by his kinsman Bilbo to write out the story of the quest, which he did ere he left Middle Earth; and the Lord Samwise allowed me to read the book.  He also allowed me to read his own story, which he’d written out to ease his grief at his Master and friend’s leaving.  On seeing and first hearing Lord Sam you might think he was a simple one; but I have found him to be one of the wisest and most caring souls I’ve ever met.  I can now appreciate just why our Lord King so honors and loves him.”

            “I remember seeing him fussing at the Lord Frodo,” Dorieth said carelessly.

            Her grandmother straightened.  “When did you ever see such a thing?”

            Realizing she’d given herself away, Dorieth blushed.  “It was not long after they came to the city.  Remember the night I stayed with Elvinien in the Third Circle, not long after our Lord King was crowned?  Her brother Margold was going up to spy on the Pheriannath with some of his friends from the Fifth Circle, and Elvinien and I followed after, although they kept telling us to stay behind.  We crept along the Wall, and came to their house, which had a balcony looking down on the Pelennor on the back side.  The Lord Frodo was sitting on a bench between the house and the wall, huddled in his cloak.  We almost didn’t see him, except the Lord Samwise came out to seek him, begging him to come in. 

            “’I don’t want to go in, Sam,’ he said.  ‘It is too close inside.’

            “’But you had such a bad night last night, Mr. Frodo,’ his friend said.  ‘And you were sick this morning.’

            “’It’s nothing, Sam.  It’s just my stomach isn’t used to so much food yet.’

            “’That’s nonsense, Mr. Frodo,’ his friend said.  ‘I don’t get sick almost every time I eat.  You know what Strider said, several small meals, no large ones.  And you ate hardly nothing at all.  I’m going to ask him about it.’

            “‘No, Sam,’ Lord Frodo said.  ‘I don’t want you to bother him with this.’

            “’But he’d want to know.  And maybe he’d have some herbs to ease your stomach.’

            “The Lord Frodo laughed, but it wasn’t as if he thought it was funny.  ‘And what would that be?  You must be using up most of the city’s store of mint and ginger on me as it is, and it’s not helping.’  And when his friend started to protest again he got stern.  ‘No, Sam, I forbid you to say anything of it.’

            “Finally the Lord Sam said, ‘If he asks me, I have to tell him.’

            “The Lord Frodo sighed and said, ‘I know.  I won’t ask you to lie for me.  Just don’t tell him everything.  I’m sick of being fussed at.’

            “’It’s only because he cares, Frodo.’  Then he asked, ‘Want to try some tea, Mr. Frodo?’ and Lord Frodo nodded. 

            “Once he was gone, Lord Frodo sat quiet for a time, then said, ‘Now, all, come out now and let me see you.’”  So we went out.  He looked at us and shook his head, but he was smiling.  Finally he said, ‘It’s just like home, this.  I suppose I missed my young cousin spying on me, so you are making me feel more like normal.’  And he asked us who we were and where we lived, and we told him.  He said I’d come from the furthest down in the city yet.  And then he asked us if we’d like to have him tell us a story, and we said yes.”

            “What did he tell you about?”

            “About Lothlorien, and how very beautiful it was, how it was like he’d never seen green before he went there.”

            “Yes, he wrote that in his book as well, and Lord Sam has said the same.”

            “I didn’t know Lothlorien was a real place.  I thought it was just a story place.”

            Ruvemir sighed.  “I suppose it is becoming a story place now, now that the Elves have mostly left it.”

            “Why are they leaving?”

            “The time of Mankind has come, for the power of the Elven Rings was lost when the Lord Frodo brought the Enemy’s Ring to its destruction.  Lord Celeborn would not stay in Lothlorien when his Lady Galadriel left and went back to the Undying Lands.  Now the rest of the folk of Lothlorien have left it, to follow their Lord until they decide to leave, or until he decides to leave.”

            “When did the Lady Galadriel leave Middle Earth?”

            “At the same time as the Lord Frodo, two and a half years ago.  She rode beside the Lord Samwise on the way.  She stood beside the Lord Frodo on the deck of the grey ship as it left.”

            “So he knows someone there.”

            “Yes, he is not completely alone.”  He thought about it for a time.  “Did the Lord Samwise see you?”

            “Yes, he came out with a cup and toast for the Lord Frodo, and smiled when he saw him telling us stories.  He left the cup and toast beside him, and as he spoke, Lord Frodo drank it, ate the toast.”

            “Did he keep it down?”

            “Yes, he did.  He looked better when we left.”

            Elise sighed.  “You never told me.”

            Dorieth looked at her hands.  “I ought not to have gone anyway.  But I’m glad I did.”  She looked at Ruvemir.  “Did his cousin really spy on him?”

            Ruvemir laughed.  “So he tells me.  It was Pando.  He says he used to play Túrin and the Dragon with him, too, before Lord Frodo and the others left with the Ring.  And all his life Frodo Baggins told stories to children.”

            “Who was this Strider the Lord Frodo didn’t wish to know he was ill?” asked Idril.

            “It’s one of the King’s titles.  They named him that in Bree, the town nearest outside the Shire.  The King has granted the Lord Samwise permission to call him that for as long as he wishes to do so.”

            “He didn’t want the King to know how ill he was?”

            Ruvemir shook his head.  “He always sought to hide when he was ill.”

            “That was foolish.”

            Ruvemir nodded and sighed.  “He was foolish regarding his own health, from what I can tell.  But he was in a great deal of pain much of the time.  He was very badly injured, again and again.  He was stabbed, bruised, poisoned, beaten, bitten.  And the Ring tried to destroy his very soul.”

            Dorieth shivered again.

            Lisbet finally asked, “What will you do once you have completed the King’s Commission?”

            “I have two more to complete in Arnor, one for the people of Arnor, and one for the Elves of Rivendell.”  He looked at Elise for a moment, and smiled before continuing.  “Elise has told me she wishes to go with me.”

            Mother and grandmother looked to Elise, who straightened.  “Yes, I wish to see those lands where our King once lived, and which are part of the realm once more.”

            “Where will you do these statues?” Idril asked.

            “I’m not yet certain, although I hope to learn more tomorrow night.  Possibly in Annúminas, the northern capital; or perhaps Bree, for that for the people of Arnor.  For the one for the Elves, perhaps in Imladris.”

            “I see.  Then it is likely to be some time, once you are done here, ere we see the two of you again.”

            “I do not know that we will remain there the entire time.  The weather is much colder in winter there in the north, so it is likely we will return south for that season, although perhaps we might find ourselves wintering in Annúminas, or even, perhaps, the Shire itself, if King and the Shirefolk will permit it.  Certainly all have indicated the desire to host us again if possible in their letters.”

            Idril and Lisbet looked resigned, but on seeing the face of Elise as she looked on the Man she loved, they smiled for her happiness.

            The dinner was pleasant, and afterwards they spent some time together singing and talking.  When at last Ruvemir indicated he must leave, Elise walked him to the door and onto the porch, where she smiled. 

            “They do like you, I sense,” she murmured.

            “And my father and sister have indicated they like them as well, as I certainly do.”  He searched her face.  “I am still amazed to find such as you in this world, with your beauty, your discernment, your loving nature.”  He reached up to embrace her, and they kissed for quite a long time before he reluctantly broke away.  “Soon, my love, soon I won’t have to leave your side in this way.”  He kissed her once more, then turned back to the main way and the Inn of the King’s Head.

Feast

            He went down to work on Lord Frodo’s block again, and this time Faragil accompanied him, sitting on a stool apparently used by the Dwarves and watching with interest as Ruvemir worked on the block.  After an hour and a half they draped the stone, swept up the waste as had been done before, turned out the lamps, and left the building, Ruvemir carrying a pot of the black paint left for him with a note to that effect on one of the blocks on which the lanterns stood.  Making certain that the door was locked, Ruvemir led the way back through the second gate and to the inn, where both had a drink with Mardil before retiring to their beds.

            In the morning they went down to look at the great Gates of the city, and found Dorlin talking with a captain of the Guard.  Once the two of them were through with their discussion, Dorlin gladly turned to the sculptor and agreed to show all the work the Dwarves had done.  Mardil and Faragil both found the description of how the figures had been reconstructed to be fascinating and instructive, and both were mightily impressed by the engineering feat illustrated by the great leaves.

            They then borrowed horses and a pony from the stables and rode out of the city upon the Pelennor, making a pilgrimage to the two fenced areas, and Ruvemir told them what he’d learned of what had occurred at these two spots.  Faragil looked at the bare spot with wonder.  “And one of Folco’s kinsmen stood and stabbed the Nazgul there?  A mighty deed!”

            “Yes, and his stab allowed the Lady Éowyn to use her own sword and destroy it.  But it was not without cost.  Sir Meriadoc has suffered repeated nightmares of the experience, and recurring bouts of coldness and numbness of his sword arm ever since, although he and his wife tell me this is finally abating somewhat.”

            Mardil shook his head.  “No wonder the Lord King desires to honor the Pheriannath.”  His son nodded his agreement.

            They visited the warehouse, where Mardil examined the work done with interest and approval, and Ruvemir thanked Dorlin for the pot of paint.  On the way back up through the First Circle they stopped for a pint of ale at a tavern, then continued on the way, finally coming back to the inn in early afternoon.  Ruvemir finished his diagram of Samwise Gamgee’s figure, then rested some before it was time to bathe and prepare for the night’s feast.

            At last with the bundles containing the two gifts secured in a heavy carrying bag and the model for the memorial carefully packed in wool batting within a protective box of pasteboard, Ruvemir, accompanied by Folco, went out just as the pony cart turned into the drive at the inn.  His father and Miriel were already waiting, and Master Faragil came from the other direction to join them.  Folco joined the carter on the bench while the other four took the seats in the cart, and at last they started up toward the Citadel as Mardil carefully settled the birthing gifts at their feet.  Celebgil, Ririon, and Pando watched after them with envy, and Joy gave a single bark of farewell, then went off accompanied by Benril to get their meal at the Dragon’s Claw, where Ririon intended to introduce his fellows to his friends there.

            They were met at the top of the ramp to the Court of Gathering by Tharen Thranduilion and one of the sons of Elrond, who accompanied them to the Citadel.  Elladan, having been enlightened as to the contents of the bundle brought by his foster brother’s guests, smiled and indicated he would see each gift to its proper place with neither King nor Queen aware of the existence of the other until the gifts were exchanged, and slipped away quietly toward the royal apartments.  Tharen smiled after and led Ruvemir’s party to the private audience chamber where they’d met with the Guild Masters and the King before.  They were given drinks and instructed to sit and take their ease, and soon after the King arrived, dressed in a robe of rich, dark blue embroidered with seven eight-pointed stars in silver and gold threads arranged asymmetrically across the chest, the largest over the left breast.  He wore the brooch of the Elessar stone fastening a sash which ran from right shoulder to left hip and back, and the Star of Elendil shone on his brow, the pommel of the great sword Anduril at his hip.  There was no question that he was King this evening, Ruvemir noted as he rose and gave a profound bow alongside the rest of his party.

            Aragorn bowed in return to the party and signed quickly that, for now, this was all the formality he wished to see.  “We will be going to the feast hall, where Arwen and I will be already when our other guests arrive.  We will greet them Elf fashion, which will undoubtedly disconcert them; however, it will do well for the folk of the city as well as our guests to be reminded that we are related to both Rivendell and Lothlorien, no matter how few remain there.  I have a place ready to hold the model.  Ambassador Ifram will sit on my left, and Ambassador Rustovrid will sit to Arwen’s right.  Ruvemir, I’d like you to sit to Ambassador Ifram’s left, if you will, with Miriel and Folco to the left of you.  Master Mardil and Master Faragil, if you would sit to the right of Ambassador Rustovrid, I’d be relieved.  We are going to impress upon these folk that our first priority is not warfare and domination.  Behind our table will be two others, with our bodyguards at the ends nearest us, the bodyguards for the ambassadors behind their masters, and the rest of the seats filled with Galadhrim archers.  The Elven Lords will sit on the inner arc of the table facing us, flanked by Marshall Elfhelm’s party and then the guild masters.  It is driving the court Master of Protocol into absolute fits of apoplexy, but I’ve assured him that I will be master of my own table tonight so as to satisfy my own designs.

            “It will make the following official dinner in which proper protocol will be strictly followed even more impressive.”

            “What happens at that dinner?”

            “Our new allies will see our military might, and our military allies.  Our first priority is not warfare, but we will not allow others to destroy what we have sought so strongly to build.”  Once again Ruvemir saw the description given by Pippin made manifest, most grim.  He found himself grateful he had not made himself an enemy of Gondor and Arnor.

            The King was looking at Ruvemir.  “How is your hip?”

            The mannikin smiled.  “Well, until I started trying to climb up through the city it had not pained me since we were in the Shire.  However, it is without pain tonight.”

            “Would you mind if I examine it?  I would not like to see it slip once more.”

            Again he led Ruvemir to the nearby chamber where he had the sculptor lie on his side on a wide couch, and ran expert hands over the joint, feeling its alignment.  Ruvemir noted that his father was watching through the doorway.

            “No marked signs of it being fevered or swollen, which is good.  Ah, wait, here is a small problem.”

            He had Ruvemir lie face down on the floor and knelt beside him, set his hands over the spine and gave a series of pushes.  Ruvemir gave a gasp of slight pain and surprise as several places clicked and popped, and then the King was finished, rose with grace, then leaned over to assist his guest to his own feet.  Again he had Ruvemir lie on his side on the couch, once again felt back and hip, and smiled.  “I’ll massage it briefly for you, and you should be better ready for sitting at table.”

            As he massaged the hip, he spoke very quietly.  “I know you have told Gimli you have no desire to become a spy, but I did mean what I said about admitting you to the ranks of those who gather information for me.  I do not wish you to spy on others, merely to share with me those things you learn that are of relevance to the realms of Gondor, Arnor, and Rohan.  Your ability to get people to open themselves to you is remarkable, as is your ability to evaluate and understand the implications of what you learn.  I will not ask you to reveal what is told you in confidence, but I do ask that you be willing to share any news which has bearing on our security.

            “More than that, however, I wish you to befriend Ifram of Rhun.  I sense in him one gifted with discernment and honor, and he will need a friend here, one who will not judge him because he is from Rhun and once thought to stand against our armies.  Properly treated, he will become a staunch ally, and where he leads, his brother, for all he is the Shkatha, will follow.  I would have him know we here in Gondor will be worth trusting, and for him to learn this we need someone he can trust to be his friend.  Are you willing to do this for me?  I do not wish you to spy on him for me, nor to tell me anything private that happens between him and you.”

            Ruvemir was surprised, but agreed.  The King smiled, then signaled to one of his attendants, who brought forth a small whisk to brush the clothing of sovereign and artisan.  He then accepted the model for the memorial and took his leave, promising to return if he could before they went in to dine.

            Ruvemir stretched and found he felt decidedly better, and that there was a comfortable warmth in his spine and his hip.  His father examined him with care, then shook his head.  “I’d certainly not thought to see such tonight.”

            One of the Elves from Imladris who waited with them smiled.  “Our Lord Elrond taught him well.  Estel never could bear to see others in discomfort if he could do ought to relieve it, and it appears that such is still a strong force in his nature.”

            “Estel?” asked Master Faragil.

            “The child’s name given him by the Lord Elrond,” explained the Elf.

            Aragorn and Arwen came through the chamber once more, greeting their guests and indicating Lasgon would be leading them to the doors to the feast hall of Merethrond, then disappearing to their self-appointed places, followed by a clearly disturbed Master of Protocol.  Soon after Lasgon appeared, and all prepared to enter the presence of the King and Queen of Gondor.

            Aragorn and Arwen could be seen seated in the canopied seats at the far end of the room once the doors were thrown open, and as hidden musicians began to play a tune with a martial air, they rose regally and awaited the entrance of their guests.  A herald cried the name of each guest, who then stepped forward to enter the hall and receive the honor granted by the King and Queen of Gondor and Arnor, and then be greeted by a servant who ushered each to the place assigned.

            Ruvemir felt highly self-conscious when his name was called, but walked forward as proudly as he could, leaning on his cane.  His bow was suitably deep, and he was glad he’d practiced sweeping the cane gracefully, and he saw a glint of approval in the King’s eyes as he bowed in return.  He waited by his chair as did the others as they entered, and examined his proposed seat surreptitiously as he waited for the sign to take it.  The back was apparently identical to those on the rest of the chairs at the table, but the seat was raised, and there were both a small step to assist the individual to climb up into it, and a rail to serve as a footrest.  He was reassured that neither he nor his sister would look quite like errant children at the table, at least.

            The last to enter were the two ambassadors, who accepted the bows by their hosts with dignity, and returned them with equal dignity, at which they were led to their places.  Finding the rest of the company still standing, they wisely chose to follow suit, and Ruvemir found that the Easterling standing at his side was managing to keep his face schooled to a neutral expression.   Ruvemir smiled up reassuringly at the taller Man, and looked to the King.  As the musical piece came to an end, the King announced, “My Lady Queen Arwen and I greet you to the feast hall of Merethrond.  Tonight we will not speak of war, fighting, or warding, but instead will look at the shared concerns of the majority of our citizens--farming, building, artistry, commerce, construction and reconstruction.  Those attending this meal are not generals, but artisans, Masters from the guilds of the nations of Arnor and Gondor, entertainers, and representatives from many lands.  We have the Elven kindred of my wife and myself from Rivendell and the Golden Wood, and friends and allies from Eryn Lasgalen, the great Forest of Green Leaves.  We greet representatives of the Dwarven kingdoms of the Blue Mountains, Iron Hills, the Lonely Mountain, and the Glittering Caves.  Men are here from among the Dunlendings north of Rohan, from the northern capital of Annúminas, from Dale and Laketown as well as from our close friend and ally, Rohan itself, and our two new ambassadors from Harad and Rhun.  We even have a representative here from the Periannath, or Hobbits as they name themselves, of the Shire, a Perian who is kin to the Ringbearer and his companions who has made his first journey to lands outside his own, and who comes to teach skills in farming to those who are willing to learn what he wishes to share of his own people’s wisdom.  I invite you to greet and acquaint yourselves with those seated by you, as each has a specific skill or set of skills it is well worthwhile learning of.”

            The Lady Arwen spoke next.  “This will most like be the last time I will sit in this hall for some time, as the signs are that our child will be born in the next week, and I will be far too busy acquainting myself with the child’s ways to take part in public functions for the next month.  For those who have come to share our joy in the birth of our first child, we greet you with thanksgiving for the honor you show us.  Now, we ask all of you to join us in the honoring of those in the Undying Lands, through whose grace we all prosper.”

            All present turned to the West for the Standing Silence, and as he usually did, Ruvemir offered his own small prayer of honor for the Ringbearer.  At last the King and his Lady sat most gracefully, followed by all others. 

            Ifram b’nto Agharan looked with curiosity at the small figure who had stood beside him and who now carefully climbed into the special seat provided as the music began again.  He was amazingly short, yet was bearded and dressed as were the Men of Gondor.  Beyond him was a woman who resembled him strongly, then another small man, but of a different sort, beardless, his face round, his eyes and skin and hands being of those who work the land.  How had such as these come to sit at a formal dinner with the King of Gondor?  Was one of these the Pherian of whom the King had spoken?  Was that the meaning of Pherian, then--half in size instead of half a Man?  He’d had intriguing images in his head of the left half of one person greeting the right half of another.  Ah, to learn the true meaning was so much simpler!

            They’d heard such odd things in the wake of the downfall of Sauron, of a Pherian, a Half Man, who had entered into Mordor and come unlooked for during the battle to the Black Tower itself, casting it down without weapons, through the greatness of his will rather than through any act of war.  It was even said that when brought out of the Land of Mordor he was almost naked, with no weapons about him at all.  Again Ifram looked at the three beside him, trying to see signs of such great power one of these could have cast down the Enemy of all of Middle Earth.  But there was nothing about any of the three that indicated possession of magic or power.  Humor, yes; intelligence, yes.  Power?  Nothing discernible--certainly nothing to equal the power he sensed in the King and his Lady Queen--or the great Elves identified as kin and allies to him called Aragorn Elessar Telcontar and his wife.

            The one seated next to him looked up again at him with friendly eyes, eyes of a dark brown, dark as his hair and beard.  “Welcome, Lord Ambassador Ifram,” he said, smiling.  “I am Ruvemir son of Mardil of Lebennin, Master Sculptor.”

            “Then you are not the--the Half Man.”

            The small Man looked startled, then laughed.  “Halfling,” he corrected.  “No, I am of the race of Men, as is my sister Miriel here--it is only that from time to time among us one will be born as we are, stunted in our growth.  Are not such children born among your people as well?  I have learned that even among the Pheriannath such occur.”

            “The King pronounced the word differently.”

            The King turned his way and entered the conversation.  “I was not born here in Gondor, but north in Eriador, and was raised in Rivendell, the Vale of Imladris, among the people of Elrond Peredhel.  My Sindarin is that of the Elves of Imladris and the usage of Arnor, and is therefore somewhat different in pronunciation than that of our people in Gondor.”

            “I’m surprised you didn’t change some of your pronunciation in your last sojourn among the people of Gondor, my Lord,” the small Man said.

            The King laughed.  “Oh, I did, and was told on my return north just how uncouth and affected I now sounded.  The Lord Elrond did not take well to his foster son bastardizing his native tongue, or so I was told, most emphatically.  He said that if the folk of Gondor chose to slip away from proper accent, then that was their affair; but no fosterling of his would speak so in his house.

            “And so it is that I speak of Periannath rather than Pheriannath.  What is it you wish to know about Hobbits, Lord Ifram?”

            “You spoke of a Perian visiting the city.”

            “Master Folco Boffin there, seated by his wife, Mistress Miriel daughter of Mardil of Lebennin, Master Embroiderer.  He has been in the city just about two weeks now, and is most welcome.  He and Mistress Miriel met in the Shire, which is the homeland of his people, and he chose to marry her and to leave his own land and sojourn here in Gondor, to work alongside the father of his bride.”

            “Oh, I see.  I’d wondered if one of these three could be such.”

            The King smiled, then had his attention drawn away by one of the Elves seated across from him.  Ifram looked back at the small Man on his left.  “And you are, you say, of the race of Men?”

            “Yes, my Lord.”

            “He does not look that different from you.”

            “You have not yet seen his feet.  And you might note his ears as well.  Also, he is built more in proportion between limbs and body than Miriel and I.  Nor have you yet seen his appetite.”  The small Man smiled again. 

            The servers had been working their way up the tables from the far end, and had now reached the places for those immediately flanking King and Queen.  Ifram had expected to experience difficulty with the eating implements of Gondor, but found the opposite to be true.  Set for him was an eating knife and spoon of a pattern similar to that used in his own land.  He looked to the implements set out for the one next to him, and saw they were different, that they were the same as those set out for the King, but different from those immediately opposite set for the two Dwarves.  The courtesy of this arrangement struck him deeply, that he not be put at a disadvantage in being forced to try to master implements unfamiliar to him at such a formal dinner.  When the King looked his way again he raised the eating knife in a salute, and saw the Man’s smile and nod of acknowledgment.

            Opposite him sat the Dwarf whom he’d seen with the King on his entrance into the city, fair hair and beard carefully and elaborately braided, the braids fastened with golden beads.  Seated by him was another Dwarf, smaller, hair and beard the deep brown of rich earth.  The dark Dwarf looked across the table and asked the small Man, “Will you be at the warehouse working on the Lord Frodo’s stone later this night?”

            “I doubt it, for I don’t know as yet how long this dinner will run.  Also, Celebgil is watching Pando and Ririon, and I didn’t wish to keep him at it all night.  Nor will I do particularly well up here at the worksite tomorrow if I remain awake all tonight.”

            “Pippin’s stone is going very well.”

            “I am amazed at how quickly the work moves.  I am seeing the contours of his face already.  And without your assistance and advice I doubt we’d be as far as we are with the work.”

            Ifram was intrigued.  “What do you do with this stone belonging to these others?”

            “I am a sculptor.  Master Orin and Master Dorlin here are also sculptors among their own people, with Master Dorlin--” a nod to the fairer of the two “--having done the bulk of the work on the reconstruction of the sculptures of the Gates to the city.  The Lord of the Nazgul’s troupes burst the original gates during the siege of Minas Tirith, and the folk of the Dwarf kingdoms have wrought the new gates.

            “I have been commissioned by the King to create a memorial to the four Pheriannath who came to the aid of our peoples during the War of the Ring, particularly the Lord Frodo, who was the Ringbearer.  I have completed my research and have begun the actual sculpture of the figures now.  Captain Peregrin, who is known among his own people as Pippin, is the first of the figures we began carving.  The stone for his figure we have been bringing close to the features of his face and garments.  Tomorrow I will be working on his hands and the shape of his blade.”

            “Where do you do this work?”

            “At the side of the Court of Gathering on the other side of the Court of the White Tree, here on the level of the Citadel.”

            “Ah, is that what the open roof is for?”

            “Yes, to offer us shade from sun and cover from rain as we work the stone.”

            “You were not there yesterday.”

            “No, nor today, which is the High Day when I offer my apprentices some holiday.  We went out upon the Pelennor to visit the memorials to the fall of the Nazgul and the horse of the King of Rohan.  One of great evil and one of great good fell there, side by side.”

            “There were four Pheriannath who took part in the battle?”

            The small Man looked sideways at his sister’s husband, then back at Ifram.  “Only one of the four fought in the battle itself before the walls of the capital, Sir Meriadoc, who is one of the kinsman of my brother-in-law Folco.  A second, Captain Peregrin, had come to serve the Lord Steward inside the gates.  He did not fight then, but did march with those who fought before the Black Gates.  He slew a great troll there, saving several others in the doing, but almost dying himself when it fell on him and crushed him.  The other two went on alone into Mordor to the Mountain of Fire, guided part of the time by one who had once carried the burden now borne by the Lord Frodo.”

            “It is said a Half-Man--a Halfling--caused the fall of the Tower of Barad-dûr, that he did this with no weapons, but with his will alone.”

            All of those sitting near grew solemn and quiet, and he could hear the music, which had been playing quietly in the background.  The eyes of those looking on him were all touched with honor, he saw, and grief, even those of the King who again was attending to this conversation.  Finally the sculptor spoke, his voice low and measured.  “Barad-dûr was raised using the power of the Ring into which Sauron poured the bulk of his personal will, power, and hatred.  The Lord Frodo bore It to Its destruction, and you are correct he did this without the use of weapons, borne up himself only by his own implacable will and the hope held by his companion, his friend the Lord Samwise Gamgee.  Only when the Ring went back into Orodruin from whence It had come did Sauron fall.”

            He looked amazed into the eyes of the stunted Man who sat by him, looked beyond to meet those of the woman who sat beside him, and the hazel eyes of the one who sat beyond her, looking at him now with an expression of pride and loss, then back at the Dwarves opposite, and finally to the eyes of the King on his other side.  The honor they felt toward those two, all of them, was palpable; the grief just as evident.  Not to the Black Tower had the Halfling gone, then, but to the great volcano.  He himself shuddered.

            “They died doing this?”

            “The willingness was there.  No, their lives were spared, at the time.  But it cost both deeply.  The Lord Frodo never fully recovered, and has now gone to the Undying Lands, the only mortal now living there, or so we believe.”

            The Halfling seated to his left leaned across his wife.  “My cousin Frodo was deeply loved by our people.  His leaving of the Shire with the Ring was not understood at the time, and his leaving the second time is widely mourned.

            “We are not warriors, we of the Shire. We are not powerful.  We have few ambitions save to grow full crops and to enjoy the fruits of our labors.  We are not accounted among the wise.  Yet it appears that in the battle against Sauron, our innocence and our form of will was needed.  It cost us the best of the people we produced.”  He sat back in his place, and contemplated the rest of the dish before him, his face saddened but set.

            Ifram turned back to the King, saw he’d heard the Halfling’s words, saw he, too, felt grief, felt it deeply.  Beyond him the Queen sat, her face also reflecting the same honor as the rest, the awareness of her husband’s personal loss.  She reached to place her hand on her Lord’s shoulder, saw him turn to her with a smile.  Again Ifram looked to the sculptor by his side.

            Ruvemir’s dark eyes looked at the King with sadness as he spoke quietly, “He was guide to the Hobbits on the first part of their journey.  He came to love each deeply, particularly the Lord Frodo.  They are brothers of the spirit, he and Frodo.  That his ability to heal was not enough to restore Frodo’s full health and ability to know happiness is a great grief to him.  His passing into the West has left our King bereft.  Our Lord Aragorn Elessar would not have become King, nor would he have been allowed the grace to marry his beloved wife, had the Lord Frodo not offered himself for the whole of Middle Earth.”

            There seemed to be little to say beyond that.

*******

            The meal progressed, and the one sitting beside the Halfling was speaking with him, the ones opposite, discussing the crops raised by those in the land of the Shire.  The Elves opposite the King were discussing the coming of the babe the Queen bore.  Behind the Dwarves, on the opposite side of the Queen, the ambassador from Harad was speaking animatedly with those who sat near him.  The Man who sat by his side looked remarkably like the small one who sat by Ifram himself.  The sculptor looked to follow Ifram’s gaze, and smiled as he recognized the focus of his attention.  “Our father, Mardil of Lebennin, Master Carver of wood.  Beyond him is Faragil of Lebennin, Master Sculptor as I am, and once my own master during the days of my apprenticeship.  Beyond them sit Masters of other guilds, other professions and skills.  This is not a dinner for discussing armed might, I’m told, but for honoring those who give meaning and joy and purpose to life for the people of our realms.

            Ifram nodded.

            Folco turned to his wife’s brother, again leaned across her person.  “They ask what I will raise on your father’s land.  What grows there already?”

            “Ask Miriel--she is the one who has lived there, while my own work has taken me to the corners of the realm.” 

            The Halfling’s face flushed, and he looked into his wife’s face.  She was obviously suppressing laughter.  The sculptor looked up into Ifram’s face.  “Even in the Shire it appears they look to others of the menfolk to answer what can be as easily answered by the womenfolk.”  He shook his head, then smiled as he looked back at sister and her husband.  Then he looked back into Ifram’s own eyes.  “Is it thus in your land as well?”

            The conversation that followed was as intriguing and proved remarkably entertaining.  Now and then the King or the Queen would add a word, but most of the talk was with the sculptor and the Dwarves and Folco and Miriel.  The meal was long but not overwhelming, and included dishes from Rhun and Harad, from the North Kingdom and Rohan, even, he was told, from the Shire.  Ifram of Rhun was enjoying the feast as he’d never thought to do.  Who would have thought his first feast in Gondor would so prove?

            At last the meal finished, and dancing ensued.  During this time his companion introduced him to part of the company who in turn introduced him to others.  Trade was discussed; artisans described their work; scholars asked him questions about the stories of his people; farmers asked him about the crops grown in his lands and described their own.  The King and his wife took part in a couple of the slower and more sedate dances, and afterward he would dance now and then with others of the women present, once with the diminutive Miriel.  He was not, Ifram noted, a particularly talented dancer.  Folco and Ruvemir had come near him and stood watching also.

            “Here Frodo surpassed him,” the Hobbit commented.  “Frodo was one of the most graceful dancers I’ve ever seen.”

            “You have not heard the King sing,” Ruvemir noted.  “There he is a master.”

            “Frodo could sing, and fairly.  Not a master singer, though.  Pippin’s voice is the sweeter.”

            The dance ended, and the Hobbit claimed his wife for the next dance, and Ifram could see the Hobbit was talented in dancing as the King was not.  The King smiled at him, sat in a nearby chair, his grey eyes watching Folco and Miriel with pleasure, rubbing his bearded chin.  Ifram moved closer.

            “I saw Frodo dance thus a few times, after his return.  Folco is almost as gifted a dancer as his cousin.  I never showed the full gift of dancing, I fear.  Too much time spent riding and in swordplay, I suspect.”  He looked up at the ambassador from the east.  “Have you seen the model for the memorial yet?”

            “No, I have not.”

            “Then I shall show you.”  The King rose and crossed to a place near the doorway where a plinth of white marble rose, on which stood a small sculpture of four individuals, three of them armed, one wearing no sword but with his hand stretched out in front of him in challenge.

            On the opposite side of the plinth stood Rustovrid of Harad, his dark, narrow face intent as he examined the figures.  He looked to the Man who stood near him.  “Your son carved these figures, you say, Master Mardil?”

            “Yes, as he is doing the full-size memorial that will be erected before the Citadel.”

            “They wear no shoes.”

            “If you will look to the Pherian dancing there with his wife, my daughter, you will note he wears no shoes.  The feet of the Pheriannath are such shoes are unnecessary, or so he and his younger cousin who is within the city with him tell me.”

            “I see.  And this is their style of dress?”

            “The one in the back, Captain Peregrin, is dressed in the uniform of the Guard of the Citadel of Minas Tirith, whose service he entered.  This one, Sir Meriadoc, is dressed as an Esquire of Rohan, and is a knight of Rohan and Swordthain to their King.  This one, Lord Samwise, is, I believe, dressed in typical Halfling garb, as is the Lord Frodo.  However, I see the Lord Frodo wears mail under his shirt, but of a style I’ve never seen.  It has the look of Dwarven work.”

            The King smiled.  “It is indeed Dwarven work.  It is perhaps the finest example of Dwarf mail I have ever seen, a shirt of finely wrought rings of mithril.”  He turned to scan the company, and his smile broadened as he apparently saw whom he sought.  He raised his hand in a gesture, and a few moments later one of the Elves of the company approached, the youthful looking Elf with waist-length dark hair who’d stood near the King at their arrival.  “My Lord Tharen,” the King asked with a slight bow, “you might now answer a question that has recurred several times to my mind in the past few years--do you know for whom the mail the Ringbearer wore had been commissioned?”

            The Elf looked to be surprised by the question, but examined the small figure carefully.  “It came from Erebor?” he asked.

            “Yes.  Thorin gave it to Bilbo after Smaug failed to return.  It was found in what appeared to be an armory.  All seemed certain it had been originally ordered for an Elven princeling.  However, as your brother spoke of the search for the Entwines as an event he remembered, we all determined that the intended recipient wasn’t Legolas, or likely yourself, either.”

            The Elf smiled.  “Actually, Estel, I think this was originally intended for a child of Men.  The Lord Elrond foresaw the coming of a young prince who might one day reunite the realms of Arnor and Gondor under one rule, and after his vision he sent word to my father to have the mithril shirt made against that day, for he foresaw that it would be needed to protect the hope of the Free Peoples.”

            The expression on the face of Aragorn Elessar became solemn as he looked into the face of the Elven prince, and that on the face of the Lord Tharen turned to wonder as he returned the look.  Finally the King said, “To protect the hope, you say?”

            “Yes, that was the manner in which the request was stated.”

            The King looked back at the figure, and gently shook his head.  “And it did.”  He looked about the room again, and saw the figure of Ruvemir of Lebennin approaching with Guild Masters Dorion and Evram.  “Will you please repeat that to Master Ruvemir, Lord Tharen?”  At the Elf’s nod, he turned to greet the sculptor.  “Master Ruvemir, I asked Tharen Thranduilion if he could tell me for whom the mithril shirt Frodo wore had been wrought, and I think you will find his answer illuminating--about the mind of my Adar and the workings of the Valar and the One, if of no one else, at least.”

            Again the Elf repeated the request relayed by the Lord Elrond, and the eyes of the small sculptor opened wide in surprise.  “We were discussing this, Folco, Master Samwise and I.”  He looked at his figure closely, then back up to the eyes of his King.  “He thought it would be perhaps needed for you--but--?”

            The King nodded solemnly.  “Apparently it was truly given to its rightful recipient.”

            The faces of both sovereign and subject softened as together they examined the figure one more time.  The sculptor finally said quietly, “And the Lord Elrond called you Estel.”  He took a deep breath, held it, and let it out with a sigh, then gave a small shake to his head.  “The Valar do inspire us so strangely, it seems.  I am so glad it did come to him when he needed it.”  Then after a moment, “Sam said that it stopped the spear, Saruman’s knife, and a couple of arrows, and that it had done its duty.  So it seems to have done indeed.”  The Elf smiled. 

            Ifram b’nto Agharan remembered that in Sindarin, estel meant hope.  He looked with interest into the face of the King of Arnor and Gondor.  “Then you have been called this as your name?”

            Aragorn nodded thoughtfully.  “Yes, it was the name to which I answered as a child.  I was the hope, perhaps, for the future of the descendants of those who survived the foundering of Númenor; but on him rested the hope of us all.”

            Rustovrid of Harad examined their host with more interest and an expression of grudging respect.  “You give him the honor for the defeat of the Dark Lord, then?”

            The King gave a dismissive laugh.  “No force of arms could have defeated Sauron this time.  Only the destruction of the base of his native power could do that, and he’d poured that into the Ring.  We went to the assault on the Black Gate only to give Frodo time to complete his task, to distract Sauron’s attention from the danger creeping through his land to Mount Doom.”

            “My brother said that there were too few, that yours was an act not of foolish courage, but of sacrifice, and that it would draw the gods to fight for you as happened in the war against Morgoth,” said Ifram.

            One corner of the King’s mouth twitched, although his expression remained solemn.  “We went knowing we might well not return.  But we did not expect it to draw the Valar.  However, it appears the One Himself did intervene in the inscrutable manner He so often shows.  The Ring was taken from Frodo brutally, but after It had finally claimed him.  Then the one who took It fell with It into the depths of the volcano, and both were destroyed.  Frodo was saved from It, in the end, and he was not alone, and so was brought out of the Sammath Naur before the Mountain tore itself apart.”  His eyes closed.  “When we saw the mithril shirt in the hands of the Mouth of Sauron, all first thought that Frodo was indeed lost.  But the sword was Sam’s, not Frodo’s, and there was only one of the cloaks from Lothlorien, and only one set of clothing.”  His eyes opened again as he looked searchingly into the Easterling’s eyes.  “It did not make sense, unless it was a bluff.  Had they still held one prisoner as they claimed, then he would have confessed under torture there had been two, and that the tokens they held were from both Halflings, not from one alone.  Either the prisoner was dead and the other was continuing on with the quest, or he’d escaped.  Either way, we still needed to keep up our own bluff.  We still needed to keep Sauron’s attention engaged long enough for whichever held the Ring to achieve the quest.  If we died in doing so, it was acceptable, for then still the rest of the world would yet stand.”

            Looking up into the eyes of the Southron, Ifram realized that in both of them respect for the courage and strength of will of those who had faced Sauron’s forces before the Gates of Mordor was rising.

            The King examined Ifram’s face again.  “Your brother’s troupe did not join in the attack on us, and he was the first to come forward to lay down his weapons.”  Ifram nodded.  “Why did he do this?”

            “He said that the gods would fight for your people as a result of your sacrifice.  He said if we went against you, we would be destroyed.  He ordered our men to fall back, and not to go to the fight.  They obeyed him.”

            “How did your brother become aware of the story of the war against Morgoth and the coming of the Valar to fight against him?”

            “We had a slave from Gondor who cared often for us, taught us your languages, told us your stories.  He escaped finally when I was fourteen years.”

            “Sauron told most of your people we would fall on them and destroy them completely if we prevailed against them.  Why did your brother not believe this?”

            Ifram shook his head.  “Most did not grow up with Staravion, Lord King.  We knew better the nature of your people.  Moritum chose to judge you based not on what we had been told but based on what we knew of Staravion’s example.  Staravion would have done what you did, I believe.”

            The King’s eyes lowered as he considered this.  “I see.”  He looked back into Ifram’s eyes and smiled.  “We in Gondor and Arnor obviously owe a debt of gratitude to Staravion, wherever he might be, then, for the fact we now have your people as friend and no longer foe.”

            A guard approached, and Aragorn straightened, moved apart to hear his message, and laughed, grimly this time.  “Tell him that he will have his wish in four days time at the latest.”  The guard bowed and left.  The King pointedly ignored Ruvemir, and looked once more to the model.  “These four, my Lord Ambassadors, came out of obscurity, out of the isolated land of the Shire, hoping only to draw evil away from their own land and people.  Instead, each managed to do great deeds, and the fate of us all lay on their shoulders.”  He looked from Rustovrid’s face to Ifram’s.  “One never knows when doing what we never expected to do may be required of us.”

            The current dance ended, and for a time there was quiet.  Finally an Elven voice was raised in song, then a second joined it, and a third.  All quieted to listen to the song, and when at last it was done, there was a collective sigh of pleasure and sorrow to have it finished.  Prince Tharen turned to the King.  “Will you sing for us, Estel?”

            “And what would you have me sing?”

            “I’m told by Master Faragil you have been known to sing the Quenya hymns to Elbereth.”

            The King laughed.  “And so does he gently and with full courtesy avenge himself on me for the other day.”   

            “Then you will sing?”

            “If you wish.”

            The Elven prince signed to another Elf nearby, who approached carrying a small harp that he offered to the King.  Aragorn looked at it, then shook his head.  “I am no harper as is the Lord Elrond, only a singer.  Will you accompany me?”

            The Elf bowed, then set the harp at the ready.  He sounded a single note, then a chord, and finally the King began to sing.  Ifram found himself once again transported by the music, seeming to see the stars being scattered in the dark sky of night by a shining hand....

And to the Queen, a Daughter

            Ruvemir’s party returned to the King’s Head long after midnight, and quietly they went through the silent passageway till they found their own rooms, whispering their good nights to one another.  Ruvemir found Celebgil sleeping seated still in one of the low chairs at the table, a book in his lap, Ririon and Pando both sound asleep in their beds, Joy lifting her head and lifting the corner of her lip in her own equivalent of a smile as her tail thumped softly on the carpet.  He reached down to fondle her head, then took the last seedcake and shared it with her before he went into the bathing room to change into his night robe.  Knowing Elise had changed the bedding that day, he carefully prodded Celebgil half awake and walked him to his own bed and laid him on it, slipped the youth’s shoes off his feet, and covered him with the extra blanket.  He then slipped out and walked to his father’s room and knocked softly there. 

            Mardil was surprised to see his son at his door until Ruvemir explained the situation, and he then laughed and invited him into the room, pointed to the unused bed, and indicated he should feel free to sleep there the night.

            It had been an interesting evening, Ruvemir thought as he composed himself for sleep.  He’d found himself quite liking the ambassador from Rhun, liking him very much indeed.  He and the engineer and stone mason had been able to discuss what would be needed in preparing the base for the monument, and he’d even been able to take the Lords Elrohir and Elladan, Glorfindel and Celeborn aside to get some specifics on what they desired in their own commission.  He learned they wished the memorial raised at the entrance to Mithlond, the Grey Havens from which the Grey Ships of the Elves sailed.  He’d also received their promises to provide him with portraits of those they wished included in the memorial as well as to speak with him at length so he could do proper seemings of those who left on that ship as well as their steeds.

            The King had sung one more song toward the end of the evening, this time in concert with his wife and her brothers and the Lord Glorfindel, a delicate weaving of harmony that told of the love between the Lord Amroth of Laurelindórenan and the Lady Nimrodel.  Again, all seemed enchanted while the singing lasted, and sighed when it was over.  When the evening had ended all had regretted to see the parting come.

            Tomorrow, he thought as he yawned and took a final drink of his goblet of water, tomorrow he would be back at the site, and he would do so much....

            He woke early and left quietly so as to not disturb his father.  As he opened the door to his own room Celebgil suddenly woke and sat up, obviously confused as to where he was, looking down with surprise at the blanket that covered him.

            “How are you this morning, Celebgil?  You were asleep in the chair and didn’t fully awake when I shook you, so I settled you there and went to share my father’s room, sleeping in the extra bed there.  Did you sleep well?”

            The youth flushed and admitted he seemed to be doing well enough.  “I’m sorry I slept so strongly.”

            “It’s probably just as well.  I didn’t like the thought of you walking alone so late at night up through three circles of the city.”

            Celebgil arose and went into the bathing room, coming out some moments later looking relieved and less tousled.  Ruvemir went in with a change of work clothing, coming out also feeling more ready to face the day, and decided it was time to speak to his apprentice about the situation with Master Varondil.  He only hoped he could frame his questions properly to get answers that were both honest and not hurtful.  “I’m going out to look on the dawn.  I’d like you to come with me.”

            The youth looked reserved, but not fearful.  Well enough, Ruvemir thought.  Each took his cloak, and the sculptor led the way down the passage to the inn’s door.  They bowed briefly to the young man on duty, and left the building and walked together around it to the narrow way to the wall.  There Ruvemir hitched himself up to stare north and east toward the road to Anorien.  “That is the road we took, going first to Rohan and then north through Eriador,” he said.  “It was a good journey, and although we had difficulties on the way back, I would do it again gladly.  I will do it again, even--I must to fulfill the other two commissions.”

            “What are those lands like?” Celebgil asked, and for perhaps a quarter hour Ruvemir answered him.

            The light grew as the Sun raised her head more fully over the Ephel Dúath and shone down on the river.  Finally Ruvemir felt the time had come.  He turned half toward the youth, and shaped his first question.

            “Every time Master Varondil comes near, you seek to mask anger and distaste.  When his name is mentioned you become rigid.  I see him look at you, and there is anger in his eyes, but it is different in quality from yours, as if you would deny him something he feels is his due, while in you I see that he has apparently asked of you something you feel is not proper to give.”

            Celebgil’s attitude was studiously neutral.  Finally, after Ruvemir let the silence between them grow he allowed himself to fill it.  “There is nothing to tell.  He is not as great an artist as he would have others believe, certainly nowhere near the quality of your artistry, Master Ruvemir.  And personally, I don’t care for him.  That is all I will say.”

            Ruvemir allowed the silence to continue, although he now slipped off the wall and stood side by side with Celebgil.  But this time the youth refused to play the game.  At last Ruvemir chose to break the silence himself.  “No master has the right to ask of you that which is not seemly, Celebgil.  I will tell you this--this standard I have set myself and I will fulfill.  I do not know for certain what Master Varondil is capable of doing, but if he is doing aught to you, it is your right to ask redress.  The King will not allow his subjects to be forced by one another to do that which causes pain or shame.”

            “He’s done nothing to me.”

            “Has he sought to lay hands on you?”

            There were several moments before the youth finally answered, “When we are in the workshop he tends to stand too close.  I don’t care for it.”

            “But nothing more?”

            “Nothing more.”

            Ruvemir felt frustrated, certain that the boy was not admitting the fullness of what Varondil was doing, but also recognizing the stubborn insistence would continue through all now that it had finally been uttered.  Finally he asked, “Is he doing aught to others of the apprentices?”

            The youth refused to meet his eyes.  “He’s doing naught that any object to or fail to agree to.”

            “Do they fail to object because they really agree, or do they fail to object simply because he is the master?”

            Celebgil wouldn’t answer.

            Ruvemir at last sighed.  “If anyone tries to convince you to do something you find repugnant or consider shameful, you can say no, which apparently you have done successfully.  But too often such, not having been stopped from hurting some, will simply seek out easier, more pliant victims, whether it is to beat them, to curse them, to take of their goods, or whatever form of abuse the villain favors.  Such continue to hurt others until someone finally admits the abuse is happening, at which time alone something can be done.  But saying nothing only permits the abuser to hurt others.

            “No one has to say things to parents or guardians, but one can speak to any of the Dúnedain, who are, after all, the King’s own kindred, or to any of the Guards of the Citadel, or to any Dwarf or Elf, for such have the King’s ear if they come forward with a complaint, and the King will set things right.  He does not tolerate abuse of his subjects.”

            The young Man remained silent, his expressionless face fixed on the far-off mountain range to the east.  Knowing that there was nothing more to be said, Ruvemir straightened and stretched.  “Let us go back inside then, for Elise will be there with the breakfast tray, and if we wait too long Pando and Ririon will have eaten it all, growing youths as they are.”  At last Celebgil looked at him and he allowed himself a small amused smile.  Well, thought Ruvemir, at least he had planted the seed of thought in the youth’s head.  Now, if he would only let it grow.

 *******

            Celebgil stopped briefly at his parents’ home to let them know he had slept in the inn after his master’s late night, promising to come up soon to join the rest of the party at the work site.  Ruvemir set Pando to sweeping the site and Ririon to removing the tarps from all three stones while he opened the panels on the screens on which the diagrams were pinned.  He took the new pot of paint and set it on the bench, went out to the fountain to get some water in his cup for the paintbrush, and paused by the young White Tree that grew there. 

            He knew the origin of its kind was the Undying Lands, and that reportedly there was one growing on Tol Eressëa, and that from it had come the seedling gifted to the King and people of Númenor, from which this tree was now descended.  He wondered if Frodo Baggins visited that tree, wherever it was on the island.  Probably he did, he thought.  He approached the tree and gently laid his hand on its bark, and felt the thrum of life in it that Ririon had described when discussing the White Tree here and the mallorn tree in the Shire.  He backed from the tree respectfully, bowed to it, then took his cup of water back to the site.

            He did measuring and marking, and was ready to take up his mallet when Celebgil arrived, his face stony.  Ruvemir looked at the young Man and made a decision.  “I wish you to use my sketch booklet there and do a study of the White Tree.  I will have occasion to carve its likeness in the future, and desire to have a view of it to refer to.”  He held out the pencil case he’d received in the Great Smial so that Celebgil could take his choice of drawing sticks, gave him a ball of gum, and sent him off to the center of the level.  He knew that Celebgil realized Ruvemir wanted him nowhere near the blocks of stone with mallet and chisel while he was upset, and hoped the youth would calm quickly once he’d had a chance to sit quietly for a time.  He also suspected the tree itself would prove soothing.

            He saw the King in practice garb walking around the Citadel from the lesser salle where weapons practice was held for those in the service of the Citadel itself, talking to the individual, also in practice garb, who walked with him.  As he walked, the King was checking the seat of his sword in its sheath.  He saw servants from the Citadel carrying out a rug to shake it out.  He saw a messenger hurry up the ramp to the guard at the door of the Citadel and hand the captain there a missive, salute, and turn to head immediately back to his proper post.  A quarter hour later the King again emerged from the Citadel, clad formally now, walking swiftly before his guard to the head of the ramp.  Celebgil sat on a bench before the tree, no longer sketching furiously, instead sitting quietly, the drawing stick dangling idly from his fingers as he stared at the White Tree.  Ruvemir smiled, and got on with his carving.

            He was now working over the face of Peregrin Took, and he was going between two of his finer chisels as he worked on shaping the contours of the Pherian’s face.  He focused on it, and ignored the coming of a group of armed Men up the ramp and their welcome by the King.  He ignored the leaving of the King for the Houses of Healing an hour later, and his return from there three quarters of an hour after that.  He had switched from face to hands, wrists, and lower arms, carefully skirting the section of the block that would be the blade of Troll’s Bane.  He continued to work until someone touched his shoulder, and he looked up into the amused gaze of the King.

            “You have worked a very long time already, Master Ruvemir.  Are you not ready to take a break and drink some juice?”

            He looked around, and saw that the sketch booklet now lay on the table, open to an excellent rendition of the White Tree, and Celebgil was working on his practice piece, Ririon was doing rough cutting of the section of log, and Pando was involved in doing an elaborate twist of coils of clay, making of it a basket shape.  It was nearing noon, he noted.  Finally he looked up into his King’s face. 

            “Yes, I should rest; but I was so involved in shaping the stone I lost all attention to other things.”

            “So I have noted.  It took you a time to get started this morning, but once engaged you focused solely on  your task.  I sometimes do the same when in sword practice.  Well, go and get your drink, and I will see you later in the day if time permits.”

            By the time Ruvemir had finished his juice the servants of the Citadel had brought their noon meal.  He ate distractedly, eager to get back to work on the figure of Captain Peregrin.  However, he forced himself to eat and to drink again, and afterward to mark Sir Meriadoc’s block, then afterwards to call Celebgil to work alongside himself.

            They again worked in concert, working this time toward the lower margins of the figure, while Pando, having been admonished not to go any deeper than the areas marked, did more rough cutting of Sir Meriadoc’s figure, assisted by Ririon.  Ririon did one remove to every three done by Pando, yet made each of them count, Ruvemir noted.  Joy lay in the shade and watched, now and then drinking from the bowl of water provided for her by the staff of the Citadel. 

            This time he noted the coming of one accompanied by six in the blue and white of Dol Amroth, and realized Prince Elphir had returned, guessing correctly that six of his father’s captains had come up disguised as simple bodyguards.  He was greeted not by the King but by Prince Faramir.  Shortly after arrived a group from Lossarnach, then one from Anorien.  Rumors suddenly ran through the courts and then through the city below, he knew, that it had begun, that the Queen had begun to experience birth pangs.  There was much coming and going of folk here and there as those who needed to be present hurried to come to the Citadel.  Legolas and Gimli arrived, both smiling and cloaked in the grey-green of Lothlorien, walking more leisurely than many others.  The ambassadors from Rhun and Harad arrived, followed by Éomer and Lothiriel of Rohan accompanied by a party of eighteen in the grey or green cloaks and silver stars of the service of Arnor alongside the Men of Éomer’s Guard of Honor.

            It was nearing sunset when Orin finally appeared.  “We have been busy, we Dwarves,” he said by way of explanation, smiling with a feral satisfaction at the memory of what they’d been doing.  Ruvemir did not ask, but suspected they’d been perfecting some plan of the King’s for use against those attacking Rhun.

            Orin looked on the work accomplished during the day and gave a truer smile.  “It was told to us you went into the crafting trance this morning and had to be recalled by the King himself.”

            Ruvemir laughed.  “I certainly did.  I suspect I’d still be at it if he hadn’t come.  As it was, it took me a time to come back to myself.”

            “At this rate, you will have his face formed before you marry, and I can certainly see the lie of the sword blade now.”

            Ruvemir stretched, and began gathering his tools, checking the blades, preparing them for replacement in the chest.  Orin took three for resharpening, and Celebgil took over the task of securing the site while the sculptor headed for the privy area.  He came out stretching, washing his hands in the small fountain that hung on the wall of the building, and looked to the Citadel.  He saw a building half behind the Citadel that he realized must be the prison area, and there a number of guards were stationed, all at the alert.  He realized that such a time, when the focus of attention was on the doings within and the progress of the Queen’s labor, could be a prime time for someone to seek to assist a prisoner to escape, and suddenly he was glad the King had realized this too and had made secure his hold on the Easterling prisoner.

            By the time he returned the cart had arrived and the site was ready.  Orin smiled and announced he’d be there early the following day, and they departed.

            When they arrived again at the site the next morning the babe had not yet been born, and several of those gathered for the child’s birth were out walking through the Court of Gathering, or pausing by the work site to contemplate the shrouded stones.

            Ruvemir again uncovered Lord Samwise’s stone this day.  He’d not gone down to the warehouse the previous evening, being full tired, although he’d worked on a smaller figure using a small block of alabaster his father had brought with him from Lebennin.  This morning he felt restless, and forced himself to focus on the task at hand.  The sky was grey and clouded, and it appeared it might well rain later in the day.  A brisk wind blew as he took his paint and brush to mark the lower portions of the stone where he wished to see the rough cutting done.  He checked out the progress Pando and Ririon had made the day before on Sir Meriadoc’s figure, and found it was almost ready for detailed shaping.  Again it was the lower portions of the figure that he marked for rough cutting, and he directed Ririon and Pando to use their smaller chisels that not too much be removed at a time.

            Orin arrived not long after, carrying the sharpened chisels, accompanied by Dorlin.  While the two Dwarves examined the practice pieces the three apprentices had been working on, Celebgil and Ruvemir discussed the work they would be doing.  Ruvemir was pleased to see that whatever had so disturbed the youth the previous day appeared forgotten now.  Soon they were working on the back of the figure, bringing out the contours of the cloak from Lorien that was being worn over the uniform of Gondor.  Finally assured Celebgil would follow the lines he’d outlined and was indeed competent at carving fabric, Ruvemir moved back to the front of the figure, and focused on the lower arms, hands, and the blade of the sword.  He’d been working about half an hour when Ifram of Rhun approached the site, obviously taking a break from the interminable wait for the birth of the first royal child born in the Citadel of Minas Anor in over a thousand years.  Ruvemir smiled and nodded at the young Man, brought one section within a measure of the intended level of the right hand, then paused to wipe his face.  Seeing he had paused, Pando brought over a tumbler of juice he had already poured and offered it to him.  The Dwarves had taken over the supervision of the other two apprentices, Dorlin having watched Pando as he worked on Sam’s stone and Orin directing Ririon on Merry’s.  Dorlin straightened and acknowledged the Rhunish official, and went to pour himself a mug of ale.

            Ifram examined the figure over which Ruvemir and Celebgil had been laboring, and smiled.  “I’d expected the figures to be taller,” he commented.

            “No,” Ruvemir said, shaking his head, “that would be unacceptable to the subjects.  They wish it made plain that they are Hobbits and not Men.”

            “I watched you for a time yesterday morning.  It was remarkable to see, for it was almost as if you and the stone were one.”

            “The Dwarves call it the crafting trance.  I’ve known it a few times in my career, although not often.  There are many times when I will find myself in rhythm with the stone as I shape, when I know exactly where to set the chisel, what angle to strike with the mallet, how deep to cut at each stroke.  But the crafting trance is different, for I totally lose myself in the shaping.  It can be alarming to rouse to the realization that I have been doing nothing but shaping for hours at a time.”

            The taller Man nodded as he considered what the experience must be like.

            Ruvemir noted movement on the ramp, and looked that way.  “Oh, it looks as if a new group of your people are coming to join your company, my Lord.”

            Ifram looked over his shoulder.  “I wonder why they have come from the house of our embassy?” he asked aloud.

            “These are not those who accompanied you into the city, sir.  I took note of their seeming.  These are newcomers.”

            Ifram gave the artist a startled glance, looked over his shoulder again, then turned, straightening as he did so, and watched as the group approached the work site.  As they came close enough for him to recognize features--or to not do so, in this case, he suddenly raised his hand in a signal.  The first of the group was reaching inside his cloak as if to bring out a written message; but it was not parchment Ifram and Ruvemir saw emerging, but instead the glint of steel....

            “Daro!” commanded a voice, and suddenly hooded grey-cloaked shapes appeared as if from thin air to circle the Easterlings, arrows tipped with leaf-shaped points aimed at the hearts of the strangers.  Most paused, taken by complete surprise, but the leader threw himself forward toward Ifram, raising a knife that was not of the curved shape common to Rhunish blades, but straight in keeping with the daggers used in Gondor.  Even as he came forward, however, something hit him in the forehead, and a white shard bounced off his skull and hit the ground, shattering on the stone surface of the Court of Gathering as he fell back, stunned.  Another raised a dagger, intent on throwing it, only to drop the knife when his wrist was impaled by an arrow.  Taken by surprise by this turn of events, the others, at a gesture made by the leader of the archers, dropped their weapons and raised their hands.  Ruvemir turned to look at Pando, who stood with a second shard of marble in his hand, ready to throw again if he saw the need, his face white but his jaw set in determination.  Haldir of the Galadhrim put back his hood, and having made certain those before him were making no offensive move, he turned to look at the young Hobbit lad.

            “Meriadoc of the Shire told me that a cast stone is the usual weapon of the Periannath, but until now I had not appreciated how apt to the use of such your people are, not even after the defense in Eriador,” he said with respect.

            A group of guards from the Citadel were approaching from the ramp, and the captain examined the captured Men with interest.  “The King had said such might well happen, and I bless his foresight.  The people of Gondor and Rhun owe a debt of gratitude to the Galadhrim and the Pheriannath, I see.  He feared some would try to drive wedges of distrust between our peoples by making an assassination attempt on you, Lord Ambassador.  We’ve followed them up from the Gate, where they gave but one of the signs by which we might know if any Easterlings entering Minas Anor were indeed sent by your brother to your support.”

            Ifram nodded.  “I am also glad he gave me warning of the guard he set around me this day.  And I thank you, Captain, Lord Haldir, young Halfling, Master Ruvemir, for what you have done to safeguard me this day.  Will you summon the King with news of this?”

            “No--the Lord Prince Imrahil will take care of this matter until the King can turn his attention away from his lady wife and child.”

            The Galadhrim archers continued to hold the Easterlings at arrow point until they’d all been searched and bound, then led off to the prison area behind the Citadel, the still stunned leader being lifted between two of the guards.

            Ifram suggested, “Remove their boots, belts, chains, and sashes before you lock them in your strong place, Captain; and check even in their ornaments and sleeves of the garb they wear.  We of Rhun tend to secrete our weapons in odd places.  It would also do well to isolate each, in case they have taken a vow to kill themselves and each other should they be taken.”

            The captain nodded, then turned to follow the group back around the Citadel, followed by the Elven archers.  The party at the work site looked after, then looked at one another.  Orin clapped Pando on the shoulder with such force he almost knocked the still pale lad over.  Realizing the young Hobbit was shaking in reaction to what he’d faced once more, he led Pando to the table and had him sit down, then at a nod from Ruvemir poured him a measure of ale and pressed him to drink.

            “You did well, lad.  You did quite well.  That was quick thinking, hearing your master recognize these were strangers and readying yourself as you did.  You may well have saved two lives just now, that of the ambassador and of the man you struck as well.”

            Ruvemir looked with concern into the face of Ifram b’nto Agharan.  A thought had been building in his mind.  “Those were not the weapons of your people they brought out.  Not only did they intend to kill you, but to make it look as if our folk had committed the killing.  And had they been successful, I am certain we who work here would have been killed as well.  We alone were in a situation, we all thought, to have seen truly what happened, what with the distraction of the Queen’s labor.  If they struck quickly and quietly enough, by the time others realized we were dead they would have quietly flown and none would be any the wiser.  They could not have allowed the chance someone would reveal it was agents of your own land who did the murder.”

            The young ambassador nodded.  “I fear indeed that you are right, Master Sculptor,” he said.  “More than one life was saved this day by the foresight of your King, the guard given by the Elves, and the accuracy of the throw of the boy there.”

            “Lad,” Pando corrected as he sat on the bench, leaning forward, the emptied mug set behind him on the table.  “I am not a boy--such are the children of Men.”  His voice was low and distracted. 

            Ifram gave a small shrug.  “I meant no offense, young Halfling,” he said.

            Pando looked up at him.  His color was returning.  “None taken, sir.  Just letting you know.”  Then he straightened.  “Do you know any of them?”

            “One appears familiar, but the rest I am certain I’d not seen until this day.”

            Ruvemir sighed.  “Well, I must say that this day has been anything but boring,” he commented, and the others all found themselves smiling in spite of their anxiety.

            At that moment a page came running out of the Citadel, calling out to each side as he came.  Ifram straightened, for his duty took him back into the building now.  The page came running to the site, and saluting him gasped out, “The babe--its head has begun to crown, my Lord.  It will not be long now.”

            Ifram turned and headed off at a lope to the door to the Citadel, and the page turned to Ruvemir.  “The King sends word he would have you attend as well, Master.”

            Ruvemir was shocked.  He, a commoner and an artisan, observe the birth of the King and Queen’s first child as if he were one of those expected to bear witness that such was indeed born, and on this day?  But the page was waiting.  He sighed, hastily pulled off his smock, and with a look of thanks at Celebgil who supplied a comb from inside his own smock, he smoothed his hair, dropped the comb back into the apprentice’s hands, and catching up his cane went as swiftly as possible toward the Citadel itself.

 *******

            An hour later bells began to ring throughout the entire city; and after the cacophony of delight was finally over, heralds at each of the gates of the city and from the Court of the White Tree announced to the citizens of Minas Anor and the Pelennor that at the fourth hour was born to the King and Queen of Gondor and Arnor a daughter to be known as Melian.  Messengers were already hurrying on their way one direction or another to carry word; and the line of beacons between the capitals of Gondor and Rohan as well as the new line along the west side of the Misty Mountains between Minas Anor and Annúminas suddenly took flame, carrying the news west and north, throughout the allied and combined nations of the Men of the West.  And just ere sunset the King came forth, dressed in his white mantle clasped with the Elessar stone, holding the tiny princess carefully wrapped against the drizzle that had fallen all afternoon, and walked to the end of the keel of rock to show her to the people of the city.  As he stood on the end of the keel, the sun broke through, reflecting in green splendor from brooch and the Ring of Barahir, and the whole of the city cried out their delight that once again a King’s child had been born in the Citadel.

 *******

            Saradoc Brandybuck looked up as the door flew open to the parlor where he was talking with his wife, his wife’s brother and his wife, his daughter-in-love, and the Mayor of the Shire, admitting Merry and Pippin at a run.  “They’re born, sir,” Merry gasped out.  “The messenger just arrived from Hobbiton--Rosie-Lass was born yesterday a couple hours before noon.  And messengers from east of Bree have come to the Bridge--the beacons were lit from Gondor at about the same time; and the manipulation of the smoke says this is a girl, too.  Aragorn and Sam both have new daughters!” 

            Pippin’s face was shiny with sweat from his hurried ride from the Bridge and the tear through Brandy Hall, but the smile on his face was full and dazzling.  “And I,” he said importantly, “am to be one of the King’s babe’s godfathers!”

            The Master of Brandy Hall smiled into the face of the Thain of the Shire and then into that of the Mayor.  “Seems to me a bit of celebration is in order,” he said.  “Break out the wine and ale, and let the whole of Buckland and the Marish know we’re going to have the biggest feast we’ve had in years!

            Meanwhile in Bag End, Sam stood before the mantel in the study.  He’d brought Frodo’s little figure here and placed it beside that of Strider’s, and although he felt a bit foolish, he gave a small bow to both and began to speak.  “I know as neither of you is here and can’t hear me--unless you’re peerin’ in the seeing stone and can hear somehow, Strider; but anyway, I just wanted to tell you that Rosie and me have a new daughter, and her name’s Rosie-Lass, and she’s going to be as beautiful as her sister.”  And then he added silently, I only wish you were both here to see!

Witnessing the Birth

            Ruvemir had attended births before--births of calves, pups, kittens, and once a fox’s cubs, at least; and he’d watched with awe as chickens and ducks had pecked their way out of eggs.  What would happen in the birth of a child, however, had been a question he’d not thought to know from personal experience. 

            He quickly learned that the witnessing of the birth of the Queen’s child was indirect at best.  Each of the witnesses was briefly led into the Queen’s presence so that he or she could indeed say that they’d seen the Queen in labor, then into an adjoining room where, if they saw naught to the Queen’s embarrassment, they yet heard probably more than they had wished to.

            The birthing room was spare--a bed; a birthing stool; one table covered with bowls of water, one of them steaming in which athelas leaves gave off the scent of green leaves and sweet flowers whose odor he did not recognize; another table on which lay stacks of clean towels and cloths, and another of clean sheets, and then, waiting, small blankets readied to receive the coming babe; the empty cradle gifted by the people of Harad; an empty basket to receive the towels as each was used; a single clean knife and basin for use with cord and afterbirth, and stout thread to tie about the cord; stools on which sat the King and the three healers who actually attended on the Queen.  The one healer he recognized easily from his own stay in the Houses of Healing, the young man he’d liked so.  He didn’t recognize a middle-aged woman at all; was she a midwife, he wondered?  The third was the Lady Éowyn.

            That a woman’s labor could go on so long, when that of a cow or dog or cat would last a few hours at best, seemed unbelievable to Ruvemir.  He remembered that the pangs had started the day preceding, and yet here they were, almost a full day later, and the actual birth was just beginning.  Two women and a manservant seemed to be involved only in the bringing and removal of basins of water and towels and cloths.  The King was frequently heard requesting clean cloths dampened in clean water, followed a few moments later by the drop of cloth into a basket, and immediately the removal and replacement of a basin of water and the used towels.  Ruvemir remembered what Miriel had told him of the insistence that each time anyone touched the burned child they first wash hands in clean water and dry them with a clean towel, and realized that the King must have insisted on the same procedure here.  Finally he heard, “It’s time for the stool,” followed by sounds of voices coaxing the Lady Arwen to rise from the bed, leading her to the birthing stool to ease the passage of the child.

            “Damp cloth,” said the King, and then there was an ominous silence.  Finally he said, “This was not clean, Mistress Nirien.”  There was the slap of the cloth into the basket.

            “I am sorry, my Lord, but....”

            The King’s voice was polite enough, but also filled with steel.  “Mistress Nirien, you apparently tire.  Change places with the Lady Éowyn, please.”  A brief pause.  “Now.”

            The movement of bodies could be heard as the two women exchanged stools.  Someone held out a basin, and water could be heard as the King once again cleansed his hands.  Then there were soft admonitions to breathe so, in, out, in, out, in, out, bear down now....  Then, “Relax for a moment, Beloved.  She comes, but not so swiftly as shortly past.”

            The Queen sighed.  Then the King said softly, “Mistress Nirien, you know that I was raised in Imladris as if the Queen’s father, the Lord Elrond, were my father, after the death of my real father?”

            The woman’s voice was soft, contrite.  “Yes, my Lord King, I had so heard.”

            “And you have heard he was ever a great healer?”

            “Yes, my Lord King.”

            “He began to work among healers after the victory against Morgoth, he who was the last great Enemy of Middle Earth.  For almost six thousand years the Lord Elrond studied the craft of healing.”

            Then apparently the next pang hit the Queen, and again the words he uttered were to her, to bear down, bear down, bear down, breathe thus...then the sigh and the admonition to rest once again.

            “How often have the women you have attended developed the womb fever, Mistress Nirien?”

            “I’m not certain, my Lord.  Perhaps one in forty to fifty births.”

            “There were two midwives among the Edain our Adar observed, Mistress.  One saw the womb fever occur once in twenty births, the other perhaps once in a hundred.  The Lord Elrond studied them, and found the one who attended the fewer births followed by the womb fever followed much the same procedures as I have instituted, although not so strict.  The other reused cloths, did not clear away immediately, did not change the water frequently.  She was seen as an unlucky midwife to have attend births.  The Lord Elrond judged her instead to be careless.”

            “I see, my Lord.”

            “In all the eighty-five years I watched the Lord Elrond attend difficult births among the Dúnedain, at least two such birthings a year, I never, never saw the woman develop the womb fever.  I saw only one case of womb fever, one that was attended by a midwife from Archet in the Breelands at the birth of the child.  She was brought to Imladris afterwards, but it was too late.  I saw her die in agony, and the child followed her far too readily.

            “Do you see why I insist on strict cleanliness, particularly when the mother is my own wife?”

            After a few moments of contemplation, “Yes, my Lord, I do.”

            Just then the pangs began again, and there could be heard, “Now, my lady wife--if you will bear down--aha, at last, she comes.  Again!  One more time!” and there could be heard the cry of a new baby.  Laughter from husband and wife, soft words exchanged, words of satisfaction from the healer, pleasure in the voice of the midwife and relief from the wife of the Lord Prince Steward.

            Aragorn came through the door, his face reflecting the hours of waiting as well as the exultation of having delivered the child safely.  “My Lord Stewards, Elladan--”  He looked about the room and noted two absences, raised his eyebrows in question.

            Elphir of Dol Amroth explained.  “Some business came up, my Lord King, which needed attention immediately.  As the Stewards must be here to witness the birth, my father took it, alongside Lord Elrohir, and will set it in proper array for you to deal with once all is shown well here and you are free to take up your duties once more.”

            Aragorn straightened, then nodded.  “So be it, then.  This is, after all, why we have stewards and princes in the realm, is it not?”  He sighed and looked to his foster brother.  “I will tell you, Elladan, that at the moment I am feeling drained, although I am certain no more so than your sister.  Will you do the honor of cutting the cord?  I fear I am so tired I worry about my hand being steady holding the knife.”

            The Elf smiled.  “It will be a great honor indeed.  My Lords, shall we witness and do what needs witnessing and being done?”

            Covered with a sheet on which some blood could be seen, Arwen remained on the birthing stool, holding in her arms a loosely blanketed form that moved gently.  The two Stewards, Prince Elphir, Éomer of Rohan, an official from the Dunlendings, Ifram of Rhun and Rustovrid of Harad followed King and Elf back into the room and took places indicated along the wall.  Elladan washed his hands and dried them on a clean towel, opened the bundle in his sister’s arms to expose the child, still linked to her mother via the umbilical cord, took two lengths of the readied thread and tied them about the cord close to the infant’s belly, then took up the waiting knife and cut between the two ties.  Arwen straightened somewhat as the tension was released, then felt one of the last spasms of her muscles hit her.  Her brother set the knife down hastily and brought the basin near, lifting the draping sheet to place it to catch the afterbirth, which was quickly expelled.  The King had once again washed his own hands and was taking up clean bandage cloths and readying them for use to staunch any bleeding.  The Lady Éowyn had washed her own hands once more, and now was dipping a cloth into the steaming athelas basin and then gently bathing away the birth blood from the mother while the midwife, having also cleansed her hands once more, gently lifted the child from its mother’s arms to cleanse it similarly.  The midwife and the healer checked over the health of the child as King and Steward’s wife saw to the condition of the mother, and each group quickly declared itself fully satisfied things were well in hand.

            Suddenly King and Stewards and the other male witnesses and participants were being swept from the room.  “Now it is time for women’s business,” the midwife declared; and having seen for himself that all was well with his wife, Aragorn allowed himself to be herded into the outer room. 

            The healer looked at him and examined his face and eyes.  “I order a bath for you, my Lord, and a glass of juice at the least--although perhaps a glass of spirits might be more in order.”  With the added authority of Elladan’s agreement, the King sighed and went to the bathing room while the other witnesses were led to the nearby solar by Prince Faramir. 

            Aragorn was not long about his bath, and returned dressed in the robe he’d worn the night of the feast, his hair curling with the dampness still in it.  He, the Lord Celeborn, and the Lord Glorfindel now sat side by side, while the others waited behind.  Finally they heard the door open down the hallway, and carefully carrying the small bundle, Éowyn entered the room, readily relinquishing possession of the infant to its mother’s brother, who smiled down into the blankets and carried it to the three seated figures.  Surprising some, he carried it first not to Aragorn but to Celeborn. 

            “Grandfather,” he said in soft Sindarin, “behold your great granddaughter, Melian.”  The Elven lord held out his hands to receive the child, and looked down into a wizened, mortal face.  His eyes were saddened yet proud as he examined its features, listened to its life’s song.  He blessed the child, then handed it across Aragorn’s figure to Glorfindel, who smiled with pleasure down into the eyes that opened to examine his in return, then he offered his own blessing, rose, and showed it to the two Princes of what had been Mirkwood.  Only when the Elves and one Dwarf in the company had all seen the child did he relinquish it to her father, who stood in his turn and brought it to each of those Men in the room, one by one.  Ruvemir looked down into eyes which were soft blue now but which showed promise of being a clear, piercing blue-grey in time, and saw the dark down on the child’s head, the tiny fist it placed against its cheek.  A thrill of pleasure passed through him, and he smiled deeply. 

            “Welcome, little princess,” he whispered, “welcome to the world of Arda.  We’ve been eagerly awaiting your coming forth.”

            He looked up and found the King was smiling down at him, obviously sharing the sentiments completely.

 *******

            The rest of the day and next were given over to holiday making throughout the city and most of the rest of the realm as well.  Ruvemir and his family explored the city together, and the evening of the birth and late afternoon the next day he found himself in the warehouse working on the figure of Lord Frodo while Dwarves sang and chanted and drank in the outer room, toasting the King’s new daughter repeatedly.  Dorlin appeared most happy about the birth, and at one point indicated that he felt since the King’s daughter and his own son had been born so close to one another special fortune would touch both. 

            Celebgil came down to watch the second time Ruvemir worked on the stone, accompanied by Pando and Ririon.  They watched with interest as he worked around and around the block, continuing to clear away the flawed surface material and worked to the shaping of the head.

            He’d been working for about an hour when he looked up to find his father and Master Faragil coming around the screen, accompanied by Elise’s mother, grandmother, and sister.  He nodded to them, but continued on with his work, finally setting down his tools another hour later.  Celebgil found the broom and pan and began to clear away the chips as Dorlin came round with a mug of ale for each of the three Men.  Ruvemir thanked the Dwarf and took a grateful pull at his drink, then replaced his tools in their box. 

            Mistress Idril came forward to stroke the block gently.  “So this will show the image of the King’s Friend.  I am glad to see it treated with respect.” 

            Ruvemir smiled.  “Both block and subject have proven to need careful handling, my lady.  Today, however, the block has appeared to share the general feeling of joy.”

            Dorieth asked, “Were you really asked to witness the birth of the King’s daughter?”

            “Yes, I was--at the last.  I was fully surprised.”

            “How did this happen, then?” asked Mistress Idril.

            “The King simply sent word out to the work site he wished for me to attend the birth, and I doffed my smock and went.  I felt out of place at first, then realized most of the Men represented there felt the same, and I was comforted.”

            She laughed.  “Ah, yes, it would be an odd situation, I suppose.”

            Faragil again aided Ruvemir in draping the block, and after Mardil and Celebgil extinguished the lamps they respectfully took leave of the stone and warehouse, receiving the farewells of the still celebrating Dwarves.

            Progress the next day went swiftly throughout the morning, although Ririon was not with them, for he had gone with Mardil to the Hall  for the Guild of Carvers.  Master Faragil, however, joined them at the site and began the rough cutting of the upper reaches of the third block, carefully removing the surface flaws on the stone intended for the Lord Samwise Gamgee while Ruvemir and Celebgil worked on Captain Pippin’s figure and Pando worked on the lower margins of Sir Meriadoc’s figure.

            Not long before noon Ruvemir called a break.  He was checking the progress Pando had made when the King joined them, dressed in his worn green leathers, his bow on his shoulder, his quiver full.  Those in Ruvemir’s party bowed low, Master Faragil’s eyes showing a good deal of wonder.

            “Yes, my Lord Strider, and how may we serve you this day?” asked Ruvemir.

            “There will be an audience for our Easterling guests at the seventh hour, and you and Pando will need to attend--and Celebgil as well, to give his account of what he witnessed.”

            “Do you intend, then, for the game to go on after all, my Lord King?”

            The King’s face was again most grim.  “They will need a translator at first while the stewards of the two realms question them.  After Faramir and Halladan have had the chance to wrest what information they can and the Dunlendings have been excused, then the King will mount the throne.  I suspect there will be a fair amount of consternation among them.”

            “They certainly caused a great deal of consternation among us, my Lord.”

            “So I understand.  I have another request to make of you--when you go south, may I have another accompany you?”

            “We are at your command, my Lord Aragorn.  If the individual can accept the service in the inns along the way and will find no fault with our company, we are willing.”

            “I’ve not yet broached the subject with him, but I believe he will be amenable.”  The tall Man sighed.  “This should be a time when I rejoice in my wife and my first-born child; and instead I must deal with spies, those engaged in intrigue, and would-be assassins, and prepare for a war not directly aimed at our own people.  I regret sometimes I am not still a relatively obscure chieftain of the Northern Rangers, Ruvemir.  Then I could simply arrange to meet Sam and his family at the Prancing Pony and we could happily see each other’s children and wives.”

            “Their third child is due at any time, after all.”

            The King smiled.  “A daughter was born to them at apparently almost the same time as Melian.”

            “How did you learn of this, my Lord?”

            “Being the King of Gondor does offer some unique means of gathering information within the realm, Master Ruvemir.”  His smile became tinged with amusement.  “It is too bad I can’t see more outside our borders.  But I was able to learn that the child was born yesterday morn.  She is darker than Elanor, but still very lovely.”  He looked back at the Citadel, where Prince Faramir could be seen coming out the doors, followed by his personal guard.  The Lord Steward looked about, saw the figures at the work site, and bowed in their direction. 

            The King sighed.  “I must go and prepare to play my part.  You will be summoned not long before the seventh hour.”  As they bowed, he returned the courtesy, turned and left.

            Master Faragil looked after, much bemused.  “You called him Lord Strider?” he asked.

            “Yes, for so he introduced himself to me when he first approached me.  They named him so in the land of Bree, just outside the Shire.”

            “Is that why he took the name Telcontar?”

            Ruvemir nodded.  “So he told Captain Pippin and Sir Merry.  He apparently told them it would sound fair enough in the high tongue.”

            Ruvemir and Faragil together marked the next portion of Sam’s stone to be rough cut while Ruvemir described the assassination attempt on the ambassador from Rhun, and then they ate their luncheon and considered what might happen in the audience to come.  Orin came to find them sitting still at the table, watching the door to the Citadel with troubled eyes as they pondered what might happen. 

            “What is it, then?” the Dwarf asked.

            “We are to be summoned to the Citadel shortly,” Celebgil said.  “They are going to question the Easterlings who tried to kill the ambassador from Rhun.”

            “I see,” Orin said, sighing.  “The King summons you?”

            “So he has warned us,” Ruvemir said.

            A movement at the top of the ramp caught their attention, as Ifram of Rhun, his clerk, and three of their guard approached the work site.  Ruvemir rose to greet them, as did Master Faragil. 

            “Welcome, my Lord Ifram,” he said.

            “I wanted again to thank your--lad for his aid the other day.  We offer him this.”  He brought out a ceremonial dagger in a velvet sheath and presented it to Pando.  “Such are given to our young Men when they are accepted as such, to mark the passage from youth to manhood,” he explained. 

            Pando accepted the knife, his eyes wide, and murmured his own thanks.

            “All is well with you?” asked Ruvemir.

            Ifram nodded.  His companion spoke.  “I personally am glad this one’s aim was true, for I’d have been loath to lose my brother.  I am Shefti b’nto Agharan, son to our father’s third wife.  I serve as my brother’s scribe and as second within the embassy.”

            “It is an honor, my Lord scribe.  Ruvemir son of Mardil of Lebennin, Master Sculptor, at your service; my own former master Faragil of Lebennin, also a Master Sculptor, Master Orin of Erebor, Celebgil son of Hirdon Potter of the city, and Pando Boffin of the Shire in Eriador of Arnor.”           

            The scribe, who was slighter than his brother and did not share the soldier’s carriage, bowed gracefully.  “I am the one honored.  And I am gladdened that he was here when that one drew a knife on Ifram, and that such as you are faithful.” 

            “You are summoned to the audience to come?”

            “I go to bear witness to the punishment meted out this day.  That apparently Men of our people would seek to assassinate Ifram as ambassador of our people is disturbing.”

            Ruvemir turned to Ifram.  “Has the King warned you that the case will first be heard by the Stewards of the Realm?”

            The young ambassador nodded.  “I am not certain precisely why, but so he told me.”

            “You will see as the audience progresses.  I saw a similar thing in Rohan.  You will do well to remember that our King knows your language, and that he traveled among your people and the people of Harad long ago, in his youth as it is reckoned among the Dúnedain who are his own people.  Also you should remember that before he came south to claim the throne and crown of Gondor, he was the chief of the Dúnedain Rangers of Arnor, and is accounted the greatest Ranger produced by either Arnor or Gondor.  He was schooled in the use of bow, knife, and sword by the Elves of Imladris and Lothlorien, and I do not believe there are any within the bounds of Arda who are as skilled as they.”

            “The officer who escorted us from the borders to Osgilliath said the same,” Shefti commented.

            Another ambassadorial party was now approaching, as Rustovrid of Harad approached with two companions and again three bodyguards.  The tall man with the dark skin and dark curly hair bowed to his peer from Rhun, then to those who worked on the memorial.  After shared greetings and introductions, he turned to Ifram.  “I am told an attack was launched upon you here on the day the King’s daughter saw the light.  I grieve such happened and give thanks you were spared.”

            “Thank you.  They were men of my own people, apparently those who would not see Rhun allied with the folk of Gondor.  The weapons they bore were not our own weapons, though, but were the weapons of Gondor.  Apparently their thought was to make it look as if the people of Gondor had betrayed us, to break off the alliance.  But they dressed as my own people so they could more easily approach me.”

            “Are you certain they are of your people?”

            “One I recognized, and the others appear to have been of our people as well.  I saw none who resemble either the Wainriders nor any of Gondor.”

            Rustovrid nodded.  “Your own people are threatened?”

            “Yes, by the Wainriders.  Every few generations such come out of the east to assault us, apparently often driven by drought or crop failures in their own lands.  Once they swept through our lands and attacked Gondor itself, but that was long and long ago.  They were defeated and driven back, and our own folk were able to find some peace again, as well as we could under the domination of those of the Black Land.”

            Rustovrid sighed.  “I will advise our own warlords to be aware of similar incursions from those beyond us.  For the past six years we have had to send tribute to none, have had to send our armies against no one at the behest of the Black Tower, have had to recognize no one as overlord to our peoples.  Most of those in Harad find themselves surprisingly pleased at such freedom.  Our harvests have been more than plentiful, and we have been able to trade with those south and east of us and have known prosperity for the first time in countless generations.  Many of those who are young join with our elders with desiring such will continue to be true of us, that we might continue to know plenty, that we might continue to know peace so that our people might grow.  Only those who had become accustomed to enriching themselves through plunder are unhappy, and the Farozi keeps a strict eye upon them, making them attend more carefully to the cultivation of their own lands and the happiness of their own peoples.”

            Ifram seemed to consider this, then shared a look with his brother and his guards.  “The one I recognized--he fought often with the hosts, and his troupes ever followed most closely after the lead of Mordor.  Yes, he was one indeed accustomed to gathering wealth through plunder.  Your Farozi is a wise Man to watch such among your own people.  I will so advise our Shkatha.”

            The bells of the city marked the seventh hour since the dawn, and those at the work site rose and turned toward the Citadel.  Ruvemir had already taken off his work smock and had secured it with his tools.  One last survey to make certain all was closed and fastened, and they followed the two embassies in to attend the audience.

The Prisoners’ Audience

            Those attending the audience were directed to stand in two groups with an open aisle down the center.  Those who served as witnesses from other lands stood mostly to the left, facing a clear space before the now-empty throne of Gondor.  To the Right stood many of the officials of Gondor and Arnor. 

            At the foot of the steps to the Throne of Gondor sat now two high chairs, the black seat of the Steward on which Prince Faramir sat to the right from the point of view of those attending the audience, and a grey chair carved of granite on the left, on which sat Lord Halladan, Steward of Arnor, clad in silver mail under a leather gambeson marked with the Seven Stars in inlaid silver, his mantle a rich silver grey fastened with one of the stars of the northern kingdom.  A fillet of woven silver circled his brow, as a similar fillet of gold circled the brow of Prince Faramir, who was dressed as an officer of Gondor in the black and silver of the Guard of the citadel with the image of Tree, Stars, and Crown on his chest armor.  To the left of Faramir stood another seat on which sat Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth; to the right of Lord Halladan was a heavily carved wooden travel throne on which sat King Éomer of Rohan.  The banners of Gondor, Arnor, Dol Amroth, Emyn Arnen, and Rohan were all prominently displayed.  All waited for what would occur next.

            A troupe of guards entered, mixed in the grey of Arnor, the black and silver of Gondor, the greens and golds of Rohan, the blue and white of Dol Amroth, and the silver greens of the Elves.  Then were brought in the prisoners, each bound and hooded as they were brought to their places, where at last their eyes were freed.  The guards circled about them, focused on them, those between prisoners and the Lords who sat in judgment kneeling.

            Behind the prisoners within the circle of the guards stood one in the worn green leathers of a northern Dúnedain Ranger, a bow in his hand, an arrow loosely nocked.  Éomer of Rohan rose and examined those before him.  “I see that the Ranger known as Strider stands as your interpreter,” he commented.  “As I have found he is fluent with your tongue, I am willing to let this stand.”  The other lords seated before them all indicated agreement.

            Ifram was called forward to tell what he knew of the assault on him at the work site for the King’s Commission.  He gave his statement simply and without adornment, admitting finally he recognized one of those who had come among those attacking him, Solamonti of the Bedui clan, most closely allied during the last generation to the forces of Mordor.  Although his folk held lands fertile enough in the standards of their folk, Solamonti had always preferred garnering wealth through plunder in the wars ordered and sanctioned by Mordor.  Shefti, scribe to the Rhunish ambassador and brother to both ambassador and Shkatha, agreed, as did the men at arms who served in their guard.

            Ruvemir was called forward to describe how he had failed to recognize those approaching his work site as being among those who’d entered the city in the embassy’s party, and how he’d stated this to Ifram of Rhun.

            Pando Proudfoot came forward to tell how, when he’d heard these were apparently unknown to the ambassador, he’d caught up a couple of large shards of marble just in case, throwing one accurately when he saw the glint of steel and not a message when the leader of the group reached beneath his cloak as he’d advanced on the ambassador.  Celebgil confirmed their testimony.

            The officer from the gates told how these had failed to give all the signs by which a proper addition to the embassy might be recognized, and how he’d found these were armed with weapons from Gondor, and had apparently intended to use them on Lord Ifram and those surrounding him at the time of the assault.

            The testimony continued, and all during it the green-clad Ranger translated for the prisoners, his voice low but steady.  The Elves who’d guarded the ambassador from Rhun gave their testimony, and when they spoke in Sindarin their words were translated by the Lord Elrohir into the Common Tongue.

            All four of the seated Lords asked questions from time to time, and questions and answers were translated by the Ranger.

            Then the Lord Steward called on Éomer King of Rohan to describe the interrogation of the two taken prisoners among the Dunlendings, what tokens had been found there, what would have ensued if the revolt among the Dunlendings had been allowed to continue.  The envoy of that people then came forward to agree to the astuteness of the evaluations given by the King of Rohan.

            Then began the interrogation of the prisoners, all translated by the green-clad Ranger.  Other Lords of Gondor added their questions to those spoken by the seated Lords at the front of the hall, and the questioning continued for a solid hour at least.  Ruvemir was glad he wasn’t one of those being questioned, such was the intensity of the focus.  At last they all fell silent, and the Lords of Gondor and the envoys of other lands began to speak softly among themselves.

              Those in the high seats rose and joined the rest of Gondor’s Lords for several moments’ conference while the rest stood, waiting and watching.  Finally Faramir straightened, and turning to the sergeant-at-arms and the chief of the servitors present, gave a signal.

            He then walked to the center of the dais and faced those witnessing the audience.  “We have agreed time is now needed to let the King digest the information gathered this day, and for those present to refresh themselves.  Pastries and drinks and cold meats have been placed on the tables at the back of the hall, and we ask that you feel free to enjoy them and return to your places within a quarter mark.”

            He turned to the envoys to his right.  “I thank you for your attendance, and those of you who wish to withdraw will be allowed to do so now.”

            Rustovrid of Harad stepped forward.  “Why is the King not present at this audience?” he asked.

            “The King has many, many calls on his many skills and talents.  He is fully apprised, however, of what has happened, and will most likely take the throne afterwards.  However, in the earlier afternoon he has served our people in a manner he has felt was needed, and you may fully believe we find no lack of honor due to his absence from his throne.”

            Rustovrid nodded, apparently appeased by what he’d been told.  At a sign from the Steward of Gondor the audience recessed.

 *******

            The green-clad translator briefly left the circle, then returned as others were returning to their places, now covered in the stained cloak over his garb.  The envoys from the Dunlendings had not returned, Ruvemir noted.  The four high Lords took their seats before the Throne of Gondor, and the rest settled into their places.  All grew quiet.

            Finally Imrahil of Dol Amroth rose to face the prisoners.  “We find all evidence points to you as ones who would dissolve the growing ties between Gondor and Rhun, who would allow the folk of Rhun to be freely attacked and overrun by your own enemies from further east of your own lands.  We have seen you would even do your best deny your own people support not only from Gondor, but from Gondor’s allies as well.  We must take from all this that you have desire to depose the rightfully elected Shkatha of your people and set yourselves in his place, not as ones who shepherd your people but as ones to take the place of the Lord of Mordor, seeking to control the lives of the people of Rhun to your own engorgement and enrichment in goods, wealth, and power over others.

            “Ifram and Shefti of Rhun, what are your findings on what has been revealed today?”

            Ifram b’nto Agharan stepped forward.  “It is the same as yours, my Lord Prince Imrahil.  We are newly come to personal freedom, and they would take its promise away from our people.”

            One of the prisoners sought to pull himself forward away from the guard who stood at his side, to whom he was shackled.  “I demand to speak with your King,” he demanded, his use of the Common Tongue heavily accented.  “I accept not the rulings of Gondor’s war leaders, the captains of its armies.  I wish to hear the rulings of the King of Gondor himself.”

            Faramir rose and faced the Man steadily.  “You will accept the judgment of the King?” he asked, his apparent mildness of manner barely masking the steel beneath.

            “He has not given us the dignity of a hearing.  Let him decide what is true.”

            The Steward of Gondor looked to the rest standing there, and all could see they were smiling.  “Not given you the dignity of a hearing, you say?  You are mistaken, sir.  All right, as you have demanded, I now require the King of Gondor and Arnor to come forward and take his place upon the throne of Gondor, the Winged Crown upon his head.”

            He signaled, and four came forward bearing an ancient casket.  He opened it and took out the Winged Crown of Gondor and held it up for all to see.  A servant came forward from behind Lord Halladan carrying a white mantle and the Elessar stone brooch.  The prisoners seemed surprised as their translator stepped forward, handed his bow and quiver to one of the Elven guards, unclasped his cloak and handed it to one in the star-clasped cloaks of Arnor.  He walked through the kneeling circle of guards to stand before the throne, accepted the Winged Crown from Faramir and placed it on his head, allowed Halladan to clasp the white mantle about his shoulders with the Elessar stone brooch.  He’d worn the black robe embroidered with the White Tree and the Seven Stars beneath his Ranger’s cloak.  He removed the sheathed sword Anduril from its hangers and held it in his left hand, accepted the scepter of Annúminas into his other hand, paced solemnly up the steps to his throne, and sat himself upon it, laying his sword across his lap.

            For some time he looked down at those standing for judgment before him before he finally spoke.  “You have demanded a hearing from the King himself, and here I now sit.  Do you truly think I will find differently than those before whom you have stood all this afternoon?

            “You have traveled through my lands to foment discontent among the Dunlendings, to draw off the support of Gondor’s allies to the north and west.  You have come as assassins to attack your own people’s ambassador here before the Citadel of Gondor itself, and sought to use weapons to implicate our people in his death.  And if you had been successful you would undoubtedly have slain those who stood by him, innocent artisans with nothing to be gained by the alliance or enmity between Rhun and Gondor.  These artisans are working at my pleasure, for my own purposes, which have naught to do with war but with the very nature of honor itself--honor and faithfulness.

            “You have demanded my judgment, and you will have it.”

            The King turned to Ifram of Rhun.  “Will you translate for the assembly, as it is hard to be judge and translator both?”  At his assent, he focused himself on the shackled prisoner and the one identified as Solamonti of the Bedui.  He barked a question in their own tongue at the two of them.

            “What do you seek to gain by dividing Rhun and Gondor, by supporting war by the Wainriders?” translated Ifram of Rhun.

            “We seek to keep our people strong, to keep alive our own traditions, to not place our own armies beneath the control of those who have been our enemies time out of mind.”

            “Have not the Wainriders been your enemies time out of mind?”

            After a long pause, finally the answer was given:  “Yes.”

            “So you would break the alliance between your peoples and those of Gondor, which imposes no restrictions over your government of your own peoples, but would allow the Wainriders to attack your people, perhaps to take over the government, allowing them to set the laws and rules, to restore the custom of tribute given to strangers and outdwellers?”

            “We would have defeated them in the end.”

            “A thousand years ago you could not do so, and even Gondor itself was so heavily threatened that we ourselves were almost overcome; had it not been for the aid from the forces of Eorl the Young we might well have fallen.”

            “We would have defeated them in the end.”

            “And set yourselves to dictate the lives of your peoples, to have impoverished them to enrich themselves as has been foreseen by all here assembled?”

            “We would have continued as our people have been accustomed for the last many generations.”

            “What is the lawful punishment given to those who have betrayed their Shkatha?”

            The prisoners looked to one another, several faces growing markedly pale.  None answered.

            “What is the lawful punishment?”  The King’s voice was implacable.

            Finally Solamonti answered, “Death by impalement.”

            The King of Gondor looked to Ifram of Rhun, who nodded agreement.  Finally he spoke in the Common Tongue, Ifram now translating for the prisoners, his voice solemn.  “Then it must be so.  You will be taken to the frontier between Rhun and Gondor, and handed over to your own people.  As you have committed your crimes in the lands of Gondor and Arnor, Gondorian spears will be provided your Shkatha for your impalement.  But you will die among your own people by the form of execution you have allowed you know you deserve.  Your final betrayal, after all, has been less our peoples than your own.”

            He gave a sign to his own court scribe and to Faramir, who nodded.  “So has judged the King Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar of Gondor and Arnor,” intoned the Steward of Gondor.  “Let the prisoners be taken back to their cells for the night.  On the morrow they will begin the journey back to their own people.”

            A messenger was sent immediately eastward, and the prisoners were removed.  The King then looked to the assembly.  “Does any now question that we must fight alongside the Shkatha of Rhun?” he asked.

            The Lord of Lossarnach stepped forward.  “No, our Lord King, we do not do so.”

            “So be it.  On Sunday of the second week of May we march eastward, my Lords.  Let all be in readiness.  My Lord ambassadors and envoys, you are summoned tonight to a second formal dinner, in which you will see our military leaders.”

Conversations with the King

            Ruvemir of Lebennin spent the next two days shaping the stones there on the edge of the Court of Gathering, and the evenings in the warehouse shaping the stone for Frodo Baggins.  The second evening before the wedding he was joined again by the King, again dressed in the silver surcoat over creamy shirt and dark trousers.

            “I greet you, my Lord Aragorn,” said the sculptor.

            “It is my honor to be allowed to watch you.”

            “Would you like to do some removals, my Lord?”

            “I would not know what to do.”

            “Come, I can show you.”  Ruvemir smiled as the King approached quietly.  Ruvemir demonstrated the way of using chisel and mallet, and in a few moments’ time Aragorn was taking his first swing of the mallet, and felt the chisel tip bite deeply and truly.  Ruvemir had him shift the chisel, and he did several more strikes.

            Finally he straightened and handed the tools back to the artist.  “I thank you, Ruvemir, for trusting me with the work you do.”

            The mannikin smiled.  “You would do well as a sculptor, I think, if you have an eye for shapes, at least.  You were sufficiently forceful and gentle at the same time to bring the best out of the stone.”

            “In two more days you will be wed,” the King began, taking a seat this time not on the floor but on a stool.  “I wanted to ask where you will spend your wedding night?  Mistress Loren hopes very much you will honor the house given to your usage for that purpose, seems to think it will bring you and your bride good fortune and happiness to the house itself.  Or, if you desire it, we have a room within the Citadel itself where you and your bride could spend the night.  Prince Faramir also has offered a small hunting lodge his family has owned for many generations.”

            Ruvemir nodded.  “Master Beneldil has offered one of his suites prepared for newlyweds, as has Master Fergion at the Dragon’s Claw opposite.  It seems we have quite a choice.  But I am glad you have brought the word from Mistress Loren, for that, I think, would bring Elise the greatest pleasure, to spend the first night alone in the house which will be her first home as Mistress.”

            “You are certain Elise will favor this?”

            Ruvemir smiled up into the King’s grey eyes.  “Believe me, my Lord, she will favor this indeed.  You did not see her eyes as we looked at the house.  She will be very happy.”

            The King looked over the shape becoming obvious as the sculptor continued to work on the block before him.  He could see now the basic shape of head and torso, the outstretched right arm, the Elven cloak pulled back over the shoulder, the reach forward of the left foot and leg.  “It is sad that these will have to wait for a month before final shaping,” he said with a sigh.

            Ruvemir looked at the emerging figure critically.  “You will find,” he finally said, “that stone is remarkably patient.  This figure has waited for some time for one to come along and find it within the marble that holds it; it will be pleased to wait some more.”  He looked up.  “How does the royal daughter?”

            Aragorn laughed.  “How does any child less than a week old?  She wakes and sleeps, eats and soils herself, looks about cross-eyed as she tries to focus to see better, cries at times, and turns her head any time she hears her mother or myself approaching her, although she appears to love Gimli and his beard past telling.  Perhaps it is the glint of his golden beads; or perhaps it is his laughter as he looks down upon her.  I have not seen his eyes quite so gentle since he received his gift from the Lady Galadriel--except perhaps when Pippin and later Frodo woke and recognized him in Cormallen.”

            Ruvemir nodded.

            The King again sang the song of shaping, and again the work went well while he sang.  Finally the song finished, and shortly after Ruvemir finished for the evening and laid down his tools, took a soft brush and swept away the grit that now lay on the figure.  He looked around and found that once again the King had found broom and pan and was sweeping up the stone shards and rubble.  Then he found a slightly larger fragment that he stopped and looked at for several moments before handing it to Ruvemir. 

            “I can’t say why, but I feel this needs to go to Pando.  Perhaps it is my family gift of foresight at work again, or perhaps just a passing fancy.  But I feel this needs to go with him to Belfalas.”

            Ruvemir remembered talk about Aragorn’s gift of foresight back in Brandy Hall when all were examining the pendant gifted to Pippin that he in turn gave to Diamond as a promise gift.  “Then I will see to it that Pando takes it with him, my Lord.”

            There was quiet for a time.  Finally, as Ruvemir finished draping the stone and the King poured the last pan of chips into the crate, the mannikin asked, “Are the prisoners on their way?”

            “They are indeed.  Word has come back that Moritum is ready for them.  He summoned the chieftains of several clans together and asked what is to be done to any who offered violence to the ambassador to Gondor, and they all agreed that the law of their people must be carried out, that death by impalement is the prescribed punishment.  He asked each clan in turn if this was what they felt was right, and all agreed.  He then spoke to the representative of the Bedui, the cousin to Solamonti, who agreed again that this was the proper fate for those who so betrayed their people and Shkatha.  He then asked all how they would feel if one of their own clan was found to have been involved in the conspiracy, and again all agreed no matter which clans they came from the penalty was due.  He only hopes that when they see who were involved they will still agree, although he believes several are aware of who the offenders are, yet agreed they must pay the price.”

            Ruvemir shivered.  “It would be a horrid manner in which to die.”

            He realized the King reflected his own shuddering.  “I agree.”  After a minute he added, “I have stood by some who died of wounds similar to that, including, of course, Boromir.  In each case the individual was glad to have the chance to accept what was coming, the chance to say goodbye.  However, in their cases they went after battle, honorably.  I cannot imagine what it would be to go to such deliberately and in shame and defiance.”

            Ruvemir thought for several minutes.  “Pippin remembered worrying what you would decide for Beregond, that you might realize that the penalty of death was required.  He said he did not beg you to spare him, for fear it would make you feel guilty if you decided he must pay with his life.”

            Aragorn nodded his head.  “I thought long and hard.  I knew he did not deserve to die, that he did what he did not out of hatred but out of love for Faramir, for his beloved Captain under whom he’d served and who’d already risked so much, braving death for his men and this land repeatedly.  I’d rather kill no one, order no one killed.  But this case is different.  The desire for personal power bequeathed to Arda through the offices of Melkor still permeates so many of our brethren, Ruvemir; and these were willing to kill so many innocents so as to gain their ends.  And so I had them pronounce their own guilt and the penalty they must face, and sent them to their own to see it done.  It does not make me any less guilty for their deaths, yet it also helps me accept the responsibility, that they themselves realized that they deserved this according to their own laws.  Had it been my own people who had to see it through, though, I’d have insisted on a quick, clean death.  I will not make any suffer if I can help it.”

            Ruvemir began extinguishing some of the lanterns as the King did the rest.  Finally, when they’d met at the last two lanterns, the King looked into the eyes of the artist facing him.  “I often felt guilty over saving Frodo’s life, once I realized I could not undo what had been done to him, that he would suffer from the shoulder wound for the rest of his life as long as he remained in Middle Earth, that I could not draw out all of the poison from the spider bite, that he was often unable to retain his food, that the nightmares tormented him.  The word from Gandalf that on the anniversary of his wounding he was felled by the memories on the way back to the Shire, there at the Bruinen and again at Weathertop, tormented me.  How could one such as he be expected to bear such, Ruvemir?  I wanted only to give him the chance to know simple joy again....”  He shut his eyes and turned his head away, then looked at the screen.  “And now I’ve had to send others to their deaths, with all knowing exactly what will become of them.  At least they will not live with their agony as long as Frodo had to suffer.”  He blew out the lantern.  Ruvemir followed suit, and together they walked past the screen, past the dim light left in the outer room, out to the doorway. 

            The King donned his stained cloak as they left the warehouse, and Ruvemir locked the doorway behind them as Eregiel joined them quietly.  They walked back to the King’s Head without speech.  They went to the common room this time, and each had a goblet of wine.  Slowly the King’s mood lightened as he watched the folk around him, and he pointed out a couple near the doorway who were obviously coming to realize they loved one another.  Beneath the hood Ruvemir could see the King start to smile in pleasure.  Finally he said softly, “The young Man was among those who marched to the Black Gate.  He was grievously wounded, and I drew him back from the Gates of Death.  He hated me at the time for his pain was great, but he recovered.  Now I see he is knowing joy, a joy he’d not thought he’d know when we were in the Fields of Cormallen and I was draining the wound of infection.”  He looked to Ruvemir’s eyes.  “And I know the other of whom I spoke has forgiven me as well, and if his joy has been somewhat muted, it still is a pleasure for him to know.  It was the right thing to do, after all.” 

            Ruvemir smiled at his King’s relief.

 *******

            The next morning Ruvemir made his last trip up to the level of the Citadel from the King’s Head, and they worked intensely.  He finally brought out Pippin’s facial features, the wide eyes, the straight nose with the unexpected tilt at the end, the slightly large incisors, the pride of the Guard of the Citadel, the curling locks about his face.  He carefully denoted the right arm and hand holding Troll’s Bane at the ready, left hand supporting the flat of the blade.  And he gently inscribed the etching on the blade set there over a thousand years previous by an unknown Dúnedain swordsmith.  The face would need smoothing, but it was recognizable, definitely that of Captain Peregrin Took; the hand holding the sword was that of the Hobbit as well.  And then he heard an intake of breath, and looked up into Gimli’s face. 

            “Yes, that’s Pippin,” the Dwarf said, smiling.  “I’ll never forget my first glimpse of him, then finally learning the foolish thing wasn’t even of age yet.  And when I saw his foot, under that mountain of a troll--”  He shook his head.  “I worried about them all endlessly.  We could do nothing for Frodo and Sam on their journey, but we tried to help Pippin and Merry.  Tell me again--when is the fool of a Took going to marry?”

            “Midsummer, at the Free Fair in Michel Delving.”

            “I’ll have to see if I can’t somehow just be there for it--at least send him a decent marriage gift.”

            The King and Queen joined them, the Queen carrying a small bundle in her arms.  “My Lady Queen,” Ruvemir remonstrated, “ought you to be abroad like this?”

            “Why ever not?” the Queen asked.  “I promise you I will do nothing to injure myself.  But I can’t stay inside on a day such as today, and I wanted to bring Melian to see the progress on the statues.” 

            Pando, Ririon, and Celebgil came forward to see, and soon each enjoyed the delight of holding the small princess, gently stroking her soft face, feeling her grip about their fingers.  Joy strained against her leash to come to her also, and at last the King carried his daughter over by her, held the child down so the young dog could smell her and examine her.  With a whine the dog whuffled at the infant’s face, then looked up at Aragorn and kissed his hand, thumping her tail against the ground.  Melian looked almost startled, then gave a small smile.  The King laughed, and brought her away again. 

            He looked long into the features of the statue, and smiled.  “Yes, Pippin, there you are at last.”  He looked at the sculptor and commented, “I begin to see what you mean about the stone being patient.”  The Dwarf took the baby as King and Queen examined the work done on all the figures, and Melian did indeed reach up toward him, tangled her tiny fists in his beard, looked up at him with delight.

            Together they sat at the table drinking ale or juice, the King again cradling his daughter against his chest.  “We exchanged birthing gifts the other day, by the way.  And I must say we were both laughing with delight ere we were done.  They complement one another well.  Do tell your sister how pleased we both are.”

            “Gladly, my Lord, my Lady.  She and the Lady Éowyn will both be fully glad to hear you are pleased with them.”

            “Yes, well pleased indeed,” the Queen said gently.  “We intend to wear them for a family celebration soon.”  She smiled at him meaningfully.  “And I can’t wait to see you wearing your own wedding shirt.  It is indeed a thing of beauty.”

            “The robe you wore the night of the feast was marvelous, my Lord King.  Who did the work on that?”

            “I did,” Arwen said.  “But my own work is of a quite different kind than that done by your sister.”

            “You’d best be careful, or Miriel will have you admitted to the Guild of Tailors and Seamstresses as a Master Embroiderer before you realize what has happened.  She will probably end up Guild Mistress herself one day, in between caring for children.”

            “Which brings us to one of the other reasons we came out.  She and Folco have asked if they might take Lorieth and her brother, and we wished to assure ourselves you were willing to bring them to Lebennin with you.”

            “I’ve already found a sort of day enclosure for the infant.  But is the girl ready for release yet?”

            “If it hadn’t been for the healing given by Elladan and Elrohir I would not have said so; but I am certain she is now ready.  She has healed very quickly and is experiencing very little pain or discomfort.  Yesterday she was laughing aloud at her brother and looked up with delight when she heard Miriel approaching her room.  Yes, I think she will be ready to go with you.  Certainly from what your father has told me he is already planning for how to adapt your old room at home for the two of them.”

            Ruvemir looked at where Ririon sat on the ground by him working on his log, crafting a lantern shape, it appeared.  “I will feel lost, I fear, once these two are settled for their formal apprenticeships with Mistress Andúrien and my father.  Both have come to be dear to me, particularly my son here,” and he reached out to put his hand on Ririon’s head. 

            The youth smiled at him.  “It won’t be all that long, Ruvemir.  At least I can tell people I have two fathers, one who died in Osgiliath and one who is a great sculptor.  I have reason to be proud of both.”  He stretched.  “And I have a wonderful grandfather as well.  I am well pleased, and I think my mother must also be well pleased, knowing I am happy and learning so much.”  He thought for a moment.  “And you will have Celebgil for to keep you company and to assist in the shaping.”

            The King coughed.  “The other matter of which I spoke the other day--I have approached the one of whom I spoke, and he is interested in accompanying you, if you will allow his brother to accompany you as well.  They will share a room, I understand.  Both will ride their horses rather than ride in the coach.  But they are interested in learning more about Gondor and seeing much of it with one who knows it.”

            “Are you speaking of Ifram and Shefti of Rhun?”

            “Yes.  What do you think, Celebgil--do you think they would be pleasant company on your journey?”

            Ruvemir was astonished.  “But why the ambassador from Rhun?”

            The King looked at him.  “He has already been targeted for death by those who would rather take Rhun back to a situation in which a few are in control of all and all are kept busy fighting for the profit of those few.  Once our troupes join his brother’s there will be no chance for any more violent revolts until the campaign is over.  Should we win, that will cement Moritum’s position as Shkatha, particularly once our forces return behind our own borders, for we shall have been proven honorable allies.  Should we lose, the question of government for Rhun is moot--and ours here, too, will be questionable, although Gondor and Arnor will be returning again to at least a familiar pattern of Stewardship until Melian comes of age--at least, if I die in the campaign.

            “It will give Ifram and Shefti of Rhun a chance to see first hand that our way of government is good throughout the realm and not just within the capital.  It will teach them that in keeping faith with our people those of us who serve as leaders strengthen all, and hopefully we shall serve as a model for the advising of their brother in terms of leadership.  And it will take both brothers out of Minas Anor and make them harder to find and target until it is too late for those who have survived the conspiracy to bring any more assassins against them.  I will have a few following your group, out of sight from  you, never obviously connected with you, who will serve as a screen for you, watching for those who would sneak up on you and target the brothers.”

            Ririon asked, “Then will Eregiel travel with us again?”

            Ruvemir shook his head.  “Eregiel is already known to be cousin to the King.  It would fool no one, and would also leave me with no reason to continue to take Celebgil, as it would appear the King has decided to send an escort anyway.  That, my Lord, could make things difficult with Celebgil’s current official Master.  He agreed to the accompaniment because otherwise you would have to find another escort.  However, should these outlanders suddenly decide to attach themselves to the company, asking at the last moment to go with us to see some of Gondor, it would be less questionable in his mind.”

            “You are concerned about Master Varondil, then, Ruvemir?” asked Gimli.

            The sculptor answered carefully, “As things stand, Celebgil must in time return to the arrangement originally contracted between his parents and Master Varondil.  A master who believes he was lied to can become vindictive, and I would not have that situation come back to haunt Celebgil at this point.”

            It was plain to Ruvemir that other hints that the situation between Celebgil and Master Varondil was questionable were coalescing in the King’s mind, although he said nothing of what Ruvemir knew he must now be considering.  The King gave one of his more feral smiles.  “I see, and agree with your estimation.  Also, if I were to send one known to be a warrior with you, it would alert all this is not as innocent a situation as we wish it to look.  And then, Ifram is himself a warrior trained, so he should be able to take care of himself if an attack is made plain.  However, at Melian’s birth there was no chance for him to arm himself, for he carried no weapon to the Citadel out of deference to the occasion.”

            His smile became more teasing.  “On the way, however, I know you will have two with you whose skill with flung stones will serve you well, in case of need.”  Pando flushed and Ririon laughed.  Even Celebgil smiled.  “I ought to have made more use of a Hobbit’s natural weaponry along our own journey, I know.  After all, I did see Sam use a flung apple to excellent effect there in Bree.  If I’d planned to use this skill from the first, it would have perhaps served us to our advantage, except then perhaps we would not have tried teaching swordcraft to Merry and Pippin, who both used the teaching well.  Nor would a flung stone have stood either in good stead against the foes whom they fought in the end.”

            “Nor, I suppose, would Frodo’s ability to throw a felling punch have aided him in the end against troll or spider,” Ruvemir considered.

            “I still wish I’d have known of the skill when I first met him,” Aragorn said with a sigh.  “Although with no child or beast to protect perhaps he would never have been brought to the point of using it.”  He shook his head.  “Guiding the honorable is always a mixed blessing.  Sometimes a bit of roguery is helpful in promoting good self-defense.”  He looked at Pippin’s statue and smiled.  “Now, if there was ever a mild rogue....”  He and Gimli both smiled broadly.

            The Queen laughed, then asked, “When do you leave?”

            “On Sunday.  We will spend the night of the Highday in the house in the Sixth Circle, Elise and I, will spend Starsday packing the coach and bring it up to the sixth level, then will leave early the morning of Sunday, picking up the rest of our retinue on the way--Folco, Miriel, the children, my father and Master Faragil, and the apprentices.  We will pick you up before your parents’ pottery at the first hour, Celebgil.  Can you be ready?”

            “Yes, gladly.”

            The King considered.  “I will suggest to the Rhunim that they meet you outside the great Gate with their horses and a pack animal, then.  They can leave after you and not appear to be part of your party until you join together at the outer stable.”  He nodded.  “It will work.  I will tell you this--I will set three to follow you, and if you see them you will recognize them as having been sent by me.”  He looked at Pando, Ririon, and Celebgil.  “I do expect, however, you speak of this to no one--not to friends, brothers, or parents.  Do you understand?  That means even Benril, Ririon.”

            “I understand, Lord Elessar.”

            “Good, then.  And, Pando, you will keep a stone ready to hand?”  His smile was infectious.  The Hobbit lad nodded, grinning broadly.

            “Very well,” the Lord Elessar said, “we shall see you again tomorrow at the King’s Head.  A good night of anxiety to you, Master Ruvemir, although I assure you all will go well.”

A Wedding, a Wedding

            Ruvemir had the carter leave him at the entrance to the quiet street where Elise’s family lived, and sent Pando and Ririon back to the King’s Head with the admonition to report immediately to Miriel and help her in the packing.  Mistress Idril met him, and the lawyer who’d written up the marriage contract was already in attendance, Elise looking rather pale as she examined the document both would sign on the morrow as the last stage of their handfasting.  Together they reviewed the contract’s clauses and discussed who would sign as their witnesses.  It did not take long, as neither could think of any amendments they wished included; and soon he was kissing her good evening and heading back to the inn. 

            Ruvemir was met at the door to the inn by Ririon, who announced they’d come home to find Miriel and Folco had gone up the Sixth Circle, strange Men were in the room, and that Pando was spying on them through the window.  Ruvemir was alarmed, walked carefully down the passage to the door to his room, and listened through the door.  He could definitely hear the voices through the wood.

            “Well, he ought to be back by now.  After all, he told his father he’d be leaving the site by mid-afternoon at the latest.”

            A dour voice that seemed familiar grunted, “I told you we ought to have gone up there and faced  him down there where he’s working.  Wouldn’t be any chance of him getting around us if we caught up with him while he was busy shaping his figures.”

            “And what if he were to try taking his mallet to us, then?” asked a third voice.

            The first voice laughed, “Well, at least the worst we’d suffer would be a broken kneecap.”

            Ruvemir began to be angry, and wished he’d carried his heaviest mallet with him.  He’d show them broken kneecaps--and then the dour voice commented, “Wait, there’s someone looking at us through the window!”

            Fearful for Pando’s safety, Ruvemir pushed the door open, taking all by surprise--and himself as well.

            Bergemon smiled at him.  “Well, I must say this is not the way I thought you’d come in, Ruvemir.  Do you always enter by bursting through the doorway like this?”

            A rare smile lit Damrod’s face.  “So, I hear the work goes well, and your patron is the King himself.  Does he stand over you expecting you to produce fully finished figures with each stroke of the mallet?”

            Ferion raised his mug in salute.  “A fine commission from the highest of patrons, and a marriage as well, Bergemon’s uncle tells us.  Talk about fortune raining down on one individual.  How do you do it?”

            Ruvemir looked at his guests with shock.  “You heard?  You came?”

            Damrod looked at the low chair in which he sat.  “I’d get up and greet you properly, but this chair is so blasted low....”

            Ruvemir drew out one of the others and fell into it, laughing and wiping his face with his kerchief.  “I never dreamed--  Oh, I am so glad to see you all!  And Bergemon, I’m going to need your aid particularly in one of my coming commissions.  I’m helpless in trying to portray horses.”  He looked up and caught Pando’s eye and signaled him to come in. 

            “What is this pallet here, Ruvemir?” asked Ferion.  “You taking in boarders to share the room and relieve the costs?”

            “It’s my son’s pallet,” the mannikin said, smiling.  “You’ll meet him in a moment.”

            “His son’s pallet?  What is this?  Do you mean this is not your first love, little Man?  You’ve been withholding information on your dissolute youth from us?”

            “How did you know what room was mine?”

            “Master Faragil vouched for us, and the innkeeper allowed us to enter in.  Don’t know where he’s got off to, though.  Said he had an appointment with a lady and we could entertain ourselves.  Did say your father had gone down to the Carver’s Guild Hall, though, and that your sister and brother-in-law were up in the upper reaches of the city.”

            “Seeing their children, then.”

            “Seeing their children?  Here I just find out you have a sister, and that she is married and has children as well?  Is she much older than you?”

            “Actually, she’s three years the younger, and she’s only been married since January.  She and her husband Folco are to foster children who were left orphaned.”

            The others sobered a bit at this, and their faces showed a level of respect.  “I see,” said Damrod.  “Sounds like she’s quite a responsible lady, then.”

            Ruvemir nodded.  “Very much so.”

            Bergemon was looking at the room.  “I never thought to see a room in an inn designed specifically for you, Ruvemir.  How much extra do you have to pay?”

            Just then the doorway opened, and Pando peered into the room, Ririon and Benril behind him.  “Come in, you three, and let yourselves be introduced.  Ririon son of Damsen, my ward and part-time apprentice, although he will be studying with my father for a time.  Where is your practice piece, then?”

            “In Master Beneldil’s quarters.  In case they were brigands, we put the practice pieces there for safe keeping.” 

            “Brigands?” laughed Ferion.  “He thought we were brigands?”

            “Well, they had no idea who you three are, after all.  Benril here is the son of Master Beneldil, the innkeeper.  And Pando Proudfoot is another apprentice, although I’m to take him south to Mistress Andúrien, for his greatest gift is with sculpting clay and wax.”

            “Oh, so you will do clay and wax, and perhaps casting some day.  It is an honor to meet you, Pando.”  Bergemon smiled at the lad.  “But I must say you are the youngest apprentice I’ve seen.”

            “He’s older than you were when you were apprenticed to Calimir, Bergemon.”

            “But I was sixteen....”

            “And I’m seventeen,” the young Hobbit explained.  “Just because I’m not as tall as you doesn’t mean I’m a little one.”

            “Halflings are rather short, after all, and mature more slowly then children of Men, Bergemon,” explained Ruvemir, enjoying the discomfiture he saw growing in his colleague’s face.

            Bergemon looked at Ruvemir with his mouth hanging open.  “A Pherian is your apprentice?”

            “Yes, a Pherian has been my apprentice, although his indenture is to be given over to Mistress Andúrien soon.  And another Pherian,” he added, recognizing voices coming down the passage, “is my sister’s husband.”  He turned to the open door, and called out, “Miriel, Folco, will you come in?”

  *******

            Much of the rest of the evening was a blur to him afterwards.  Once they’d overcome their confusion, Bergemon, Ferion, and Damrod accepted Miriel and Folco fully.  Soon they were in the Dwarves’ parlor, where they found themselves shortly joined by three Dwarves indeed as Gimli, Dorlin, and Orin had come to the inn to seek to distract Ruvemir in his last night as a bachelor.  The story of the trip to the Shire was told, and all three of Ruvemir’s fellow sculptors were properly impressed.

            “When did you realize your patron was the King himself?”

            “Not till I awoke in the Houses of Healing as I recovered from the lung fever.  Not that he didn’t give me plenty of clues.  He rather enjoys remaining unknown at times, and letting people learn who he is by stages.  Tomorrow my Elise’s grandmother is going to realize she actually met him quite some years ago, and I’m quite enjoying the anticipation of how the realization will hit her.”  Not to mention, he thought to himself, what your reactions will be. 

            Eventually they were joined by Mardil and Master Faragil with Mistress Idril, at which time the company sobered a bit while they ate their dinner, at least; but as the evening lengthened Ruvemir found himself pressured to have one more ale, and then another.  He found himself able to pour his own ale into Gimli’s mug, who smiled to receive the overflow, and he saw another glance of approval from his Elise’s grandmother before his former master indicated he would be walking her home.  When Legolas and Tharen joined the party the evening turned somewhat musical as everyone seemed to know at least one love ballad that had to be sung that night.  Mardil and Miriel shepherded the youths back to their rooms, and at last Ruvemir was able to slip away, aided by Legolas, and return to his room and fall into his bed.

 *******

            He awoke an hour after dawn, and found that Ririon and Pando were already awake, had enjoyed a second breakfast of sorts, and that Pando was eyeing Ruvemir’s toast, fruit, and sliced sausage.  “No,” Ruvemir said archly, “I claim those for myself this morning, Pando my lad.  Pour me some juice, please, Ririon.”

            This Ririon did very neatly, Miriel having shown him months ago how Taurielen had done this, her index finger gently laid within the lip to sense when the liquid neared the rim.  He set down the pitcher and brought the tumbler to his guardian, then settled on Pando’s bed.  “Miriel has looked in twice.  She is worried you will have a sore head.”

            “No, for I drank very little, really.  Master Gimli received the majority of what I was served.”

            “I wonder what we will wear, Pando and I?”

            “Miriel has something in store, you can count on that.  I’m just grateful you haven’t grown much more since we returned from Eriador.”

            “But I will still grow more, won’t I?”  Ririon appeared disturbed to think he might not continue to grow, for he was still bound he would be somewhere near as tall as the King.

            The mannikin laughed as he set down his tumbler.  “You’ve already passed me up, and are as tall as our father as well.  But as most youths continue growing until they are around eighteen or so, I suspect you will still do some more.”  He noted the relieved smile on the boy’s face.

            “I’m the one not likely to grow much,” Pando said.  “I wouldn’t mind except I get tired of being thought of as a little one.”

            “I suspect even Dorieth gets that reaction,” Ruvemir commented.  “Certainly Miriel and I have received it.”

            He washed face and hands and ate his breakfast, then taking clean underthings and the one pair of dark trousers Miriel had left him went in to bathe.  He came out an hour later to find Miriel awaiting him impatiently. 

            “It’s about time, and I’m glad you, at least, had the sense to allow the Dwarves to drink the greater share of the ale last night.  Although I suspect your friends kept you from getting the collywobbles.”

            “Well, I didn’t feel them last night, but fear I feel them now.  Oh, Miriel, I don’t know if I can do this.”

            She laughed as she smoothed out the shirt she’d made for him, a glorious thing made of the blue cloth they’d been gifted in the Shire, embroidered with three stars on each side of the placket and a seventh at the bottom of the gore.  Over it went a surcoat of dark blue-grey, with crossed mallet and chisel on the front, surrounded by a circle of eight-pointed stars.  The cuffs of his sleeves were also embroidered with stars, as was the hem of the surcoat.  Once he put on Faramir’s mantle, he knew, he would look quite regal for all his size.  He looked at her and kissed her gently in thanks, then with her help dressed.  She then combed out his hair, smoothed his beard and mustache, and gave him a smile with the hint of tears in her eyes.  “You look so fine, Brother mine.  So fine.  I hope that Elise realizes what a great one she is getting as a husband.”

            “I hope we will be as happy as you and Folco seem to be, Miriel.  Thank you so much for going with me, for staying by me this winter.  I hope we will never grow apart.”

            She blinked back her tears, then turned to the boys and fussed at them.  They had white shirts to wear with trousers of the blue cloth, Pando with a vest of the same embroidered with smaller stars than those that decorated Ruvemir’s costume and Ririon with the surcoat which had been gifted once to the Lord Frodo.  Ruvemir looked at the window.  “It is still over an hour ere noon.  I hope these two don’t destroy their clothes before the ceremony.”

            Ririon looked affronted, and Pando laughed.  “We’ll be as sedate as sedate can be,” the young Hobbit promised.

            Mardi Cook sent the tea and cakes early, and all sat down to eat, carefully making sure to not spill.  Ruvemir, however, found he could hardly swallow now.  When the door opened to admit Bergemon, Ferion, and Damrod he looked up in relief.  Damrod was definitely impressed.  “Who is it who looks like the Prince of the Pheriannath today?” he asked. 

            “Not I,” Ruvemir said.  “Captain Pippin has no beard, has curly hair, and can stand to attention in an instant--all you have to do is to mention the King.  Nor could I wear his uniform, for my legs are too short.”

            “You probably could,” Folco said from the doorway, where he was attired similarly to the two youths.  “After all, they cut the legs of his trousers more to Hobbit standards, so they don’t reach the top of his boots--if he wore such, of course--as yours do.  But your arms are definitely too short.  You know, I can’t begin to imagine you in mail, either.”  He entered and closed the door.

            “Well, I must say, you make an impressive bridegroom.  Is this Captain Pippin married?” asked Bergemon.

            “He’s to marry at Midsummer.  His Diamond is a very beautiful Hobbitess, and they will make a very likely couple.”

            “You’ll have to show us your drawings of them, I suppose.”

            “But of course,” Ruvemir said.  He went to the chest, still open and in the room, where his sketch booklets lay.  He found his sketch of Merry and Pippin before the fireplace in Brandy Hall and showed it to them.  “This is Captain Peregrin, known as Pippin to his people, and this is Sir Meriadoc.  This was done in Sir Merry’s home of Brandy Hall, where he was born and where the Lord Frodo lived as a lad, after his parents’ deaths.  This is the fireplace in the library.”  As they examined the picture, he explained, “I asked them to pose in their uniforms.  Their helmets they set on a low table, and Ririon was describing the symbols on them for the children of the Hall.  Then Lord Samwise came in to find something to read, realized I was doing the sketch, but decided to stay anyway.  It was one of the most enlightening experiences I had with the Pheriannath, I must say.” 

            Damrod turned the page, and stopped to examine the picture of Sam at length.  He looked over finally to examine Ruvemir’s eyes.  “Is this the Lord Samwise, then?”

            Ruvemir nodded solemnly.  “Yes,” he finally said.  “He is a most unusual individual.”

            Damrod looked back at the picture.  “Yes, I can tell.  Native dignity.  I would think it would be quite interesting getting to know him.”

            Ririon said softly, “He told us of the ride to the Grey Havens with his Master and the Elves.  He loved Lord Frodo very, very deeply.  To let him pass over the Sea was a great grief to him, although it was a relief, also, to know he could find healing there that he could not know here.  Lord Sam told the story, and it was almost like poems.”

            Folco sighed.  “I wish I could have heard it.  I read the story in the Red Book, of course, but it sounds as if he told more there.”

            “In the Red Book he didn’t tell how deeply ill the Lord Frodo was.  You get the hint, but not the fullness of it.  Frodo hated letting others know how weak he was becoming, and Sam tried to honor that when he wrote that part of the Red Book.  Sam said that Lord Elrond was giving Frodo strengthening draughts, and he was most often in a trance throughout the journey.”  He took back the booklet, found one of the pictures he’d done of Frodo’s face, turned as if he heard someone calling his name, and showed it.  “The Lord Frodo Baggins.”

            Damrod straightened.  “He would be one to capture attention no matter what race he was.”

            Ferion examined the picture critically.  “Reminds me of the Elves we met last night.”

            Folco smiled sadly.  “He had an Elvish air--Uncle Bilbo often said so; and so did Gandalf.  The hair was that of a Hobbit, the height was that of a Hobbit, definitely the feet were those of a Hobbit; but the face with its beauty and sensitivity was Elvish.  After he came back from Gondor he even spoke like an Elf, very slow and deliberate and thoughtful.”

            Ririon added, “Master Butterbur in Bree said he could more easily imagine him in the Undying Lands with the High Elves than to imagine our Lord King as King.  He’d only seen the Lord Frodo twice, but had seen the King as Strider many times.”

            Damrod looked at Ruvemir.  “Strider?”

            Ruvemir smiled.  “You will learn our Lord King has borne many names over the long years of his life.  The Lord Frodo told his kinsmen he’d lost count at about twenty, and when I awoke in the Houses of Healing to find him sitting by me he said, rather dryly, he had a few too many.  I suppose part of it has to do with being one of the Dúnedain of almost unmingled blood.  Most of us won’t reach his current age, yet he and his kinsmen will most likely outlive our children.”

            “How old is he?”

            The mannikin’s smile widened.  “Let you ask him after the wedding--if he will answer.”  He looked at the sketch, and the smile faded.  “Neither looks as old as they are--the King as he is Dúnedain, and the Lord Frodo due to the effects of the Ring.  He was fifty-three when he left, and was older then than Folco is now.  Hobbits age and mature more slowly than we Men, but carrying the Ring for almost eighteen years kept him looking like one new come to adulthood as he was when he received it.”

            Bergemon finally spoke.  “I’d not thought to meet one of the Pheriannath, much less two, and both kin to him.  I am honored.”  His usually laughing face was solemn as he looked into Folco’s.

            “It has taken meeting Men for us to realize just what Frodo, Sam, Merry and Pippin did, how it saved us, too,” the Hobbit returned.  “We knew what they did on their return, dealing with the fallen wizard; but had no idea it was so much worse out here, that you had been defying worse evil for millennia.”

            “Fallen wizard?” asked Damrod.

            “Curunír,” explained Ruvemir in one word.  “He thought to rule the Hobbits after Isengard fell.”  He stretched.  “If you’ll agree to go north with me to work on my other commissions I’ll tell you on the way, for it is a full long story.  Even reading it in the Red Book took long days.” 

            There was a knock at the door.  “Enter,” Ruvemir called.

            The door opened and a figure in a surcoat of green so dark as to appear almost black embroidered with the White Tree as it grew surmounted with the Seven Stars, the Sun on one sleeve and the Moon on the other, bordered with blossoms of niphredil, entered, followed by a woman in a dress of a dark wine color embroidered with small golden flowers, a spray of white roses and a string of seven silver stars on the bodice.  The Man carried a small bundle wrapped in a green blanket embroidered with seven stars on the loose corner.  Ruvemir pulled himself erect, then bowed deeply.  “My Lord King, my Lady Queen!  Welcome!  And how is the Lady Melian today?”

            The others rose hastily, straightened with surprise and awe.  “Not exactly a lady today, our Melian,” answered the King, smiling.  “Still but an infant of but a week.  She is sleeping now, but will likely waken and fuss as the wedding progresses.  Such is the nature of infants, I fear.  I pray it won’t bother anyone.”  He looked at the other three sculptors, smiled, and bowed graciously.  “Gentlemen, I am honored to see sculptors of your capabilities in the capital.  I bid you welcome to Minas Anor.  And I hope, Master Bergemon, you will agree to assist Master Ruvemir when he goes north to fulfill the Elves’ commission.  Did you go to the Pelargir, by the way?  I would be most interested in seeing how you did my seeming.”

            Bergemon was speechless as he looked into the face of the King of Gondor and Arnor and found he almost recognized it.  Damrod suddenly swore an oath, which he quickly tried to stifle, turning a bright red.  “The Lord Captain....”

            The King turned amused eyes to those of the tall, sober sculptor.  “Yes, but that was long ago, in my youth as my own account it.”

            Ferion simply sat back heavily on Ririon’s bed, and Joy whined in confusion.  Ririon laughed.  “Then they are recognizing you, my Lord?”

            “Master Damrod and the third, at least.  I’m sorry, I have never heard your name, Master.”

            “Ferion of Belfalas, Master Sculptor, my Lord King,” he managed through a dry throat.

            “Master Ferion.  I welcome you.  Master Ruvemir, if you would accept the child for a moment,” and he slipped a white cloth onto Ruvemir’s shoulder and handed him the blanketed infant.  He then knelt by the cot and gently felt the pulse at Ferion’s neck.  “I am sorry--I seem to have this effect on many.  The heart is not racing too much.  Pando, bring Master Ferion a cup of water.  Now, if you will lean forward for a moment with your head between your knees, the giddiness will pass.”

            Bergemon began to laugh suddenly, and himself sat down suddenly on the tall chair.  “Oh, who would have thought it?  Me--us--meeting the King so!  And the Lord Captain as well?”  He laughed helplessly, and the King looked up, his bearded lips smiling to share the jest.  “My Lord King, pray forgive us for not bowing.  I fear we are somewhat overwhelmed,” he finally managed.  “We watched Ruvemir carve your seeming day after day into the sculpture of the Lord Captain Thorongil, and we often debated what had become of him--and now, now we know!”

            The King smiled but looked at him critically, then suggested, “I think that Master Bergemon also needs a drink, Pando.”  The young Hobbit laughed as he complied.  The three sculptors finally looked up into the eyes of the Queen and saw she was suppressing laughter, which at last came out, full laughter with a beautiful sound like a waterfall falling in sheer pleasure from rock to rock.  The discomfiture of the three sculptors fell away as they joined in her amusement and sheer joy and delight. 

            At last the Queen’s laughter was reined in, and she spoke gently to them.  “I rejoice to welcome you also to the capital, good Masters.  And I see Estel is enjoying himself at the expense of those who did not know of his past sojourn in Gondor.”

            “Estel, my lady?” asked Ferion.

            “I’ve had as many names and titles given me over the past nine decades as there are days in a month, I think,” the King answered as he straightened.  “How many more I’ll garner before the end I have no idea.”

            “But why did you not claim the throne then, my Lord?” asked Damrod.

            “I was not ready, and Gondor was not ready.  My Lord Denethor saw me as a rival and would not have allowed my claims to stand without much worthless argument, and my own people in the north needed my presence due to increased assaults there, and the deaths of many of those who’d led our forces there as a result.  My Lord Uncle who was then Steward in my absence, as he’d been during my minority, was struck down.  The need for me then was in Arnor, so back to Arnor I went.”

            He smiled.  “We must soon go out, Arwen and I, but wished to greet you first.”  He looked at the two youths, then paused.  “Ririon, will you come here, please?”

            The young Man came forward, his staff in one hand, the other on Joy’s back, his head held proudly, to stand before the King.  The Man reached out, touched the fabric of the surcoat the boy wore, embroidered subtly with darker blue and hints of silver threads with a single eight-pointed star.  Aragorn’s smile was sad, gentle.  “So,” he said softly, “Sam gifted this to you?”

            “Yes, my Lord King.  He said that Lord Frodo would be happy to see it worn by one who honored both him and the one who gave it to him.  He told me that Lord Frodo took very little with him, sir, that almost all he owned he left behind.”

            “I can imagine.”  He bowed his head in thought, then looked back into the youth’s face, laid his hand on his head.  “He would indeed be proud to see it worn by such as you, Ririon, for you share so much of his own love of beauty.  And I rejoice Sam saw this, also.” 

            Ruvemir had moved over to the wardrobe, which he now opened with his free hand, drew out the mantle.  “He gifted this to me, my Lord, that you not be surprised.”

            The King’s smile broadened.  “Bless the dear Hobbit,” he said.  “I’ll be certain to tell Faramir so he won’t be too shocked.  However, I am certain he, too, will approve.”

            “Oh, is our Lord Prince Steward attending?”

            The King laughed out loud and he finally dropped his hand from Ririon’s head.  “Did I not tell you that you would be surprised to see how many wished to attend this affair?  You have already gathered much admiration within the city, Master Sculptor.  We brought more food to add to what Mardi Cook was preparing, for I think even she has underestimated the attendance this would gather.”  Suddenly he looked to Ririon, who was blinking and rubbing at his eyes.  “Ririon, what is it?”

            “There is something in my eye, my Lord.”

            The King produced a white kerchief from a pocket in his trousers and knelt down.  “Which eye?”

            “The right one--no, both.”

            “All right, open one and try to hold it open, and look in the opposite direction of where the matter is.  I will try to remove it.”

            The boy opened his right eye and looked to the right.  The King lifted the lid and looked, then smiled and dabbed his handkerchief carefully, looked at it with satisfaction.  “Anything more?”

            “Not that eye, but the other.”

            The King shifted the area of the kerchief for use, and carefully lifted the lid on the left eye, looked close, and finally found the material and dabbed it away.  The boy’s eyes were watering slightly, but did not appear unduly red.  He unfolded the kerchief and looked at what he’d pulled out, and the boy blinked some more, and finally wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.  He looked up into the King’s face to smile, but paused, his face paling a bit.

            “Is it not better?” asked the King, his attention distracted from his examination of the material on the cloth.

            “Oh, yes, my Lord.  It is just--it is just I can see more clearly, sir.”

            The Lord Aragorn looked concerned, examined the kerchief again, and suddenly smiled.  “Oh, I think I understand.  Some of the scar tissue has sloughed away, it appears.”

            “But you said such would not be likely to happen.”

            Arwen laughed, and came forward to put her own lovely hand on his shoulder.  “He is of the line of Kings, Ririon, and now and then the healing gift will manifest in an odd manner.”

            “It is not all clear, just clearer than it was.  Not as much as before you did the cutting on my eyes, but some better.”

            “Be grateful for every little bit of improvement, young one.  The One apparently wishes you to see a bit better this day.”

            “And I do, my Lord.”  The boy’s face was shining with pleasure.

            A knock sounded as the door opened again, and Mardil appeared in its opening.  “Is the King here?  Ah, Lord, I see you are.  The gathering is almost complete.  I brought the wreath for my son to wear, and the cord for the binding.  And Master Faragil has the rings they have decided to exchange as tokens.”

            “And the bride?”

            “My daughter and her family and Mistress Ariel of the inn have her in the Master’s quarters, seeing her dressed and properly prepared, my Lord.”

            The King smiled as he turned to the groom’s father.  “Good then, Master Mardil.  I will take the cord and will walk out with you.  Master Ruvemir, if you think you could spare our daughter, Arwen will take her now.  We leave you to your last moments of anxiety, then.”  He looked once more down at the youth and the smile gentled.  “I rejoice for you, Ririon.  And as of this day you will have three mothers, the one who gave you life, the Mistress Miriel, and now Mistress Elise as well, who is a gentle and practical soul who understands and honors artistry and honor.”  He leaned down and kissed the youth’s forehead and walked toward the door pausing to lay his hand also on Pando’s head and smile down on him before he left the room.      

            Mardil carefully placed the wreath of greenery he bore on his son’s brow, then leaned down to kiss his forehead gently before he followed the King out.  “You will do well, Son,” he said before he disappeared down the passage.

            Ruvemir took a deep breath and drew the mantle about himself, fastened it carefully with the silver star brooch that had come with it.  Not of the Stars of the Northern Kingdom, but that of Gondor, he again noted.  He walked to the corner where his cane stood and took it up.  “I think I am ready now,” he said, realizing he was trembling slightly.  “Will you stand by me with Folco as my witnesses?”

            “We thought you would never ask it of us,” Ferion laughed.

            “Gladly,” said Damrod, another rare smile lighting his features.

            “Full gladly,” said Bergemon.  “I must, as your own commissions have added to mine, it appears!”

            And laughing still they shepherded the small bridegroom out of his room and to the garden before the Inn of the King’s Head.

 *******

            He was standing before a large company, still trembling slightly.  He wore Miriel’s beautifully embroidered surcoat and shirt and the Lord Faramir’s mantle that had been gifted once to Frodo Baggins.  He wore on his head the green wreath of a bridegroom.  He held in his hand the cane that had been the King’s gift.  And he waited for the coming of his bride.  Behind him as he faced the inn stood the King of Gondor and Arnor, come to handfast him to the one he loved.  Nearby stood the small table with the marriage document and the rings they’d chosen to exchange as marriage tokens and the wedding candle in honor of the Creator.  He was circled by his sister’s husband, his father and former master, his ward and Pando Proudfoot--and Joy, and three of his fellows with whom he’d worked at Casistir and elsewhere.  He stood before a mixed company of Men, Elves, and Dwarves (he could see the broad smiles on the faces of Gimli, Dorlin, and Orin); before folk of Gondor, Arnor, Rohan, Rhun, and Harad; before soldiers, Lords, Masters of crafts, the folk of both inns, statesmen, healers, at least three shopkeepers (Master Iorhael stood beaming nearby), apprentices and cleaning boys as well as royalty of the highest sort.  And he was awaiting the coming of the one----

            And then she was coming, surrounded herself by her mother, sister, grandmother, her own mistress, Miriel, Evren, even Coralien and Mardi Cook herself; crowned with a wreath of flowers in all colors, her gown a soft cream embroidered with more flowers, her hair free about her shoulders and woven with gems, the amethyst necklace about her slender neck, her hands holding a sheaf of more flowers and greenery, coming to be joined with him!  The Queen herself began the wedding song, joined by her brothers and the Lady Lothiriel, and all stood still to listen save the party of women coming forward to join the party of menfolk.  His circle opened as hers did the same and she came to stand at his left side.  She handed the flowers she carried to her sister, and turned to take his hand, to look down into his eyes with joy and wonder as he led her before the King.

            The Lord King Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar of Gondor and Arnor smiled down on them, the slight woman and the short man, and when the singing was done began:  “Behold, today two come before you to be handfasted together, to wed one another and to bind themselves to cleave only to each other from this day forward.  Is there any who dares speak against this marriage?”

            When after the requisite wait none broke the silence, he smiled and looked down again at bride and groom.  “Since none speak out, I rejoice to see you wed.  Ruvemir son of Mardil and Elainen of Lebennin, Master Sculptor, you have chosen to take Elise daughter of Lisbet and Curion of this city to wife.  Do you do this full willing, with joy and delight in her and your choosing?”

            “I do.”  His trembling had stopped as he had taken her hand, and his voice was full and glad as he spoke his words.

            “Elise daughter of Lisbet and Curion, maiden of this city, one who has rejoiced always to provide a comfortable setting for others to find rest, who has delighted in beauty, you have chosen to take Ruvemir son of Mardil and Elainen of Lebennin to husband.  Do you do this full willing, with joy and delight in him and your choosing?”

            “Fully so I do.”  Her head was lifted in joy and pride.

            “So be it then.  Let all bear witness these two take one another full willing, in delight, before Men, Elves, Dwarves, Hobbits, and all other children of Iluvatar.  Let all see them this day handfasted together.”

            He took the cord of woven gold, silver, red, blue, green, yellow, purple, white, and black from where it was draped over his own wrist.  “I hereby bind you together,” he said as he laid their wrists together, each grasping the others arm, “in token of your vows before this company.”  Quickly he bound the cord about the wrists, then turned them so the whole company could see.  “See them bound now, one to the other, bound in body and spirit, to rejoice with one another, to grieve with one another, to even argue and make up with one another--” and he whispered low, “--and making up has its pleasures, believe me!” before speaking again to the company “--from this day forth until death alone breaks this bond.  Do all see and agree?”

            The company spoke as one, in a glad and loud voice, “Yea!”

            He turned them back to himself.  “So it is done.”  He unbound their wrists.  “Let you exchange your marriage tokens now.”  He reached to the table and lifted up the rings, breathed upon them, then held them out.  Each took one of the rings.  Elise took his hand and slipped it onto the finger he’d agreed would be least in the way when carving, the third finger of his left hand, and said, “Ruvemir, this day I take you as my husband, and may Arda fail before my love does.”

            He slipped his own gift onto her finger.  “Elise, today I take you as my wife, and even Arda’s own failure will not diminish my own love for you.”

            Dorieth handed the flowers back to her sister.  The King smiled with full satisfaction.  “May the Valar and Eru Himself shine upon your joining with bliss and content, and strength to face what must be faced as life unfolds before you.  Behold the new husband and the new wife, Ruvemir and Elise of Gondor and Arnor!”  All broke into a storm of applause, and suddenly the two of them were kissing, the first kiss of their marriage--but certainly not their last.

Wedding Feast

            They signed the wedding contract and stepped aside so the witnesses could follow suit.  Ririon signed with a satisfied smile on his face, but Pando pulled back.  “I’m not of age,” he said.

            “You are seventeen, are you not?” asked the King, smiling.  “Well, then, by our law you are of age to do this, at least.”  Smiling, the young Hobbit accepted the quill and signed.  Even Joy sniffed the contract, at least, and watched with interest as the King brought out a small stick of sealing wax and lit it from the small protected candle that stood on the table, dropping two small mounds of wax onto the document and stamping one with his seal ring as King of Gondor and the second with a seal he removed from his pocket with the simple A glyph with which Ruvemir was already familiar.  He then took the document and rolled it gently and wrapped the multicolored cord about it and tied the carefully complex knot with which such things were fastened.

            He handed it to them, and Elise and Ruvemir held it between them, the cord between their hands.  “You are now bound to one another,” he said quietly, laying a hand on the shoulder of each.  “Remember, now, that you will experience days similar to the colors in that cord--days of riches and days of loss and want; days of joy past bearing and days of grief which will draw you down; days of finding and of losing, pleasure and pain, hope and despair, love and anger.  And one day will come the day of parting, which is also necessary, for only after we are parted can we hope to find one another truly once again.  If you will open yourselves to the guidance of the Valar and the One, you will get through it well enough.  Just never let the Sun go down on your anger with one another, lest she rise on it the next day.”  His expression was solemn, and Ruvemir suddenly felt an odd thrill flow through him, and felt a slight shiver in Elise as if she felt the same.  He looked to her, seeing her eyes had widened and were fixed on those of the King, her mouth slightly open in surprise.  The King noted the change, examined both, then sighed and smiled.  “Go now to rejoice with these others with my blessing and that of the Valar as well,” he murmured gently, and gave them a loosing push.

            They were now drawn into a line, and all filed past them to shake their hands, embrace them, give them kisses of blessing and happiness, nod to them distantly, or whatever other manner of greeting those who attended might devise.  Then they were led to the long table upon the lawn and made to sit side by side for the wedding feast, and feast it was indeed.  Ruvemir was reminded of the dinners he’d attended in the Shire, and began to laugh softly but helplessly as he looked at the plate set before him, so heaped with food that there was no way he could begin to eat it all.  Pando and Folco, however, were smiling with great satisfaction, as if this were something like! 

            Many sat at the table, while others stood with their plates and talked or sat at smaller tables brought from within the inn or lent by the Dragon’s Claw and another inn from the First Circle.  The King and Queen came to sit opposite bride and groom, the Queen carefully arranging a blanket over her daughter so she herself could feed.  The Lord Prince Faramir came near, leaned over Ruvemir, and smiled as he said quietly, “I rejoice Sam passed this mantle on to you, Master, for it suits you well.  Nor do I think Frodo would be the least unhappy with the recipient.  In fact I think had he been able to remain he would be fully happy to meet and know you, although I suspect he’d still be arguing that there is no need for any memorial, particularly not for one with him in it.”

            “Thank you, my Lord Prince.  It is heartening to hear you say this.  As for the Lord Frodo--I suspect you are correct.”  They shared a smile before the Prince Steward strolled away to speak to one of the envoys from Rohan.

            “Master Ruvemir?”  Ruvemir turned to see Celebgil approaching.  “I am so glad for you this day.”

            “And I rejoice you and your family came this day.  Are you preparing for Sunday?”

            “I am.  I will finally see somewhat of the realm beyond Lossarnach and the city.” 

            Ruvemir looked and saw that Elise’s grandmother was approaching the table to speak to the King.  He looked quickly back at the apprentice.  “Celebgil, swiftly, go around the table and get a chair, and hold it ready for Mistress Idril.  She does not yet recognize him, and I fear when she does it will overwhelm her.”

            A brief nod and the youth was off.  The mannikin then turned to Pando.  “Please get a goblet of wine ready to present to Mistress Idril, Pando, and go to her.  She will need it shortly, I think.”  Again, the young Hobbit nodded and rose to follow the orders given.  Ruvemir said to Elise, “I hope it is not too much of a shock for her.” 

            Elise smiled.  “She’s a strong lady--she will weather it.”

            Ah, Master Faragil was approaching her, and smiling.  Good, she would not be without support.  With that thought, Ruvemir set himself to enjoy one more small drama of recognition.

            Mistress Idril turned to smile up at Master Faragil, then after taking his arm she stepped forward to speak to the King at last.  “My Lord King, we are greatly honored you have done this for our Elise and her beloved.”

            The King turned graciously and smiled at her, for seated he was almost on a level with her own eyes.  “It is my pleasure and honor to do so, Mistress.”  He looked at her more closely, and his eyes showed he was sifting through his own memories.  “I am sorry, but you are familiar.  Have we met in the past?”

            “Not that I know of, my Lord, although I stood near the front when you were crowned.”

            But the memory had been found by the King.  “Oh,” he said softly.  “You were wife to Hirigion.”  He gave a brief nod, his face solemn, then gave a gentle smile.  “Hopefully the joy of today helps balance what I had to tell you the last time we met, then.”

            And the shock did hit her.  Celebgil got the chair behind her just in time as she started to fall back, and the King reached out, rising and catching her and easing her back into it as she sat heavily, her face very pale.  The King bent over her with grave concern, started to call for water and found Pando was already there with a goblet.  With a distracted nod of thanks he took it and checked its contents, then kneeling, pressed it on the lady, admonishing her to take a sip and calm herself.  It took a few moments for her to regain possession of herself, and then she was embarrassed, particularly to find the King was kneeling before her, his napkin fallen to the ground under his knee.

            Seeing her rally, the King rose and retook his seat.  He looked at Celebgil behind the chair and Pando at his side, then turned to look at Ruvemir.  “I see you were anticipating such a reaction.”

            “Yes, my Lord, I feared it might be so.”

            “Thank you for your quick thought and preparation.  It might have helped if I’d realized this was another I met long ago, though.”  Yet he was smiling.

            He turned again to Mistress Idril, noting the concern on the face of Master Faragil as he leaned solicitously over her.  “Forgive me, Mistress.  As I said earlier to Masters Damrod, Ferion, and Bergemon, I appear to have this effect on some, and it appears you are another such a one.”

            She began to smile in spite of herself, then finally to laugh.  The King smiled in response.  “Please forgive me, my Lord,” she finally said.  “I was warned.  I ought to have realized....”  She examined him closely as she took another sip of the wine.  “You do not appear to have changed notably at all, Sire.  As for our last meeting, I was glad it was you who came with the word, for your courtesy and obvious grief helped to allay my own.”

            He nodded.  “And your courage and gentle tears helped me deal with my own grief.  He was a good Man, and a good soldier.  He deserved better than what he experienced.”  He looked across to Elise.  “At least now I know what about her seems so familiar, for she has her grandfather’s smile.”  Idril nodded.  “Now, if you and Master Faragil will join us at the table....  By the way, did he tell you as yet of our meeting the other day?  He didn’t?  Well, I give him full permission to instruct you of our past dealings.  He was not quite as shocked, although his expression as he looked at his former apprentice was quite wonderful.”

            All were laughing together as Idril rose and Master Faragil assisted her to sit beside the King.

*******

            Ifram of Rhun watched the progress of the wedding and then the feast with fascination.  Watching with curiosity the King’s interaction with the small, elderly woman who had attended on the bride, he looked to his companion for explanation.

            Eregiel smiled.  “Apparently she is another who had reason to know the Lord Captain Thorongil when he fought for Gondor almost fifty years ago, my Lord.”

            “The Eagle of the Star--that is what the name translates to, does it not?”

            “Yes, Lord Ifram, that is what it means in the Common Tongue.”

            “Yes, I can see it.  An interesting man, your Lord Aragorn.  Because he is descended from the line of Kings from the fallen island, he will live a long life?”

            “If he is not slain otherwise, he ought to live at least two hundred years.  He is now ninety-three.

            “I see.”  There was silence between them for a time.  “The small carver of stone, he will live in the house opposite ours, on the end of the street, no?”

            “Yes, my Lord.”

            “There is friendship there between them.”

            “Yes, a level of it.  The King prizes the friendship of those who accept him as he is, who are not overwhelmed by the fact he is the King.  It, apparently, was what he found to treasure in the fellowship of those who traveled with him from Eriador, and part of what he so honored in Frodo Baggins.”

            “Why are there two names for the Periannath?”

            “The first is the personal name, the other the name of the father’s family to whom the Hobbit is born or into which a wife marries.”

            Ifram pondered this.  “The clan name becomes part of the personal name, then.  So, by their ways I would be Ifram d’Bouti, I suppose.”

            “You are from the d’Bouti tribe?  I see.  My lord cousin had good things to say about the d’Bouti tribe from his time in Rhun.”

            “The King has been in Rhun?”

            “Yes, many years ago, not long after he left the service of Gondor.  He said he spent some months with the d’Bouti tribe, which appeared to accept him.  They taught him their tongue, and he taught one of their youths, Bastir, I think his name was, some of the common tongue in return.”

            “Your Lord King was the one whom my grandsire knew as StarEagle?”  He thought for several moments, then smiled.  “Eagle of the Star--StarEagle--yes, I see.”  He shook his head.  “My grandsire Ba’hastir was a young warrior, and StarEagle taught him how to wield a blade even better, although he told him a few things he would not teach him in case they might find themselves facing one another on the battlefield one day.  He left quickly during one of the councils, the one in which it was decided that this stranger ought to be taken prisoner and tortured to tell what he knew of the movements of the armies of Gondor.  Some wished to gift him to the forces of Mordor to curry favor, but my grandsire would not agree.  When he went to warn StarEagle this was being considered, he found StarEagle had already escaped.”

            Eregiel smiled.  “Yes, I can certainly see him saying and doing exactly that.”  He sipped from the goblet he held.  “How did your family come to hold a Gondorian slave, Lord Ifram?”

            “Staravion was found just into Rhun’s lands when I was a small boy.  My grandsire and uncle captured him.  He’d worked as a scout for the army of Gondor, although he told them his father’s people were from the north.  We did not know then what that meant.”

            “From the north?  I wonder what family he comes from, then?”

            The Rhunim shrugged.  “My grandsire was able to speak to him in his own tongue, and decided to keep him as a slave.  He admitted he’d been in the army only a few weeks, and could tell them little, even under torture.  His story did not change, even when he began to lose fingers and toes.”

            Eregiel straightened in shock.  “That you do not do similarly is a matter of great surprise to us,” the young ambassador commented.  “I am certain my people saw the condition of those who had been held prisoner by those of Gondor as being untouched, and they will not understand how they came to give what information they did to Gondor.

            “My grandfather decided to have Staravion care for and train my brothers and myself.  He wished us to learn the language of Gondor, its ways, its histories.  He said that we must understand those we face if we are to best them in war or trade.  Staravion was instructed to teach us the stories of his own land, which he did.  We came to love him, my brothers and I.  He was quiet, but full of humor as well, and he came, I think, to love us as children.  Only when we began to grow up, to speak around him of taking the ears and eyes of our enemies when we fought, did he leave us.  I came to his quarters one day to release him for the day, and found he had left during the night.  He probably could have freed himself many times over the eight years he was with us, but he waited until I began to study warcraft--then he left.”

            “I see.”  Eregiel turned to a nearby table and sat at it, accepted a dish of food from a server.  Ifram sat beside him and accepted another, took out his eating knife and spoon from his belt, and began to share in the feast. 

            Ifram after a time paused in his eating.  “I was glad when Staravion left, and hope he found his way back to his own people.  I would like, though, to see him once again and thank him for his care for us when we were young.  My people are not always good to their children.  Often he spared us beatings, accepting them for us himself.  My father never understood, thought it denoted a form of weakness.  But Moritum and I and Shefti--we knew it was not weakness, but one who was strong seeking to protect those he himself saw as vulnerable.  Perhaps it was why my brother recognized we could not win when we saw the spare forces arrayed against Mordor.”

 *******

             The sharing of the wedding pastry was finished, the flowers thrown into the group of women and girls was accomplished, and they were caught by Mardi Cook, who smiled happily as she carried her prize away to the kitchens.  Then at last when the singing and dancing were at their height Eregiel slipped up to Ruvemir to tell him the cart was ready to take him with Elise up to their new house.  He and Elise slipped through the crowd and spoke quietly to this one and that, kissed sisters, wards, apprentices, parents, grandparents and masters, and quietly made their way out to the street.  They were found out, of course, and pelted with seed and rice and flowers as they were helped into the cart among the last of the gifts to be carried away from the inn.

            Those going along the streets of the city pulled aside with good humor to let the cart through, and many smiled to see the signs of a marriage just completed.  That not long after the call came again to make way failed to upset them, particularly when they saw this party heading for the upper city included their King and Queen and the blanketed form of their sovereigns’ daughter.  Many came forward with flowers to present, and the Queen accepted them with pleasure.  Many found they had the chance to look into the face of the Queen’s child, to see soft blue eyes looking out at them.  The King finally took the child so that the Queen could accept more flowers, and all saw how tenderly he held her, how he turned her so she could look out at those who approached, how he crooned to her as she looked up into his face.  Ah, their King and Queen loved their child, carried her themselves, did not give her over to a nurse.  Well and good!

            It was a fair day, and looked to be a fair evening.  Their King and Queen were among them, their royal child was healthy, and the people of Minas Tirith would rejoice at least for the day, for word had it that soon their King would leave once again to face war, war not fought, this time, in their own lands.

 *******

            Ruvemir went forward to unlock and open the door, then came back to where Elise waited by the cart.  “I hope I can do this properly,” he said.  “My arms are not particularly well proportioned for carrying brides, you know.”  Finally he smiled an apology.  “Not precisely graceful, but it will do.”  He came forward and had her lean over his shoulder, raised her up, and carried her almost like a sack of root vegetables over the threshold as she laughed helplessly.  They were both laughing as he entered the day room, and when he went to let her down again he lost his balance.  Together they sat upon the floor and continued to laugh, holding each other until the tears came.  Then they were embracing, kissing....

            He broke off.  “One thing before we come to that, my love.  I want to make a picture of you as you are now, to share with all our children who may come, and with the others who will want to see what you look like, just now, at the height of your beauty and desirability.”

            His chest with the sketch booklets stood against a wall nearby, and he quickly found his newest one, his pencil case, chose the drawing stick and graphite he wished to use, began to sketch....

            An hour later he declared himself satisfied, and showed her.  She gave a gasp of surprise.  “That is how you see me?” she asked.

            “Of course, Beloved,” he smiled.  “Now, I think I deserve a kiss for the work I’ve done.”

            One kiss led to another, then to another still----

            Some time later she looked up at him from their bed, surprised and pleased at what she and he had just enjoyed.  He was sitting up, looking down at her, a gentle look of pleasure and sheer joy in his eyes.

            “Did you wish to do another picture of me as I am now?” she asked.

            He slowly shook his head.  “No, I am imprinting this picture in my heart.  Only One other has the right to know you as you are now, as we are now; and He has seen and, I suspect, is fully happy.  I will share this image with no one else.”  He leaned down to kiss her lips gently, and she drew him back down, back down to know that love once more.

Morning After

            Ruvemir woke before sunrise and at first felt decidedly odd.  He did not recognize where he was; the wide bed was unfamiliar; and there was breathing that was not Pando’s, Ririon’s, or Joy’s--a light breathing, that of----

            He turned and looked down at his bride lying asleep in the grey light coming in the window, and gasped.  Oh, yes, yesterday!  He was married, married to this lovely girl who lay beside him, curled on her left side, her left hand under her cheek.  He looked at her in wonder, then rose to relieve himself. 

            The day room was on the back of the house, overlooking the Pelennor.  He pulled on his worn robe that not even Miriel had been able to talk him into letting go, walked onto the balcony and looked out.  The Sun as she rose over the Ephel Dúath laid over the dark mountains a soft rosy glamour.  Would they now begin to support life, he wondered as he looked out at them, now that Orodruin had pulled itself to pieces and there was no more Lord in the Black Land? 

            He looked down and saw the small yard that lay between the house and the Wall, the small grey bench where the Lord Frodo, after a morning of not being able to stomach his food, had huddled miserably until the spying of children relieved his tension, allowed him to keep down a mug of tea and a slice of toast.  He saw the steps down on one end of the balcony, walked slowly down them, approached the bench, looked at it for several moments.  Finally he sat upon it, looked out to see what he had seen, noted the bushes that screened the Wall and had allowed hiding places for Dorieth, her friend, and the boys they’d followed up to this level.  He could see the walls of Mordor fairly clearly.  What a sight for one who had felt impelled to go across those walls, who had climbed the steep, often ladder-like stairs of Cirith Ungol, who had faced Shelob and been poisoned there.  Suddenly he was angry with the King for putting that gentle soul here where he could not help looking at that each day, where every sunrise brought back the memories.  No wonder Frodo had chosen the study for his own, for there, at least, he did not look out at that.

            He heard a window open in the next house, looked up to see a woman leaning on the sill, smiling out at the view to the east.  As she finally started to pull herself back in she looked down and was startled.  “Oh,” she said, “I did not realize anyone would be there.  Are you Master Ruvemir, then?”

            “Yes, my lady, I am.  You look out to greet the dawn?”

            “Oh, yes, and to give thanks for the sight of those walls under the cleansing Sun, that they finally are open to simple light of day once again.  No longer do we look out to see ever the pall of smoke there, worry that it will overwhelm us.”  She smiled.  “Frodo used to sit there to give thanks for that, taught me to see how wonderful it is that we can see those walls now, and the green land that lies between us and them.  He laughed to tell me that there was life within Mordor even when the Enemy dwelt there--twisted brambles and bushes with great tearing thorns, but life nonetheless.  He said not even Sauron the Great was able to deny life its hold in the end.”

            A child’s voice could be heard within, and she called back, “I am coming.  You will not starve if you must wait a moment more, you know.”

            She smiled at him again.  “My son is certain if he does not get his pottage immediately upon waking he will not grow, and he has determined that when he is grown up he will be as tall as the King.”

            Ruvemir laughed.  “My son is the same.”

            “Your son?  Ah, yes, you are now the guardian of the boy Ririon.  Does he do well, then?”

            “Oh, yes, very well indeed.  He is a gifted carver.  Each day he amazes me with what he is able to do.  I will miss him when I must leave him in Lebennin with my father for his apprenticeship.  I will insist he comes to visit us frequently while we are still in the city.”

            “Eldamir became very fond of him, and rejoiced he was given to such a good family, and one which will assist him to perfect his talents.”

            “I have rejoiced every day since he came to us.”

            She smiled at him.  “Good.  Now I must go.  I give you a good day.”  The child’s voice could be heard as she disappeared back into her home.  He looked after, smiling in return.  Now he rose, climbed back up the stairs, chastened to realize he’d become far too romantic in his thoughts regarding Frodo Baggins.  He’d read the evaluations Frodo had written here of those he’d met, seen the humor in them.  He’d seen the pictures he’d drawn here, the appreciation he’d drawn into the image he’d done of the woman Ruvemir had just spoken with.  Yes, Frodo had known discomfort here, discomfort and nightmares; but he’d also known pleasure, companionship, laughter....

            He went into the kitchen to search for something to eat.

            He’d managed a pan of eggs scrambled with sausage by the time Elise rose and began searching the house for him.  There was juice in the small cold room, a loaf of bread she sliced expertly, a small tub of butter, rings of dried apple, preserved strawberries.  They ate in the kitchen, talking of what each liked best for each meal, their experience with cooking, their preferred chores.  Together they washed up after, and he put things away.  Then they rather awkwardly looked at one another, suddenly shy with each other. 

            Ruvemir reached out, stroked her shoulder, and she smiled.  “Good morning to you, Mistress,” he said softly.   “My Mistress,” he added with pleasure.  “Shall we go in and begin seeing what has been gifted to us?”

            A large pad of paper was found on the desk in the bedroom.  He brought out a stick of graphite and a ball of gum, and together they began to do an inventory of gifts.  There were elaborately woven and decorated blankets, towels, other linens.  There was a fine set of serving dishes from Celebgil’s family, a book on the history of the city from the bookseller Ruvemir preferred from the first level, the completed picture of the Elves and the Dragon he’d seen in Master Iorhael’s shop, a set of silver spoons from Elise’s family, a finely carved set of bowls and servers done in birch wood from his father. 

            Then he saw the box Merry had given him at Yule, making him promise not to open it until he was back in the capital.  He’d left off opening it for so long, so now he examined it to find its fastenings.  It was full of seven small leather-bound volumes, and suddenly Ruvemir realized what they must be.  He found the letter Merry had included.

Dear Ruvemir, I found these in a chest in a storeroom where Frodo used to take refuge from time to time when he lived here in the Hall.  I read a bit from them, and leave the rest of it to you. 

            A good Yule to you.  M. Brandybuck

            Ruvemir found Merry had set them in order of date, took out the first and set it aside.  He looked up at Elise.  “These were intended as my Yule gift from Merry, and not exactly as a wedding gift.  They are the journals the Lord Frodo wrote as a young lad, after his parents died.  Shall we read this one together as we travel?”

            “Oh, yes!  I’ve hoped to come to know about him from you--it is so plain you have come to honor him so from your journey.” 

            This became the first item set aside for their coming journey. 

            They went through the dispatch case and opened the bundles.  There was a fine tablecloth made by Marigold Gamgee and a set of napkins edged by Rosie and a package of seeds from Rosie and Sam and their family; a set of eight Dwarf-made tumblers each carved from a different stone from Pippin; a beautiful vase from the Tooks, a book on the history of the Shire from Fredegar Bolger, finely made linen tea towels from Viola and Budgie Smallfoot, a planter box and strawberry plants from Saradoc and Esmeralda Brandybuck.  The last package looked to be a book, and as he unwrapped it Ruvemir’s eyes misted--the book of children’s tales Frodo had copied out for Merry when he was small! 

            Elise looked with pleasure at the elegantly bound volume in her love’s hands, and he handed it to her, suggested she look for the pictures....

            “Frodo Baggins copied that, drew the illustrations,” he explained as she looked at the picture of the boy who looked so much like Merry talking to the fox.  “He bound it as well.”  She looked up at him in wonder. 

            He found the pictures of the cloaks and the others promised by Merry in a stiff folder of pasteboard at the bottom of the wrappings.  He smiled.  “Sir Meriadoc is one of the most generous souls ever created,” he murmured.  “I am so glad I’ve been able to know him.”  He looked into her eyes.  “You will adore him when you meet him and Mistress Estella,” he promised.  “You will love them all.”

            “We will meet them?”

            “When we go north.  If we can’t enter the Shire, they’ve sworn to come to us.”

            “Did you send a gift to Fredegar Bolger?” she asked, remembering he’d told her this one was marrying at the same time as themselves.

            “Yes, the day after we returned to the city.  In the open market in the First Circle I found a tray and seven goblets and a server for fine liquor, all in silver, and sent that to him.  I hope he has it by now.”

            They decided to leave off for now, went into what was now their room and placed the books on the shelves, searched the wardrobes and the dresser to see how their clothes had been ordered, started to find clothing to wear for the day, became distracted for a time....

 *******

            They had decided what clothing they’d take with them by the time the cart came for them at noon, and already had their clothing chest half filled.  This time Ruvemir was taking only two sketch booklets and drawing supplies and his fine tools for soapstone, so there would be no bulky chest of his tools to worry about.  Elise was deciding what to place in her personal satchel when the bell was rung, and Ruvemir was watching her with delight.  They wrapped their cloaks about them, for it was cool here in the Sixth Circle this day, and went out to ride down to the King’s Head.  He carried the alabaster figure with him, finishing the smoothing as they made their way through the various levels of the city.

            By nightfall they had the coach ready, and Pando and Ririon kissed them as they left again for the upper city, Mardil placing a protective hand on each youth’s shoulder.  With a last fondle of Joy’s ears, they entered the coach.  Eregiel, who’d come down to assist in the loading, mounted the box while Artos leapt in to ride with Elise and Ruvemir, and they made their last trip for the time up through the city.  By the time they reached the house both were tired.

            Eregiel and Ruvemir placed the coach near the house and together unharnessed the team, which Eregiel led off to the upper stables for the night.  There would not be a second team this time, for they were not traveling through the Wilds and would be stopping frequently along the way.  Ruvemir was almost sorry, but at the same time relieved to have only two ponies for the coach itself to attend to this time.

            As he was making certain the windows of the coach were all closed, Ruvemir realized he was being watched by someone from the house opposite.  A single guard stood at the gate there, he’d noticed, and a second on the porch, the soldiers, he realized, from Rhun.  Now Ifram from Rhun came out of the building and stood looking out at him.

            “Welcome, Ruvemir of Lebennin.  So, this is how you travel, is it?”

            “Yes, it is how we travel.  And how are you this evening, Lord Ifram?”

            “Well enough.  You and your bride are happy with the house?”

            “Oh, yes, we are, although it seems somewhat empty with but the two of us right now.”

            “It will be quiet again once you set out for the southlands.  All is well with the work site above?”

            “Yes, the tools have been brought down here and stored in one of the parlors, the figures tarped and fastened with line, and the King has set a guard to make certain they remain unmolested.  Would you and your brother like to join us for an evening drink ere we go to our beds?”

            Ifram surprised himself by accepting.  He and Shefti emerged from their house a quarter mark later and crossed the quiet lane to knock at the door of the house which had been empty until yesterday, and the door was opened by the small figure of Elise, who blushed happily to admit her first guests to her first home.  They spoke of the trip to come and the route to be taken, and after they’d finished their drinks gave their hosts a good evening and returned to their own place, feeling better for having spoken with those they would travel alongside on the morrow.

South and East

            Not long after dawn Ruvemir and Elise loaded their last chest into the coach, brought out their personal satchels, made certain the house was secured, and settled themselves in as Eregiel finished harnessing the team and climbed onto the box.  They drove to the doors of the Houses of Healing, where Ioreth stood holding the boy Lanril in her arms, Lorieth standing beside her, clutching her skirts, a stuffed dog under her arm.  Eregiel carefully lifted both into the coach, and the girl sat stiffly by Ruvemir while Elise took the boy into her arms and smiled down on him.   Eregiel lifted in their bundles of possessions and the changes of clothing and so on for the infant, and having assured himself that all were now ready, he clambered back onto the box and took up the reins.

            Ioreth smiled at them.  “That they have found so good a place, those who will care for them as father, mother, grandsire, aunts, uncles, cousins--that is very good, very good indeed.  May you have a pleasant journey.”

            There was a bottle of milk with a nipple for the boy for later, root crackers for him also, biscuits for Lorieth for when she became hungry, although Ioreth assured them both had eaten well already. Ruvemir had brought Merry’s gift, and realized he would be glad to share it with these two small souls.

            At the fifth level they stopped at Hirdon’s pottery, and there Celebgil was waiting with a large bag he lifted into the coach, and he then clambered onto the box as Eregiel climbed down, and the youth took the reins as he received the Ranger’s salute.  His mother, a shawl about her shoulders, handed up a bundle of food for him to eat on the way--apparently he had been too anxious to eat his dawn meal; his brothers and sister and Gabon called out their goodbyes, their father secured the door and could be seen to be surreptitiously wiping his eyes, and they set off.  

            At the King’s Head they turned into the drive.  Ruvemir had been pleased to note that Celebgil seemed to be expert at the use of the brakes to ease the team, and now as they stopped the young Man was off the box and giving the ponies praise for a job well done.  That he was careful of the beasts and their comfort and their feelings gave the sculptor one more reason to be glad the youth was to go with them.

            Ruvemir, Pando, and Ririon were kept busy for a time securing the various personal satchels they had within the coach, and then placing the food chest and the travel enclosure for Lanril where they would least impede the feet of those who must ride inside.  At last they were ready, and Miriel was helped in by her husband and father, and with one last farewell from the staff at the King’s Head, they set off for the stables just inside the great gates, Ririon, Pando, and Folco walking behind with Mardil and Faragil, each carrying saddlebags.

            Folco had been daily down to this stable to check on his own ponies, often taking them out for exercise and assisting with the care of other animals as well.  He now cleared his accounts, which were reduced as his help had been appreciated by the staff; and they brought out his animals already prepared for the trip.  Mardil watched with approval as the Hobbit checked cinch and girth and bit, welcomed both; and now he took some of the extra material from the coach and carefully laid it on the back of his pack animal and secured it.  While the others were taking care of things in the stable, Ruvemir excused himself and went to find the party of Dwarves he’d learned from Orin was working on repairs of a building nearby.  There he found the Dwarf who’d given them the blocks of soapstone.

            “I have wanted several times to thank you for your generosity to us, and have had little time.  But, before we leave this time, we hope you will accept this from Ririon and myself, with many, many thanks for the gifts you have given us.  We have both made use of the soapstone, and it was used to craft the model for the King’s commission, among many other things.  And Ririon has used some of it in his portion of this.”

            The figure was of Gimli son of Gloin, leaning on his great axe.  Ririon had used a thin block of the soapstone to carve the axe, which he’d felt carefully one day while Gimli was visiting the worksite.  The piece of alabaster his father had brought him had proven large enough for Ruvemir to do the figure of the Dwarf, and he’d done it in such a way that he could incorporate Ririon’s axe into the final composition.

            The Dwarf was obviously well pleased with the gift.  He looked at the sculptor from under his heavy brows.  “Both of you have produced this, then?”

            “Yes, Ririon carved the axe.  It can be worked free, although I fear that if it is done often it might be lost.”

            “It is finely done, finely done indeed.  And there is no question at all the lad is gifted.”

            Ruvemir smiled.  “None whatever.  I am proud to have him as a son to my house.”

            “May he continue to inspire such pride then.  I thank you once again.  It is good to see one with such a gift learn to use it, and under a teacher such as you who can bring out the gift with pleasure instead of resentment.”  The Dwarf looked over his shoulder and called to one of his fellows, “Dorin, come see what Master Ruvemir and his apprentice have given me!”

            Another Dwarf approached, a taller Dwarf with surprisingly mild eyes.  “What is it, Borin?”

            Borin held out the figure, and Dorin took it with appreciation reflected in his features.  “Fine work,” he said, “fine work indeed.”  He smiled into Ruvemir’s eyes.  “I am told that your other apprentice, the young Hobbit, is to train to work with clay.”

            “Yes, clay and wax.  He will one day do castings, I believe.”

            “Oh, and I have something for him....”  The Dwarf hurried off to where the Dwarves left their personal possessions while they worked, and sorted through things till he found a small bundle--a roll of cloth stitched into pockets, each of which held a tool intended to be used in shaping clay.  “Orin said that he might find use for these,” he said as he returned and held the roll out to Ruvemir. 

            Ruvemir accepted it with surprise.  “I am overwhelmed by the generosity your people have shown us,” he said. 

            Dorin gave a dismissive gesture.  “To see young ones learn to shape--it does not matter what the race--it is simply an honor to assist them as we can.” 

            Ruvemir returned to the rest to find that they were almost ready to go.  Ririon was standing, stroking the forehead of a small dun mare, his face rapt.  Hearing his guardian approach, he turned with a look of delight on his face.  “Ruvemir!  Look what Granfer has bought me!  I have a horse, a horse that is mine!”

            Mardil’s face reflected the joy in the boy’s face.  He looked down into Ruvemir’s face.  “Such small things make him so pleased, Ruvemir.”

            The sculptor shook his head.  “A horse is not exactly a small thing, Adar.”  But he was smiling wistfully as well, watching the boy stroking the horse’s head, wishing he could be the one to teach him how to ride.

            Pando rode upon the box with Celebgil; Miriel, Ruvemir, and Elise rode inside with Lorieth and Lanril, Ririon was assisted into the saddle of his first horse, Mardil and Faragil mounted their own horses, Folco sat upon his riding pony and held the lead rope for the his pack animal, and finally they were ready to go.  Mardil took Ririon’s reins to lead him for the first part of the way, and they finally turned south and west on the road into Lossarnach.

            They’d gone about a mile across the Pelennor when they were hailed by three riders who sat their horses near a byre that apparently was being rebuilt since the war.  “Master Ruvemir!” called Ifram of Rhun.  “You are on your way, then?”

            “Yes, we have started at last,” the small sculptor called through the opened window of the coach.

            “We have been given leave to explore Gondor by the King,” the ambassador explained, “but find that now we have set out we have no idea which way we should go.  May we travel with you for a time?  Your people can then explain to us what it is we see.  And I see you have no armed escort to protect you.”

            “We would welcome the company, although we ought to not require an armed escort here in Gondor itself.”

            “Well enough, then,” Ifram said, smiling.  “This our one escort, Ben’harin.  After the other day, the master of our guard refuses to allow us to travel with no guard at all.”

            “We can understand why, my Lord Ifram.  Feel free to join us.”

            The three riders joined the party and all started again south and east, headed for Lossarnach.  Only four others saw the envoy from Rhun and his companions swing into line behind the coach, and they smiled and nodded with satisfaction.  Then three looked to one another, smiled, and set themselves to secretly protect the small cavalcade, and following the plan they’d already agreed upon, separated to shadow the group while the fourth nodded them on the way and headed back into the city to report to the King.

 *******

            Varondil son of Beremor, Master Sculptor, approached the building that housed the new embassy from Rhun rehearsing the story he was to tell.  He had been told that Rhun was the source of both sandstone and, in one portion of the land, fine granite suitable for carving into great blocks for use in facing buildings, preparing foundations, used often as tombstones and in memorials, and so on.  As one who  brokered stone as well as shaping it into memorials for the dead, he had been approached by a wealthy merchant from the south who had determined to make his place of business distinctive by facing the building with a stone other than the white marble used everywhere.  Would the Lord Ifram help to set up contacts to obtain Rhunic stone for this buyer?

            He was to ingratiate himself with the young ambassador, to give thanks that the attempt on his life the previous week had been unsuccessful.  And he was to somehow learn what schedule Ifram b’nto Agharan would hold to over the next week.  Varondil’s current patron would pay handsomely for this information.

            He approached the gate, and when challenged by the guard at the gate to the low wall surrounding the Embassy he tried out the story he’d been told to tell.  But it appeared neither the Ambassador nor the clerk were present--both were gone from the city, having been granted the King’s permission to travel about the land of Gondor, to visit its fiefdoms, to see for themselves that the peace seen in the people was not limited to those who lived within the capital.  Nor could the guard say where they’d gone first.  They’d spoken of Erech, of Anorien, of the Pelargir, of Dol Amroth.  Each was an eminent destination, but each in a different direction.

            He thanked the guard and went to the stables.  Three of the horses for the Easterlings were gone, and he was able to learn from the stableboy they’d left over an hour after the dawn, some time after the coach for the Master Sculptor who worked on the King’s commission had gone by.

            Not with Ruvemir, then--but probably inspired by him.

            He hurried back to his workshop, and prepared his report.

            The Master of the stable on the sixth level wrote a report and forwarded it to the Citadel--one had come to the stable that day and had inquired about horses, but had looked specifically to see how many of the steeds belonging to the Easterlings were gone.  He had been dressed as an artisan, probably a master of one of the crafts.

            The guard at the house of the embassy from Rhun sent a similar message.

            From the one who’d come back into the city from the Pelennor a third message was sent to the Citadel, that he’d seen three carriages leave the city, two with the immediate families of servitors from the Citadel granted leave and the use of carriages to visit family in Lebennin and Dol Amroth while the King was on campaign, one for the party of the sculptor headed for Lebennin and Belfalas by way of Lossarnach.  His report stated that at he’d seen at least five other parties leaving through the various gates in the Rammas Echor, but that he’d not seen any appearing to note the passage of the coach carrying Master Sculptor Ruvemir westward.

            The messages were given to the King as he ate his breakfast, and he considered their implications.  He looked abroad across the Pelennor, but no sign of the riding for Ruvemir’s party could be seen now.  But there were many ridings on the roads in all directions, headed north, south, east, southwest, west; toward Cair Andros and Osgiliath, Anorien and the Pelargir; along the River and over it.  He hoped no one would tie the leaving of the ambassador from Rhun and his party to that of the sculptor.  But he must trust in the Easterlings to keep their own guard and be ready to protect themselves, and for the unseen escort to do their jobs.  It was to the East he himself would have to go.  He looked up to catch the gaze of his wife, and his heart lightened.  He would leave soon enough, but would take advantage of the time left here to rejoice in her and their daughter.

To Bavarin

            Everywhere they looked as they waited by the byre they saw scars from the war, but scars that were healing.  The byre they waited by itself had been thrown down, many of the stones from its walls apparently cast against the walls of the city, the forces of Gondor.  Trenches had been dug here and there, and although most had been filled in again, there were still places where the ground was lower.  Ruvemir had lowered the windows of the coach, was telling of his first ride upon the Pelennor in the fall, of being overtaken by the storm, of being thrown from his horse into one of the trenches which had filled with rain water, of becoming soaked through, of having to lead his pony to that very byre by which they’d waited to be able to mount it once more.  Now the byre was being rebuilt, and gathered stones and buckets for the mortar were neatly awaiting the coming of the farmer and his sons even now making their way toward it from their farmhouse.

            The reasons for the two fenced areas so close to one another was explained, and Shefti found himself interested, but realized that Ifram was shuddering with disgust as he looked at the bare patch of ground where the Nazgul’s winged mount had been burnt.  Ifram looked at it with loathing in his eyes, and when he caught Shefti’s questioning gaze he explained, “They were horrible to see, Brother, horrible and fearful.  And those they bore----”  All shuddered.

            Elise spoke from within the coach, “We would feel them pass over the city, the Nazgul, and all would quail, even when they did not cry out.  It was a relief to be taken to the places of refuge among the mountains so that we no longer felt them overhead.”

            Again Ifram shuddered, looked pointedly away from the place to the road they followed westward.  Shefti looked in wonder at the site, then turned back to see the city across the Pelennor, the pied stone in the lower levels where soot-stained marble blocks surrounded replacement stones which were pristinely white, where new, white buildings rose above smoke-darkened walls.  The lowest levels of the city had been rising again now for six years, were being renewed.  His brother followed his gaze. 

            “It is still a wonder to me that any sought to assault such a place,” Ifram commented.

            Shefti shrugged.  “When one builds such a mighty work, there will be others who will seek to lay it low again, Brother.  Such is the way of Mankind.”     

            Ifram shrugged himself.

            As they neared the Rammas Echor they came upon what appeared to have been a house site that had been laid low, and relatively recently.  The three Easterlings looked on the blackened mass with interest.

            “It was a crofter’s home,” Ruvemir explained.  “It caught fire a few days after we returned from the north and Rohan.  The King was visiting near the gates of the city with some of the Lords and Captains; he saw the smoke from where he was, sounded the alarm, led them to assist in putting out the fire.  The two children who ride with us were saved from it, but their father and older brother died when a beam fell on them.  The King pulled Lorieth from the fire himself, and the father was able to throw the boy to safety in the arms of the King ere the beam fell.  All fought the fire together, lords, captains, and those from here within the outer wall.”  The guard looked shocked to hear that the King himself had taken part in fighting a fire.

            Once they left the Rammas Echor west and south into Lossarnach, the signs of war diminished markedly, for few of the enemy had come here, concentrated as they were between the ruins of Osgiliath, the wharves of the Harlond, and the walls of the city itself.  They saw woodlots and farmsteads, the wood kilns of charcoal burners and hamlets of small holders.  Everywhere homes were well kept, roads maintained, walls and fences in good repair, crops already lush in the fields, pastured animals placid and well fed.  Children played in dooryards or scattered grain to fowl or led fat pigs and goats along the lanes; goodwives called to little ones to stay out of the roads as they passed by; husbands and older children worked with their hoes in the fields of vegetables.

            Folco Boffin paused in his eating of some trail food and smiled.  “It is good farmland, well maintained,” he commented.  “I think I will do well enough, then, here in Gondor.  It makes me feel more at home.”

            “Your own land is thus?”

            “Yes, but more rolling.  We are mostly farmers, we of the Shire.

            From within the coach they could hear a child’s voice, “Mistress Miriel?  When will we arrive?”

            “Not for several days.  We are in Lossarnach and will be in it through today and much of tomorrow.”

            In late afternoon they stopped in the town of Bavarin where Ruvemir explained he would be meeting with a cartwright to discuss crafting a coach better designed for traveling the wilds.  The inn was small but pleasant looking, built on the edge of the town beside a small lake. 

            A wiry man stood at the desk, his face lighting as he saw who came through the doorway.  “Master Ruvemir!  A surprise, sir.  Do you wish to stay for a few days with us, then?”

            “Just the night, Tervinion.  How has business been, then?”

            “Quiet, although now that the warmth has returned it has begun to pick up.  How large a party do you have?”

            “We will need five rooms--two each for three, one for three and an infant, one for myself and my bride, and one for my father and my former master.”

            “Bride?”  Master Tervinion straightened to look as the small woman standing by Ruvemir’s side.  “You have married, then?  Ah, a blessing then on the two of you!  When did this happen?  So, the party was here to the north for the wedding, then?”

            It was a good enough explanation, so Ruvemir chose to agree.

            “Five rooms!  And we have but eleven in the inn!  Oh, but it may be pleasant to be able to turn away other custom for once.  Well, I think we can suit you well.  But I warn you, Narieth will be most displeased.  How long has she tried to woo you into her bed, and now she’ll find you wed?”

            Ruvemir reddened as his young bride looked at him with great surprise, and tried to gesture him to stop.  Tervinion laughed and chose keys, led them down the hall, opened the first door. 

            “A room for two Men,” he explained, and Mardil and Faragil entered in with their saddlebags.  The next room had three narrow beds in it, and was accepted by the Easterlings.  Master Tervinion smiled at them, but did not appear to care what part of Middle Earth might have seen their origin.  He was more interested in those who still followed down the hall.  He looked at Miriel and Folco and the two children with great surprise. 

            Ruvemir smiled.  “My sister Miriel and her husband Folco and their two children,” he said by way of introduction, deciding to keep the innkeeper’s attention here rather than thinking of the Men who accompanied them; the mystery of it would keep Tervinion’s interest fixed for some time, he knew. 

            The innkeeper thought better of the room he’d intended, opened a different room that had a double bed and a narrower one in it.  “We can bring a cot for the infant,” he said.  Miriel smiled and thanked him.

            He led the way back to the other room and opened it, disclosing three narrow beds.  He looked with great interest at the three youths who entered in, a youth almost grown; a second, younger one accompanied by a quiet dog, on whose back he rested his hand; a child--no, not a child at all, he realized.  Another, different sort of mannikin, then, similar to the husband of Ruvemir’s sister.  The three boys examined the room and began the discussion of which would take which bed, and the others withdrew and closed the door. 
            “My apprentices,” Ruvemir smiled.

            “I see.”  He led the way to the furthest room, opened the door.  “Perfect for newlyweds,” he explained.  “How long ago was the wedding?”

            Ruvemir looked at his bride with pleasure in his eyes.  “Only two days past, in the capital.”

            “I see.  I rejoice to see such.  And, Mistress, please realize that I am only teasing your husband.  It has been a longstanding joke between him and Mistress Narieth, who owns the eating place in the village, that she wished he would have her.  In actuality her own husband would never sanction such a thing, and neither would she.”

            Elise looked sideways at her husband and sniffed.  “It appears an odd sort of joke to me,” she said.  Again he flushed and Tervinion laughed. 

            They met as had been prearranged outside the inn some time later.  Ruvemir explained he’d done work here six years past with the family of a woman who was dying, to prepare a memorial for her that captured what she’d been like before she fell ill, and that he’d enjoyed the town sufficiently that he often came to stay here between commissions, or on his way from one place to another.  Also, one of the premier cartwrights in the realm lived here and practiced his craft, and he intended to see about having a special coach made for their sojourns to the north as he completed his next commissions.  He directed them to Mistress Narieth’s establishment, warning them that the Mistress did have rather a bawdy disposition, but that her food was excellent and the service worth the blushes.

            Master Ruvemir returned from his visit with the cartwright obviously well pleased with negotiations, smiling as he entered the doorway and saw Elise sitting with Miriel and the children near the wall.

            Mistress Narieth looked up from her figuring, and smiled lazily.  “Ah, friend Ruvemir,” she said.  “It has been quite some time--well over a year, in fact.  Why is this--eager to escape my attentions, are you?  And now I find you have betrayed me indeed, taking a bride elsewhere?”

            The Easterlings watched the situation with interest and amusement, seeing the flushed face of the sculptor, who was obviously wondering if bringing the party to Bavarin had been such a good idea after all.  But after he’d sat down beside his bride Narieth brought to the table an elaborately iced cake.  “You must allow me to express my pleasure--and surprise, I might add.  If I cannot have you, this one looks as if she will be more of than a match for you, and will keep you in your place.  Joy to both of you.”  She leaned down and kissed Ruvemir on the cheek, making him blush all the more, and she laughed.  She then looked down at Celebgil with an appraising air. 

            “No, Narieth,” the sculptor said.  “Don’t start it with him, especially since there is a small woman in Minas Tirith who has already caught his attentions and who, I think, sees him as hers already--until and unless, of course, the two of them find other interests elsewhere.”

            She looked at Celebgil with increased interest.  “Oh,” she said, “I know all about small women--very fierce in their protection of those they see as theirs.  No, I will leave this one alone.”  She looked to Folco and sighed.  “Another with a small woman at his side.  I have no chance at all, do I?”

            She then turned to greet two others who entered, smiled at them in obvious recognition, and began to tease them in a similar mode.  Ruvemir sighed with relief.  Elise looked at him closely, and finally allowed herself to smile.  “You did not tell me of the lady friends you had entertained before, Ruvemir.  Although it appears she is particularly entertaining herself.”

            He leaned forward, drew her to him, and kissed her.  “Now,” he said, “I think Pando and Folco would particularly appreciate it if you were to cut the cake.”

Continuing South

            They rose at dawn and ate their dawn meal, and soon after were again on their road.  And so the pattern was set for their journey, stopping two or three times a day usually for resting and refreshment and to care for the horses and ponies, finding a good inn for the night with orders for food to eat along the road for the next day, followed by the early start the next morning.

            Eventually they found themselves following the Gilrain, and after several days they approached a crossing where a new bridge was being crafted to the hamlet on the other side.  “That is Casistir,” explained Ruvemir, “where the King saw the sculpture I did of the Lord Captain Thorongil which led to him deciding to approach me about doing the memorial.”

            “I would like to see this sculpture,” Ifram decided.  “Would it be acceptable to break the journey to see it?”

            The coach, ponies, horses, and a sleeping Lanril were left with Master Mardil on the near shore, and they took the small temporary footbridge over the river into the village.  Ruvemir was greeted frequently by those they passed as they made their way to the Hall; but although the rest of the company was examined by those they passed, no one appeared sufficiently bold to approach them or ask after them.  Most of the attention seemed to be given to the two Hobbits and Mistress Miriel, and there was much buzzing of talk apparently focused on them as they followed the sculptor to the square; but no one appeared to give any of the three Easterlings a second glance.

            Ifram and Shefti examined the sculptures decorating the front of the hall with interest, and Master Faragil explained the events that had inspired the theme.  He pointed out the image of Prince Adrahil, and the resemblance to his son was obvious.  But it was to the figure of the Lord Captain Thorongil that the party gave its greatest attention; and there was no question that it was indeed the King whose image had been reproduced in the stonework.

            “I am not surprised the King’s party was taken aback,” Faragil commented.  “The Lord King himself must have been most shocked.”

            “Apparently,” Ruvemir allowed. 

            The door to the Hall opened and the Master came out, saw the group examining the sculptures decorating the front of the Hall, and recognizing Ruvemir came to greet him.  “Master Ruvemir!” he exclaimed.  “Welcome!  Thrice welcome!  Have you come to stay in the city for a time?”

            “No, Master Anárion, we came across the footbridge only to see the statuary, I fear.  My father came this way on his way back from the summer fair in Dol Amroth and saw them after I went to Minas Anor, but my other companions here have not seen them until now.”

            The Master looked up at those who accompanied Ruvemir and smiled even more broadly.  “Master Faragil?  It has been many years, hasn’t it?  Welcome to Casistir, masters, mistresses.”

            “We are returning home from a wedding in Minas Anor.  Master Anárion, this is Master Ruvemir’s new bride, Elise daughter of Curion of Minas Anor; and these are his sister and her husband, Mistress Miriel and Master Folco Boffin of the Shire in Eriador of Arnor.”

            “Newly wedded?”  His expression was one of surprise, which he quickly mastered.  “Mistress, I wish you joy and happiness.”  He looked a bit uncertain still.  He turned again to the older sculptor.  “So you have come to see the works this one wrought here, have you?”

            Faragil nodded.  “Especially, of course, that of the Lord Captain Thorongil.  We were told that when the King saw himself in the statue he was quite taken aback.”

            The Master laughed, his uncertainty forgotten.  “Taken aback?  I should say so.  He stopped quite suddenly and simply looked, his face full of surprise, while the jaws of those with him quite dropped.  Then I recognized his seeming in the statue, and he feared I would have a brain storm--and at the time I wasn’t certain I’d not had one.”

            Ruvemir laughed.  “He has been heard to say he seems to have that effect on people at times.”

            Elise nodded.  “I was afraid my grandmother would have a seizure of her heart when she recognized him at the last, for she had been visited by the Lord Captain Thorongil when she was a young wife, when my grandfather was killed in Ithilien.”

            “I was surprised when I recognized him, also,” Master Faragil said.  “And this one--” indicating Ruvemir “--was standing there, obviously amused, and trying to pretend that he had no idea I’d know him.”

            “And I,” Ruvemir sighed, “simply assumed this unknown Ranger who’d approached me was the son of the Lord Captain.  I didn’t realize it was the King for weeks, when I finally saw him in formal dress.”

            “A Ranger?”

            “Yes, Master, for he served as Captain of the Rangers in Arnor and chieftain of the Northern Dúnedain for almost all of his adult life.  He approached me in his Ranger’s garb when he asked me if I would accept his commission.  He would not tell me who he was, and let me figure it out for myself.  I felt quite the fool.”

            Master Anárion shook his head.  “He is quite a different sort of Lord for us, I must say.”  The others agreed.

            They stopped at the Crossed Keys as they went back to the footbridge to purchase food to take with them back to the coach, purposing to eat it in the glade where the coach now waited.  The Easterlings suggested that Ruvemir, Folco, Miriel and Elise go ahead with the apprentices and Lorieth back to the coach to prepare for the meal, and that they and Master Faragil would bring the food once it was prepared, and the rest agreed.  As they approached the crossing, however, they could hear comments from those working on the new bridge, and unlike the reaction seen in the Master, they did not try to mask their rudeness.  “Look at the troupe of little ones--and one has raised a beard in imitation of a Man.”

            “And there are women among them, too.  And all wee enough to be children themselves.”

            “One is a child, fool,” one Man said, trying to drag one of his companions away from a confrontation.

            The one who’d spoken first stepped forward to block their way.  “Little folk must pay a toll to cross this bridge--little folk and those foolish enough to travel with them.”

            Ruvemir drew back and looked up at the fellow.  He was not particularly tall for a Man, although he was of course much taller than the mannikin, but his shoulders were broad and heavily muscled.  There was no way, he realized, that he could best this one in a fight.  “And good day to you, also, sir.  What kind of toll do you think to charge for the use of this foot bridge?”

            The Man smiled evilly.  “Maybe a kiss from this one here,” he sneered, indicating Elise. 

            “Targon, come away.  You will find yourself in more trouble than you know, the Master Engineers see you,” the third Man said.

            “Why should we worry about them?  It’s been a long day and wearisome.  I’m thinking we could enjoy ourselves just a bit....”

            Pando had tossed a stone before any realized what was happening, with Folco’s following swiftly.  The Man Targon stumbled backwards, his hand going automatically to his forehead, coming away with blood, at which he stared stupidly for a moment.  Then he began to be angry.

            “Why, you....”

            Another stone, larger this time, struck him and he fell.  The fellow who’d been drawn away broke free of the third Man’s grip.  “You can’t do that to us--” he began, when a stone hit his chest, and he doubled over.

            “You mean to tell us,” Ruvemir said coldly, “that it is acceptable for you to be rude, to threaten us, and to offend our womenfolk, but not for us to defend ourselves?  Oh, I wouldn’t come closer if I were you.”  He raised his cane, and the taller Man drew back.

            Targon was rising to a crouch, intending to rush Ruvemir, when suddenly he found two swordpoints aimed at his face.  Ifram of Rhun looked down on him in contempt.  “I suggest you let be,” he said.  He then looked pointedly at  the other.  “If you do not wish to be struck again, then I would think you would go back to your  own  work.  Periannath are well known to be deadly with flung stones, and these two have already proven themselves against ones better able to fight than you.”

            “But he’s a mannikin,” insisted the second Man, pointing at Ruvemir. 

            “So he is, but those two are not.  Their kinsman defeated Sauron armed only with his will--do you think such as you are seen as particularly difficult to subdue?”

            Folco smiled an exceedingly grim smile.  “I fought in the battle of Bywater, my friend, and again in the wilds of Eriador.  I have no compunction against killing if it is necessary.”

            Ruvemir’s face was simply grim.  “And he does not boast idly.  The Ernil i Pheriannath, who is their kinsman, slew a troll with a single blow, and their cousin Sir Meriadoc helped to destroy the Lord of the Nazgul.  It is not wise to rouse the ire of the Halflings.”

            “Halflings?”

            “Yes,” Folco said, “we are Halflings, as you call us.  And no longer will we allow such as you threaten us.”  He turned to the younger Hobbit.  “It is well enough, Pando.  Escort Miriel and Lorieth across the bridge, and Ruvemir, escort your wife.  Ririon, is all well with you?”

            “Well enough.”

            “Then follow Ruvemir.  We three can hold off these fools if it is necessary.”

            “Just a moment,” Pando said.  “I want to get back my stone first--it’s the one the King said I should carry with me.”  He walked near the Men and quickly found the marble shard and pocketed it, then turned back to take Lorieth’s hand and offer his other arm to Miriel, and they went across the footbridge.

            A stir behind the Men heralded the arrival of the Engineers who were in charge of the building of the new bridge.  One approached.  “What is happening here?”

            “These two were amusing themselves at the expense of those smaller than they,” Folco explained.  “I believe they now know we will not permit ourselves to be molested with impunity.  I do not suggest forcing them to leave their positions, but they might do well from a significant cut in their pay.  And I will be communicating with the Lord King and the Lord Gimli about them, and about the honor shown by that one, who sought to restrain them and to remind them how decent Men are to act.”  He indicated the third Man, who flushed.  Folco nodded his head at Ifram and the guard, who sheathed their swords, turned back to where they’d set down their bundles of food from the inn, took them up again, and followed Ririon and Joy across the narrow bridge.  Master Faragil followed them, and at last, certain all others were safe, Folco bowed to the engineers.  “Thank you, good sirs,” he said.  He turned to the third Man.  “Your name, sir?  I would wish that the King hear the name of one in whom honor is intact.”

            “Húrin son of Hergion, Master,” the Man said finally, after a sign from his own Masters he ought indeed to answer.

            “Then you have the thanks of the Shire, Húrin son of Hergion.”

            “You know the Lord Gimli?” asked one of the engineers.

            “Yes, we know the Lord Gimli and many of his kin and people--Dwarves are always welcome within the Shire.  Good day, good sirs.”  He gave a sketchy bow and turned to follow the rest across the footbridge.

            Once he’d joined the rest he smiled.  “I thought the name of Gimli would get the interest of the engineers at least.  They know who broke the debate about which design of bridge to build here and at whose request he came.  They will not allow those to follow us.”

            So saying they returned to the glade where the coach waited. 

            The horses and ponies were grazing, and Mardil sat reading the book which had been Merry’s wedding gift to Ruvemir and Elise, keeping half an eye on Lanril, who lay on a blanket spread on the ground, mouthing the teething ring Ririon had carved for him during preceding evenings and had finished only the night before.  Mardil looked up with interest as they returned.  “What was the shouting about, then?”

            Ruvemir shrugged.  “We had a bit of an altercation with the Men working on the bridge as to the toll for crossing the footbridge, but it is satisfactorily settled.  Are you hungry?”

            “This book is marvelous.  Are these tales of the Shire?”

            “Yes, Sir Meriadoc sent it as his gift.  It was most generous of him to do so, and I know he will regret it when he has children of his own.”

            “The copyist has among the fairest hands I’ve yet seen, and the illustrations are a marvel.”

            Folco smiled.  “Frodo copied it out, illustrated it, and bound it all three.  I was there the day he bound it, and he allowed me to assist only in the mixing of the glue.  He was determined to present it to his beloved little cousin Merry in four days time, and felt pressed to get it done swiftly.”

            Mardil looked at it with a sense of reverence.  “This is the work of the Lord Frodo?  I’d been told, but did not realize the fullness of his own artistry.”

            “Our Uncle Bilbo taught us both the art of copying books, and the Powers know I’ve copied my share.  But I never was a hand at drawing as Frodo was; and almost all he did he did with a share of grace that marked it as extraordinary.”

            Mardil looked at his daughter’s husband.  “Do you envy him, Folco?”

            The Hobbit looked up at him with surprise.  “Envy Frodo?  No, not since he came of age have I envied him.  He may have been a wonderful dancer, have been learnèd and artistic, have been gentle and very much loved and admired--and envied by others, I suppose; but look at what it cost him.  He lost his parents when he was still so young, was abandoned by Bilbo when he came of age, lost his innocence, his ability to love and marry and father children, his health--and now most like he has lost or is losing his very nature as a Hobbit.  No, I don’t envy him.”

            Mardil considered this as he looked at the picture to which the book was open.  There were a total of five Frodo had done for the tales, and this was the most intricate and most whimsical.  The story it illustrated was of a small child who’d lost the total contents of his toy chest, and he had until sunset to find all the lost toys and replace them in the chest before they became real and slipped away elsewhere into the wide world.  The picture showed a Hobbit smial’s round door and the garden about it, with all the items mentioned in the story hidden here and there, between plants, on the branches of the tree overhead, in the windowbox, in the shade of the bench by the doorway, caught in the panes of the window--a doll; a flock of wooden sheep, their wooden shepherd and two wooden dogs; a boat; two elaborate spinning tops; three balls; a wooden pony on wheels with a string to pull it across the floor; a paper bird; a pail and spoon; a carved apple; a carved wooden dragon....

            “He was so very talented,” the carver sighed.  “This picture is so very elaborate.”

            “What is it like?” asked Ririon, and Mardil, smiling, began to describe it to him. 

            Ruvemir had found it while reading to Lorieth the day before as they traveled, and together they’d searched for the missing toys.  He smiled as he listened to his father’s description, saw Ririon’s satisfaction increase as the details were listed. 

            Finally, when Mardil couldn’t find anything else to describe, Ririon asked, “Did he do the dragonfly, Ruvemir?”

            “Yes, he did, in the glass of the window to the left of the doorway.”

            “Is the door round with the knob in the center like at Bag End and the Great Smial?”

            “Yes, it is a Hobbit’s door indeed, Ririon.”

            “What is the dragonfly about?  It isn’t mentioned in the story.”

            “It is his signature sign.  His father did a circle halved and one side quartered as his signature sign, and Frodo did a dragonfly, the body and left wings his first initial backwards and the other wing a small, elongated, stylized B.”

            “His signature sign?”

            “Yes, Sir Merry showed it to me and explained it.  Lord Samwise had not realized its significance, but began going through his Master’s drawings to find it, and we have found that he had made a game of trying to work it into the drawing somehow as part of the picture he did.”

            “You say his father had a signature sign?  Was he, too, an artist?”

            “He was a joiner and carver of wood.”

            Pando looked at him, his eyes wide.  “You mean my Dwarf box was carved by Cousin Drogo?”  Ruvemir nodded.  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

            Ruvemir smiled.  “It wasn’t the time to tell you when we were looking at the work you’d done.  It was enough for me to understand that you’d inherited the family gift of artistry yourself.”

            Folco laughed.  “Have you ever been to the Council Hole in Michel Delving, Pando?”

            “Yes, last year during the Free Fair.  There is a huge sideboard there with carvings all over it, and I spent a good deal of my day just looking at it.”

            “Drogo did that, too.”

            The younger Hobbit looked delighted.  “I’m glad Lotho didn’t know.  He’d have destroyed it, wouldn’t he have, Folco?”

            “Most like, yes.”

            They ate their meal, and gave a large slice of lamb Lanril could not choke over to the child to suck and gnaw on as they did so; and were soon on their way again.

Placing an Apprentice

            The next day Mardil and Faragil left the party to go on to their homes, for the rest were to reach the home of an artist friend of Ruvemir’s that evening where the apprentices would receive some experience with colors, painting, and drawing.  After two nights with Master Burúnir they went on again, finally reaching Belfalas and the home of Mistress Andúrien.  Here they were made welcome and settled into the guest house, and for three days they all explored the working of clay and wax, and saw the creation of a mold based on a figure done by Pando with which the lady was quite pleased.  She signed the document of indenture gladly, assuring Pando she would teach him all she knew, and probably send him on to other teachers if she managed to exhaust her own teaching. 

            Yet it was with a good deal of regret that they at last took their leave, and Pando clung to Ruvemir and Folco, again feeling homesick.  This time there would be no Ririon to comfort him; but one of the other apprentices, a girl named Raineth, promised to look after him.  As they left, Ruvemir found himself wondering if this might turn out to be the start of a second tale of love between the world of Men and that of Hobbits.  Lorieth looked through the rear window of the coach for quite some time, saddened deeply, for she had come to love the young Hobbit.

            At last Folco took her upon his saddlebow, talking to her, pointing out the crops grown in this field and that, telling whether the farmer was caring for the field properly or not, predicting when a particular field would be harvested.  Lorieth became interested, began asking questions, began identifying crops by the end of the day.

            Ifram of Rhun had watched his brother with interest.  Shefti had always loved shape and form, and now watched the working of the artists with fascination.  When the apprentices worked with painting and clay, he sat or stood alongside them, trying his own hand, seeing how the paint was laid on, how the clay was shaped, how the wax was carved. 

            Ruvemir saw Ifram watching Shefti closely as he worked carving wax, and smiled.  “He also has the soul of an artist,” he commented.

            Ifram shrugged.  “I know that when Staravion began to teach us your writing, when he taught the letters called Tengwar, Shefti was captured by the heart, and he said they were beautiful.  I do not see what he sees, for to me they are but letters.  Yet he will sometimes, when writing his poetry, seek to choose words for how the letters will fall as much as for the sound or rhythm or meaning.”

            Ruvemir was impressed.  “Such is not uncommon among Elvish poets as well, or so I have been told.  So, he is a poet as well as a scribe?”

            “He is very popular among our womenfolk as a result,” Ifram affirmed, smiling.

            Shefti had borrowed the Lord Frodo’s book while they stayed with Mistress Andúrien and read all the stories, examined the illustrations.  Afterwards he’d returned it reluctantly, and had then peppered his brother with questions about the Hobbit.  Finally, faced with many questions for which Ifram had no answers, he’d referred him to Ruvemir and Folco.  “They know of him, and I do not, Brother.  Let you ask them.”

            So, now as they rode back north to the estate of Master Mardil, Shefti asked, and the Hobbit and the sculptor answered as they could.  Finally Ruvemir found himself asking his own question in return.

            “What has brought on this deep interest in the Lord Frodo Baggins, Lord Shefti?  Before you appeared barely interested in him.”

            “His writing is among the most graceful I have ever seen, and yet it appears to have been done with great rapidity and ease.  His drawings also appear to be highly skilled, and in this book range from simple to full and detailed.   I have not seen any artist among my own people who shows such skill, nor such delight in the making.  Such a one would have been well worth the knowing.”

            Folco smiled over Lorieth’s head.  “Oh, yes, he was well worth the knowing.”

            “He was then a Lord among your people?”

            Folco shook his head.  “No, for we do not have those of the nobility among us--only those who own more properties and lands and rent them out, those who are the heads of their families, and those who own less and must labor more intensely.  Sam’s father always felt that in working as a servant to Bilbo this made his family inferior to that of the Bagginses or the Brandybucks--even to the family of the Boffins, of which I am a member.  Yet in actuality there’s little enough difference.  Sam studied under Bilbo and Frodo as a child, learned to read and write and figure, and by his own choice focused on the histories of the First Age, the tales of the great Elves within Middle Earth.  Neither Bilbo nor Frodo saw any difference in status between themselves and Sam’s family, or Frodo would never have chosen Sam as his heir.  Those who labor for others, even serve in the great  homes such as the Great Smial or Brandy Hall, are not bound there, only serve there until they themselves choose to go elsewhere--if, of course, this is their desire.

            “The one thing Frodo could not leave to Sam was the status of being the head of the Baggins family, for Sam is not a Baggins.  As there are now so few of the name left in the Shire, for in the last few generations most born to the name have been female who enter the families of their husbands on their marriages, the family is no longer one of note.  The male descendants of the Bagginses have been born into the families of the Boffins as I am, the Proudfoots, the Bankses, even the Brandybucks.  A family tends to develop status by virtue of how many of the name there are within the Shire, and now the Bagginses have diminished, particularly as Frodo found himself unable to marry or father children.  Now that Sam has become Master of Bag End and he and Rosie have begun to produce what appears likely to be a large and happy family, I suspect the family of the Gamgees or the Gardners, as he is also now known, will rise in prominence.

            “The closest we have to nobility are the heads of the Brandybuck family, which has always been large and fertile, and of the Took family, which is even larger and more fertile.  The head of the Took Family is known as the Took as he is the head of the family and is expected to offer aid to any Took who needs his assistance, and is also the Thain, the traditional, hereditary representative of the Shire before the King and the King before the Shire.  As the Baggins family has decreased in numbers, Bilbo and Frodo became the patrons of the central part of the Shire where they lived, assisting any in need in the area surrounding Hobbiton, Bywater, and Overhill, although Sam has admitted their assistance went to many outside that region as well, usually working anonymously.”

            “Anonymously means what?” asked the scribe.

            “Secretly, without saying who they were when they made their gifts or offered their services.”

            Both Shefti and Ifram thought about this for some time.  “How does one offer assistance without others being aware of it?” asked Ifram.  “And why would one wish to do so?”

            Folco had to think deeply before he answered the question.  “To help others without it becoming generally known is fairly common in the Shire, and we have even developed a tradition of bankers of discretion who assist in this service.  They are bound not to name the person offering their services without the specific permission of the benefactor.  It comes from dealing with strict Hobbit pride, I suppose.  A Hobbit who is down on his luck doesn’t usually like to admit it, and will be likely to turn away what he sees as charity even if he is starving.”

            Ruvemir, listening from inside the coach, shook his head.  “Rather like Gaffer Gamgee insisting that his children ought not to play with the children of his employers, then, insisting on seeing class distinctions where neither Master Bilbo nor Lord Frodo saw any.”

            “Yes, the Gaffer always has been one to insist his family ought not to get above themselves when it was plain they were as good as any other Hobbit in the Shire, and head and shoulders above such as the Sackville-Bagginses.”  He shifted Lorieth to a more comfortable position on the saddlebow.  “Many who are wanting to start businesses of their own will need assistance in doing so, and the bankers of discretion will often approach them with offers to provide them with a silent partner who will finance the beginning of the business for a share in the profits.”

            “Silent partner?” asked Ifram.

            “One who helps finance the start of the business, but who says nothing about how the business is run.  Sometimes a father whose son has turned down the assistance of the family to start a business will utilize a banker of discretion to approach the son in this manner.  Not knowing (or at least admitting) that his father is the silent partner helps the recipient maintain his dignity in his own eyes, for it has now become a matter of business.”

            Remembering Sam’s own story that he’d read in the Shire, Ruvemir added, “Master Bilbo and Lord Frodo would also have their banker of discretion look for young ones who needed assistance with dowries and such and make gifts of money or goods to them under the pretext that this was a bequest from a relative who had died.”

            “Did they indeed?” asked Folco.  He thought for a few moments, smiling gently.  “Sounds just like them, and I can name at least two I think were such recipients.  The particular banker of discretion was a Brandybuck, if I recall correctly, which would certainly also fit, as both were part Brandybuck, particularly Frodo, whose mother was Master Rory’s younger sister.

            “Being a silent partner offers an income to the one serving as such with no need for him to actually know anything about the business in which he has invested.  Now, if the business fails he may find himself owning it outright, at which time he can either arrange for the sale of its assets or may find someone else more capable to start it up again; but for the most part he needs to pay it little attention while it provides him with what is usually a steady income. 

            “We will also buy shares in farms not our own, allowing the one who is actually working the land to do the majority of the work and again taking a share of the produce or profit.  Many who live in the Westfarthing will have shares in the pipeweed plantations in the Southfarthing so they get their own pipeweed as their share of the crop.  Bilbo loved Old Toby, and owned shares in the plantation that produced it; I own a share in the Longbottom plantation, so when the crop is harvested and dried, my share of the crop will be shipped to me here in Gondor.  I also have retained my shares in our family farm, and my share of the profits is being funneled through my own family’s banker of discretion.”

            Ifram and Shefti looked to one another, shrugging.  “It sounds a strange custom,” the ambassador allowed, “but it appears it serves your people well.”

            “As a result of these traditions, we Hobbits can at least change our status over time,” Folco agreed.  “Only those devoted to a wandering life are without a house or hole, and there are few such among Hobbits.  Only those who will not accept a silent partner need dwell in poverty, and there are even fewer of such in the Shire than there are vagabonds.

            “When my father died, we received assistance from the head of the Boffin family, but we received more from Bilbo Baggins.  He had no legal need to do so, but gave because we were still descended from the Bagginses.  My mother, however, at first preferred to draw on our Took connections and tried to gain sponsorship for me from the Thain, but finally deferred to our Bolger cousins, agreeing with them that the Thain was a disagreeable git with too grasping a nature.  Since Pippin’s father Paladin, who was second cousin to his predecessor, became Thain things are much better in the Great Smial as well as within the Shire itself.”

            “Then,” Shefti finally ventured, bringing the discussion back to the original topic, “the Lord Frodo was not a great one among your own.”

            “No.  We have no titles such as ‘Lord’ or ‘Lady.’  ‘Master’ or ‘Mister’ and ‘Mistress’ or ‘Missus’ is generally as far as we go, and such have no authority outside their own families and employees, save for the leadership the Thain has provided traditionally and that of the Mayor, who is elected from among any of the folk of the Shire who may wish to run.  Will Whitfoot’s family has no prominence to speak of, and never has had.  But he’s a good one for quelling fights between those families who do have prominence, he’s an excellent witness for legal documents, which is one of his primary functions, and he can most genially preside at banquets, weddings, and feasts.  Everybody likes him and respects his opinions.  He’s not a gifted Mayor, but he’s more than satisfactory.

            “We’d all hoped and expected that one day Frodo would become Mayor, but he never ran for the office, even when Will tried to convince him to do so at the last election before he left with the Ring.  Will appointed him deputy Mayor while he was recovering from his imprisonment by Sharkey’s Big Men, but even then Frodo retained the position only until Will was well enough to take it back up.  I think Frodo was realizing his own health was beginning to fail; and he never felt like he was truly himself again after his experiences in Mordor.  When Frodo left to sail to the Undying Lands it took Will completely by surprise, although he’d had to sign Frodo’s will and the deed giving Bag End and his other property to Sam as his heir.

            “Frodo and Sam’s titles of ‘Lord’ are strictly outside things, having meaning here in Gondor and Arnor and Rohan, but having no relevance within the Shire.  And when Ruvemir or Miriel speaks of Captain Peregrin or Sir Meriadoc I still have to think back to the fact these titles have meaning here, for there they are just Pippin and Merry, the Travelers.  Merry is the Heir to the Master of Brandy Hall and will be head to the Brandybuck family one day, and Pippin is Heir to the Thain and the Took, and will be Thain and the Took and Master of the Great Smial when his father dies or retires in his favor.  But for now they are just Merry and Pippin.”

            “I see,” Shefti said, thoughtfully, then fell back to ride behind the coach while he digested all this.  The bodyguard just shook his head with wonder.

            They finally turned off the main highway to a lane that led between estates, and at nightfall were approaching an isolated house.  “This,” Ruvemir said, “is the home of one of the other mannikins I have met in my travels.  He is a lover of stones, and will travel many miles to find samples to add to his collection or to polish and sell as novelties, or to work into small figures and into jewelry.  He finally found another mannikin to marry, and they live here.  His workshop is behind, and is larger even than the house.  He has invited me to visit him at any time, and so we will do.  I only hope he is not away from home now.”

            The door was opened by a mannikin who obviously kept his face shaven, his hair shoulder length and apparently not too closely brushed as its dark curls were somewhat tangled.  “And who is it who comes like this at nightfall, then?” he asked gruffly.

            “Ruvemir, Margol my friend.  Can you house a few guests tonight?  We’ve brought our own food so you won’t have to feed us.”

            “Ruvemir son of Mardil?  Come in, come in and be welcome.  And what brings you to this isolated section of the realm, then?” 

            The night was an interesting one for all.  Margol son of Ivarion of Belfalas was almost a hermit, although the home and property he’d inherited from his family were substantial.  He rented out the farmland for a share in the crop and the profits, and devoted himself to his collecting and crafting of stone.  He and his wife and now two sons (both of whom were not mannikins themselves) were all involved in the enterprise, and he then went about selling stores of polished rock, his jewelry and small carvings to small shops and at fairs and open markets here and there about Belfalas, Anfalas, and southern Lebennin.  Ririon examined the small figures with interest, and brought out some of those he’d carved of soapstone and that he’d tried to do with other stone as well.  Margol was plainly impressed with the work the youth did in spite of his visual impairment, and offered, only half jokingly, to take him on as a partner in his own business.

            They slept mostly on pallets set up in the workshop, and all helped in the preparation of the meals.  “I, at least, can offer you eggs, as we now keep some hens,” Margol said.  “But there isn’t a lot else we ourselves raise, for Indirien is no more a gardener than I am.”

            In the morning Margol showed them his tools and allowed Ririon to experiment with them on a large piece of carnelian he’d found, and at last Ririon began to realize what he must do to shape this harder stone, and smiled at it.  Margol showed them also the device he’d devised to polish his pebbles, a round metal crock to which fins had been affixed, which was set in a special frame that he would lay over the stream that ran swiftly through his property, fixed in such a manner it would turn in the flow of the stream, keeping the materials within always tumbling among themselves.

            “I put a heavy sand in the crock first with water, and set it turning.  Then after some days I change the grade of sand to much finer sand, then finer sand still and an earth that gives them a polish.  Eventually the stones become smooth and shiny, and children particularly love such.”

            He showed them the fittings he’d found to set polished pebbles for jewelry, the special saws with which he cut larger stones, and the other tools and devices for smoothing, shaping, and polishing harder stone.

            They left not long after noon, carrying a large amount of soapstone, alabaster, and smaller blocks of marble, some of which Ruvemir intended to leave with his father for Ririon’s use, but most of which he intended to use in the production of his models and smaller pieces.

            Indirien and the boys had given them also a store of eggs and four dressed fowl insulated within waxed paper wrapped in other paper that had been soaked in the stream, set into an unglazed, lidded crock.  “This will provide a feast for you once you reach your father’s house,” Margol informed them.  “Go in blessedness, and return when you can.”

            They called their goodbyes, and went down the lane back to the highway.  That night they stayed in an inn, and the next day at midafternoon they reached the home of Mardil the Carver, just north of the river town of Passaurin.

Intrigue from Umbar

            Landrion of Umbar examined the missives before him and listened to the reports of his agents with disgust.  Not only had that fool Varondil failed to befriend and beguile the young ambassador from Rhun, he’d managed to lose the Man and his brother as well.  Landrion had received a substantial amount from the leadership of the Bedui clan in Rhun to assist in the elimination of Ifram and Shefti of the d’Bouti clan as ambassador and scribe to the embassy to Gondor, and so hopefully cast division between Rhun and Gondor.  There were those within the Bedui clan who hoped to take over the leadership of Rhun, after all; and certainly the interests of Umbar--or at least those of Landrion of Umbar--were not met by the current treaty or leadership.  Moritum was altogether too honorable for the situation to promote the lust for personal power and wealth sought by the leaders of the Bedui or the hatred of Gondor and its King held by Landrion.

            The assassination attempt Landrion had planned had failed, to his surprise.  It ought certainly to have worked.  Ifram was to be approached by a party of his own during the birth of the Queen’s child, and he and any surrounding him would be likely to be easily subdued and killed; and by using Gondorian weapons it would cast fear in the hearts of those of Rhun and would most likely have led to the dismissal of the treaty.  The same strategy ought to have worked against both of the brothers.

            Instead the entire group was captured--and alive!  And the report he had was that they were all sent back to Rhun itself for their execution, along with one other, most likely the fanatical agent he’d sent to spread problems among the Dunlendings.  What had happened to the Man of the Dunlendings who’d served both Saruman and the Dark Lord Landrion had no idea, for he’d disappeared and no one would answer his discrete inquiries.  Certainly the problems to be fomented among the Dunlendings had never come to pass, and it was reported the King of the Horse Folk was at the King’s side even now, and his cavalry traveled openly after the King Elessar of Gondor and his army.

            He had considered the chances of assassinating the King Elessar of Gondor, but after working his way into the embassy to Gondor last fall he’d decided that was not a plan with any chance of success.  He’d been shocked to see how strongly the blood of Númenor had run in the veins of that one, seated on his throne, the Winged Crown firmly on his brow, his grey eyes keen with the light of the Eldar, might and healing in his hands.  He was no young one, either, certainly not new come to maturity and power--he was at least fifty years or more, although by the standards of most Men he could have been anywhere between his mid-twenties and his late forties.  No, he was Dúnedain at the height of his powers and strength, trained by the Elves themselves in cunning, rule, healing, hunting, and warfare; and he was surrounded by the greatest of the warriors of both Gondor and Arnor, his wife was an Elf witch, the frequent visits of her Elven brothers were common knowledge, and generally there was no plan he could conceive of that would allow one of his agents close enough contact to lead to a successful kill.

            Assaulting Rustovrid of Harad was another plan he’d discarded.  No one had at first thought Harad would even consider sending representatives to the court of Gondor, but the Farozi had surprised everyone.  When he ascended the throne of Harad it had appeared Sohrabi would be another typical Farozi, interested only in surviving under Sauron’s overlordship, willing to sacrifice his own people to Sauron’s purposes in return for temporal power over the Haradrim and a wealth of plunder and slaves; but it had proved otherwise.  He’d been careful to send good troupes to fight in Mordor’s wars, but never his best; those he tended to keep close to home and hidden as much as possible.  He’d paid attention to the lesser lords of his realm, identifying those who were most tied to Sauron’s policies, those who feared the Dark Lord, those who did their best to provide for their own people, those who were most politic, those who were wisest.  He’d learned how to evaluate the strengths and the weaknesses of each, and since the fall of Sauron he’d been able to keep those most likely to oppose him off balance, playing them off against one another skillfully, while granting power to those who would do best at strengthening the realm and increasing its power and prestige. 

            His representative Rustovrid was one of those whose eye was keen, whose ability to understand what was going on beneath his nose was legendary, and whose leadership skills were never in question.  He’d survived eight assassination attempts so far, three of them set in motion by Sauron himself.  He was no young thing, either, being in his mid-forties and highly experienced in the ways of Men and intrigue; and he surrounded himself with Men like to himself.

            The Horse King would be no easy target, either; though young he was a wise one surrounded by warriors he knew and trusted--and with reason.  His sword had been blooded when he was but fifteen, and he had never looked back. 

            No, if there was to be any weakening of the alliances of Gondor, it would have to start in Rhun.  Moritum was wise, but young and relatively inexperienced; and his brother Ifram was even less experienced still, only four and twenty years, one who had not himself fought in any battle as yet, whose heart had not yet learned to screen out cries for pity long enough to see whether or not a knife was in the hand that apparently reached for alms.

            Yet the assassination attempt had failed, though none would tell him how it had been found out.

            Where had Ifram and Shefti b’nto Agharan disappeared to?  He’d learned only that they’d been given the freedom to explore Gondor, that they’d taken one guard, and that the three of them had ridden out of the city to accept the freedom granted them by the King Elessar.  It had been thought they’d headed south toward Dol Amroth; but no sign of them had been found on the South Road.  There had been several parties that had left Minas Anor that day that they might have attached themselves to, and going in all directions; but his men had so far found only one of them, and the three Easterlings had not even been seen by them at all.

            It appeared his association with Master Sculptor Varondil was no longer as profitable as it had once been.  Varondil had been recruited during the days of the Lord Steward Denethor as one who could be approached for information, and his price was relatively cheap--send him a pretty young boy for his stable of apprentices and he was content.  To the people of the capital he appeared a righteous one, accepting as apprentices young ones who’d been orphaned; but what happened in the quarters he kept for them was not spoken of by those outside the closed circles of his relationships.  He kept enough legitimate apprentices that he was able to keep up with his commissions for tomb effigies and grave markers, and even his kept boys did learn some skills in his workshop; and as one who dealt with the bereaved he was told often wonderful things, things those telling him would never think of telling to others, for grief is a great motivation for loosening tongues.  He could ask the most intimate of questions, the most politically sensitive questions, and no one would think twice of it, for he was only trying to learn the nature of those he sculpted after all.

            But now he was slipping.  There was the matter of the last boy sent his way, the Haradrim boy Gabon--it had turned out that the boy’s dark skin had not pleased Varondil.  Rather than seeing the boy as exotic, he’d seen him as flawed, and had found a different apprenticeship for him, convincing a potter to take him, and that the potter’s own son, who’d wanted to apprentice with the sculpting of clay, would do best in his own workshop.  Then his attempted seduction of the youth had failed.  To keep the boy quiet Varondil had made certain promises and sent him to a temporary master to do rough cutting.  However, in Landrion’s experience the days of usefulness for Master Varondil were at an end.  Any time now it would come out just what questionable training the orphaned apprentices of Master Sculptor Varondil were receiving, and when that happened Landrion intended to make certain no one could tie him to Varondil.  No, it would probably be best if he arranged for an accident to befall the Master Sculptor, in fact.  He made a note to himself to set this in motion, and went back to considering where Ifram and Shefti of Rhun might have gone.

            Their last public appearance had been two days before they disappeared.  It had been--where?  Oh, at a wedding--and this information, he noted, was supplied by Varondil.  A wedding the King himself had performed, the wedding of the sculptor to whom the potter apprentice had been assigned and a woman of the capital.  Who was this sculptor?  He searched the reports, finally found it:  Ruvemir son of Mardil of Lebennin.  And he’d left the city on the requisite day, but before the three Rhunim had left.  No, they’d not left the city ahead of time, only the sixth circle.  They’d left the city after Ifram and his companions had done so.  Could they have met up with one another outside the city?  It was a possibility.  But they’d not gone on to Lebennin, at least not at first.  At least one of the parties they’d sought to trace, the one they’d actually found, had gone to Lebennin, and they were servitors from the Citadel gone on holiday to see relatives in Lebennin.

            He would have to set some to do research, find out where this Mardil of Lebennin lived.  He would trace this party if it was the last thing he did.  And if the Lord Marcipor, Lord of Umbar, didn’t approve of Landrion’s activities, then he could always be replaced as the Master Sculptor Varondil was going to be replaced.

The Home of the Carver

            The gates were open as they approached the estate of Mardil the Carver, and Moropin the foreman for the farm was there on watch for them, smiling hugely as he saw the coach and its outriders approach.  “Small Master!  Welcome to you!” he called, and his son Lairon, a now tall youth of sixteen summers, joined his welcomes to those of his father.

            They led the way to the stable yard where a step was brought for those in the coach, and Lairon and Berenion, who kept the horses for the estate, quickly moved in to unharness the ponies and take the horses and ponies of the guests of the house.

            “I’ll care for my own, at least this day,” Folco explained as he waved off Berenion’s aid.  “They are accustomed to me, and I’m really quite fond of them.”  Moropin, Lairon, and Berenion, at a confirming nod from Ruvemir, let this one have his way and led the way inside, pointed out a stall he might use, and with thanks Folco led his ponies in, unsaddled and unloaded them, removed bit and harness and hung them on the nearby hook, then took out his own brushes and calmed and groomed them, saw to it they had hay, grain, and water, hung the saddle over an empty low saddletree, and taking the bags that the pack pony had carried, prepared to carry them to the house. 

            Ifram, Shefti, and their guard also cared for their own horses, seeing them properly stabled and cared for, and Ririon demanded to be allowed to assist as they cared for his small mare.  All received good marks from Berenion for the caring they took of their animals, although they received inquiring looks as well. 

            The household had heard that the Small Master was coming for a few days’ stay, and that he brought his bride with him.  A bride, for Master Ruvemir?  It was more than any had expected, particularly as he’d been so long now with no obvious love.  The news that Mistress Miriel was also wed had had a time to be realized, although no one could imagine how it had come to pass.  And her husband was a Pherian?  All wondered what he would look like, what type of person he might be, particularly to come to love such as she.  Now, those who lived and worked on the estate had had time to come to know and love the Small Mistress, to treasure her kindly nature and gentle humor and skills.  But she’d not left the estate in several years, and had not been one to visit with the Master’s guests and clients.  That she would go to her brother’s side when he was ill was not so surprising; that she’d go abroad with him was.  And that she’d find love and marry--no one had dreamed of it!

            She stood at the door as their small guest approached, held out her arms, and embraced him, and they realized that this was indeed the Pherian spoken of.  Mistress Margilien, who had cared for the house for the last ten years, came forward to make all welcome, led the new Small Master to the bathing room, showed him the bath already drawn. 

            Mardil, at the same time, was leading his other guests to the guesthouse, where water was already heated for baths for them and towels laid out and beds freshly made.  “We will ring the bell when the evening meal is ready,” he explained.  “In the meanwhile, refresh yourselves and rest.”  They thanked him graciously and set down their saddlebags.  They found servers of wine and juice and fresh water waiting ready for them, goblets set out for their use, soft cakes and a plate of sliced cheese covered with a fine cloth.  Smiling, they made themselves comfortable.

            For Ruvemir the pleasure of being home was overwhelming.  Margilien was overjoyed to see him, delighted to meet the woman who’d caught his heart at last.  She brought them to his old room where a new, wide bed had replaced the narrower one on which he’d slept most of his life, where fresh paint brightened the plaster, where flowers stood in vases and new, soft curtains graced the windows. 
            “Your father spoke of putting the children here, but there’s no need for that, not with the loft.  The babe can sleep with the Small Mistress and her lord husband until he’s older; but the two of you can continue to think of this room as your own.”

            For Ririon and Lorieth rooms had been partitioned off in the loft area, while it had been decided Celebgil would sleep on a long couch in the day room during their stay.  When at last the evening meal was ready the bell was rung, and soon all those who labored on the farm were gathered with the family in the long dining hall that formed the side of the house closest to the fields. Dinner was marked by travelers tales, largely, as Ruvemir and Miriel told the tale of their trip north into Eriador and their sojourn amongst the Hobbits of the Shire, of the graciousness of the Brandybucks, the magnificence of the Great Smial, the gentle humor of the inhabitants of Bag End, the acceptance they’d found there.  Folco described his first sight of Miriel and his fascination with her, how her concentration on her work had attracted him, how her smile had convinced him to stay near her, how at Yule they’d kissed and he knew that, at last, he’d found the one he could love before all others.  Miriel described the marriage ceremony, the amazement at the complexity of the marriage contract, the happiness when she saw Folco waiting for her, the satisfaction in the eyes of the Lord Samwise and Mistress Rosie as they saw their guests find such joy. 

            And so the stories went around the table that night.  The beauty of the capital was described, the graciousness of the King, the incomparable loveliness of the Queen, the birth of the small Princess, the wedding in Minas Anor, the small doings of the farm, the birth of what might prove a prize bull.  The farmworkers found themselves warming to the new Small Master as he asked intelligent questions about the running of the farm, what they planted and why, what additional crops might be useful, what kind of plow they kept.  The close eye he obviously kept on the children also pleased them, as did the fact every time he looked at Mistress Miriel he smiled in sheer happiness.  A new Small Master, and one who would work alongside themselves this time?  They’d give him the chance to prove himself.

            And the toasts went round the table as well, as all rejoiced in the return of their Master and his children and looked to the growing of the new children of the house.

            At last all went to their beds, joyful and content.  Children fought sleep, then gave into it anyway.  Brides smiled at bridegrooms, love filled the long house that Mardil had designed for the comfort of his children, and at last peace fell over the farm--for a time at least.

 *******

            Ben’harin felt uncomfortable for a reason he could not define, so he set himself to walk the perimeter of the property that night.  Only after the sun had risen and the farmworkers came out to begin their day did he leave off and go to his own rest, warning Ifram of his surety a danger lurked somewhere outside the walls.  Ifram nodded--the reason Ben’harin had been chosen to accompany them was precisely because his awareness of approaching danger was so keen.  He checked the seat of his sword and its lie at his belt.  “I will keep a watch this day,” he assured the guard.

            But the assault did not come that day. 

            Shefti accompanied Ririon and Celebgil to the workshop of Mardil the Carver as they began their formal introduction to the world of working wood.  They looked at samples of many woods that day, examined densities, grain, the inclusion of knots, the uses of different kinds of woods, the tools used. Ririon was in his element, and his delight in the medium was infectious.

            Soon Shefti and Celebgil were shaping small blocks of pine while Ririon was bringing out his practice piece from Minas Anor and discussing it with his new master.

            On the farm itself Folco, after helping with the care of horses and ponies, was being shown the property and the herd of cattle.  He examined them with interest, asked to be shown how best to approach them, which were the herd leaders, which likely to cause difficulties.  Then they looked at the property under cultivation, went through the barns to look at plows and harrows, examined the other tools and their state, the herd dogs, the kitchen garden.  Here finally Folco Boffin indicated he would work this day, for this was where his greatest experience lay.  Now, did they have much in the way of root vegetables growing?

            But Ifram could see Folco and Ruvemir also were watching, both restless.  They, too, sensed some danger grew closer.

            Folco was the one person to whom Ruvemir had disclosed the presence of the King’s guard.  He’d reported from time to time he’d spotted the telltale flicker in the margin of the trees that spoke to him now of the revealed presence of a watching

Elf.  Once a grey hooded shape showed itself deliberately, and he’d distinctly seen a silver star on the left shoulder.  But the third he’d not yet seen.  They were relieved to have the guard, but still felt the oppression of approaching danger.  Would the guard be enough?  As Ruvemir saw the disquiet in Ben’harin and Ifram, he became more concerned.  Finally he approached Ifram and asked if he sensed anything.  Realizing that the Easterlings also were definitely watching, he spoke to Moropin.  Where would intruders be most likely to enter the property?  At the northeast corner?  Could they put Rupter there in that field tonight?  And Rip in the dooryard?

            Moropin smiled.  Of course.

            When he awoke Ben’harin saw the herd bull had been moved into the field at the northeast corner of the farm, a huge animal who was disturbed to be removed from his cows.  He smiled--an excellent surprise for any seeking to enter through that vulnerable area.  The main herd had also been placed in a field on the perimeter of the property; and a large dog was on his chain in the dooryard, would be freed at night, he was told.  And a smaller dog sat beside the larger one.  Two dogs that were not herd dogs, one to bark the alarm and one to challenge intruders.  Good planning.  Joy approached them with curiosity, sniffed at them, was welcomed.  She, too, might prove useful.

            That he wasn’t alone in his surety of danger was heartening.  Now he set himself to see what would come next.

Gilfileg son of Gilthor

              Gilfileg son of Gilthor rode along the way to the South easily.  He was in no hurry, after all.  He watched the approaching carriage and the company that surrounded it with interest, the youth and the child with dog trotting behind that rode alongside the three slight men, all speaking through the open window to those who rode within.  He pulled to the side under the shade of a tree to let them pass, then realized what he was seeing.  His jaw dropped in sheer shock when he realized one of the children was no child at all, but a Hobbit.  A Hobbit of the Shire, here in the south of Gondor?  What in Middle Earth?  And the three slight Men were not of Gondor, but of Rhun.  He’d seen enough of the swarthy skin, the dark hair with its loose curl, the shape of their swords, their silhouettes as they rode their horses, in his life to recognize those of Rhun.  Yet all these rode easily, as if in familiar company, the young coachman on the box who was definitely of Gondor, the youth on the dun mare with the dog at its heels, also definitely of Gondor, the Hobbit, and the Easterlings.  Intrigued beyond telling, he turned his horse to watch after.

            Then he saw it, the familiar flicker.  This coach was being followed, and by an Elf who was deliberately testing whether or not he, Gilfileg, was aware of that fact.  He knew only one reason why an Elf would do such a thing, and that reason rode now himself to Rhun, ready to fight alongside the people of Rhun against the Wainriders of the far East.  Gilfileg decided to follow this mixed party for the sake of that reason, and noting no other traffic on the road dismounted, drew out of his saddlebags a grey cloak, drew it around him and fastened the silver star at his shoulder, drew up the hood.  He mounted again, urged his horse off the road, and it began traveling in an accustomed mode, on patrol through the trees.

            He’d not alerted Aragorn he’d finally reentered Gondor.  In fact, he’d not seen his father’s Lord Cousin’s Lord Son in almost seven years, since shortly before that one had ridden back to the Shire to meet the Ringbearer and accompany him to Rivendell.  Gilfileg had been on patrol on the northern borders of the Ettenmoors then, and Aragorn had made only a brief stop at his position, checking on the defense of their lands before he left.

            “The time comes when the Lost must go forth, Cousin,” Aragorn had said.  “But we cannot leave our own lands defenseless.”

            “They will welcome Thorongil back to fight for them in Gondor, I suppose,” Gilfileg had commented, “but they would not recognize my own abilities as do our kin here.”

            Aragorn had nodded.  “Stand support for Halbarad, then.  He will need your keen eye.”

            Gilfileg had nodded in return, and Aragorn had ridden south and west, heading for his destiny.

            Then came the summons for Aragorn’s kin to join him, as many as could be gathered, and this time it was Halbarad who wished for Gilfileg to remain in Eriador.  “If all goes ill, you are the closest in line for the leadership of what remains of the Dúnedain, North and South,” he’d said.

            “You are closer in blood to Aragorn.”

            “So I am his mother’s nephew?  But my brothers and I are five generations removed from the line of Kings, and you are only three removed; plus as great grandson to a Prince of Dol Amroth you can offer leadership there, also.”

            “They would not recognize Arvedui’s claim, and his wife was the only remaining child of the King of Gondor.  Do you truly think that I, with both claims through the distaff side, will be accepted in the South?  And then there is this--” and he held up his maimed right hand.  “Gondor is not likely to accept leadership from one it sees as disfigured.”

            “You and I both know that your hand has never mattered.”

            “Few in the north care one way or another--there have been too few to quibble over whether a man fights left-handed or right-handed.  But I assure you, Halbarad, it is different in Gondor, far different.”

            Halbarad sighed and shrugged helplessly.  “I only know that if all goes ill, there will be a need for someone of the line of Kings to take the chieftain’s place.  You are the best we have after Aragorn himself--plus you are a skilled warrior, and your ability to extricate yourself and those with you from great difficulties is becoming legendary.  You should remain here as the Steward in my place until we return.”

            Gilfileg had stayed and fought in the north, and had remained there for the last six years.  But now things were more peaceful.  Most of the Orcs and trolls were destroyed or hiding in the depths of the Misty Mountains, no longer driven by the will of the Enemy.  The great Wargs had also become diminished, more like to normal wolves, no longer the threat they’d posed.  Without the Dark Lord, evils diminished, became more the evils done by Men, although the Valar knew that could be evil enough.

            He’d made his mother a promise, to take a flower from her grave to Dol Amroth where she had been born; to see the family of the Prince of Dol Amroth, and tell them what had become of her, the daughter of the family who had gone willful missing.  He felt it was time to do this, and with the agreement of Halladan before the Steward had ridden South to the birthing he’d prepared to do just that.  Aragorn had married Arwen; they’d just produced their first child together; and he hoped on his way back to stop in Minas Anor and see them.  But he would not remain in the north any longer, now that relative peace had at last come there.  He would see the land that had seen his mother’s birth.

            And now he was delaying that journey for the sake of a Perian and an Elf.  Well, he supposed his mother, married as long as she had been to a Ranger of Eriador and mother to a second, would understand.  He certainly hoped so, at least.

            The coach finally turned off the highway and up a country lane.  It meandered here and there, but those directing it apparently knew where they were going.  At last it approached open gates where it was obviously awaited, where the steward of the place stood at the gate with what appeared to be the master and at least half the staff, calling their welcome to those inside the coach and riding alongside.  Gilfileg nodded as the party entered, as the gate was closed behind them.  Well, they were safely to their destination.  Would there be any more need for his guard, he wondered?

            He decided to wait now.  If the Elf was guarding the place, he’d come soon enough to find out who else had joined the guard--this he knew; and if Gilfileg wished to know what was so important about this party he’d need the cooperation of the Elf.  It was past sunset when he realized he was no longer alone, but when he turned to look into the eyes of the archer who now had his arrow aimed at Gilfileg’s heart, he was surprised to find not an Elf but another Dúnadan as was himself.

            The voice was low and spoke in Adunaic.  “If you are of us, put back your hood.” 

            Gilfileg slowly and deliberately did just that, shaking out his dark hair, in the same tongue suggesting, “Courtesy would dictate that you do the same.”

            The other laughed and placed his arrow back in his quiver and shouldered his bow, pulling back his own hood.  “And what brings you this far south, then, Cousin?”

            “My promise to my mother, Hardorn, with your brother’s permission.  And what takes you so far from the side of our Lord Cousin?”

            Hardorn’s face became quickly grim.  “The need to keep the peace with the folk of Rhun and to find the source of the desire to kill the ambassador sent by the Shkatha.  Someone wishes him dead and the treaty destroyed, and we wish to find out who is the one who has made this decision.  It appears to have become personal by now.  Orophin saw you earlier, saw you stop and take out your cloak and don it and slip into the trees, and wished to find out who you are.”

            “I do not recognize the name.”

            “One of the former border wardens of Lothlorien.  He came south with his Lord and his brothers to attend the birth of Aragorn and Arwen’s first child, and agreed to serve as rear guard in this matter.”

            “I saw a Perian in the riding.”

            “There were two--one stayed in Belfalas to learn sculpting of clay, and the other will bide here to serve the father of his bride.”

            This was a bit much to accept.  “Hobbits have taken up sculpting, and one has married a daughter of Men?”  He looked with shock into the eyes of his cousin.  “But he is of the Shire--I recognize the design of his pony’s gear.  How did a Hobbit of the Shire meet a daughter of Men?  I haven’t seen such a one in Bree in years.”

            “You haven’t been in Bree yourself in years,” Hardorn said dryly.

            Gilfileg shrugged.  “True, I suppose.  But have things changed that much in the Shire since Sauron fell?”

            “A gardener now holds Bag End, and its Baggins masters have sailed to the Undying Lands with the Lords Elrond and Erestor and Gildor Inglorion and the Lady Galadriel and many of their folk.  I would say much has changed in the Shire.”

            This last was not exactly news, for the word the Ringbearer and his kinsman had been granted the grace to sail to Elvenhome had made the rounds in the North far more quickly than it had become known in the South.  But the news that not even a Baggins now held Bag End was more a surprise. 

            “Then the Ringbearer left no legitimate heir?”

            “Samwise Gamgee is legitimate enough.  But as with Bilbo, Frodo made no marriage.  Apparently it was one of the effects of carrying that cursed thing.”

            Gilfileg took this in, thought on it, sighed.  “As a Hobbit that would be a hard thing indeed.”  He shook his head, looked into the eyes of his cousin.  “Then I will join myself to your cause for now.  Have you seen any following the party?”

            “No, but a watcher was seen slipping away south after the coach passed just before you joined the escort.  Orin follows him now.”

            “Orin?”

            “A Dwarf of Erebor.”

            “A Dwarf?”  This was becoming more and more unlikely.

            Hardorn laughed.  “You have not seen the capital, Gilfileg.  For love of Aragorn many enmities have been forgiven and forgotten.  He is a most remarkable one, you must admit.  His throne name is most apt.”

            “And a treaty between Gondor and Rhun....”

            “And one between Gondor and Harad as well.  That between Gondor and Umbar, however, will most like prove less binding.  There are too many descended from the Black Númenoreans remaining there, I fear.”

            This was much to think of.  Gilfileg found a place out of the way to set his horse to graze, and settled down to join the watch and ponder.

            It was two days before those who intended evil approached the farm.  The Elf, Hardorn, and Gilfileg had made a point of rotating their positions over the past two days, and they’d found the small camp from which those of the enemy set to watch the property were keeping up their observations.  They appeared similar to the majority of the Men of Gondor, although in the few times they spoke their accent was distinctly not that of the land.  There were two of them, and they were good at concealment.  The second day one of them went forth to travel down the lane that the coach had traveled, and Orophin followed after while the two Rangers kept watch on the small camp.

            Three hours later Hardorn and Gilfileg were rejoined by Orophin, who had seen the one from the camp before them meeting a riding of six more individuals armed with bows--Rhunish bows--and swords. 

            Hardorn’s expression was grim.  “The assault in the city itself was by Rhunish agents, but armed with Gondorian swords and knives.  Do these appear to be Rhunim?”

            Orophin said in Sindarin, “Three are similar in build to the Rhunim, the slightness, the slenderness, the pronounced bridge to the nose, the hair.  But the other three are taller, their hair longer and more similar to that of the people of Gondor, with short beards similar to that of the small sculptor.  The bows are carried by those who appear to be Rhunim and are the same as the bows carried by the Rhunim of the Embassy; but the arrows they carry have the fletching of the arrows of the Rangers of Gondor.”

            Hardorn looked deeply into the eyes of both his companions.  “So, again it appears they seek to blame the attack on the people of Gondor.  Is Orin still following them?”

            “Yes, the Dwarf follows them very carefully.  He is very skillful, for a Dwarf.”

            Again they set themselves to watching.  The six new folk and the agent who had greeted them approached the small camp through the fields opposite.  The one who’d been watching the coach approaching was identified by Orophin as one of the Men who appeared to be of Gondor, somewhat shorter than the rest.

            The eight of them met quietly and shared their news and orders, and then the six newcomers laid out bedrolls.  Apparently the assault was to take place after dark. 

            Well, if these were prepared to rest themselves to be fresh for the assault, then Orophin’s suggestion was that Hardorn and Gilfileg do the same.  The Elf went quietly to find the Dwarf and indicated the place where the Men were prepared to sleep, and he nodded his understanding and settled himself to wait for night in a spot from which he could watch a different part of the estate.

            At sunset the four of them met, then separated, each to watch a different part of the estate, the areas where those outside were most likely to seek to enter.  Gilfileg could see the encampment from his position, and watched with interest as the six woke and made a meal, checked their weapons, discussed quietly what would be their strategy.  Three hours after sunset they separated, going in pairs to different positions about the estate’s walls and fences.  Sure enough, their choices echoed the sites the four guards had seen as most vulnerable.  They all waited, although for what signal was yet to be seen.

Night Assault  

            “If you hear any noise tonight,” Folco told the estate workers at the evening meal, “you need to get inside and stay away from windows.  Do not go outside where you might be vulnerable.”  He looked to his wife’s father.  “I am glad you chose to roof your buildings with slate and tile--it will make them less apt to fire.  But Moropin and Lairon have both seen folk coming up the lane and taking refuge in the fields opposite the gates; we must remember that Ifram has been targeted before, and is likely to be a target again by those who desire to destroy the peace between Gondor and Rhun.  So, if you hear things, don’t make yourselves targets as well.”

            The farm folk agreed, reluctantly in the case of Lairon and Berenion.  The rest went to their beds, and Folco, Ifram, and Ben’harin set themselves on guard.

            Toward midnight Ruvemir came out to check on them, and found Folco watching toward the distant field where the herd bull waited.  They could hear him, obviously feeling disturbed, as he paced back and forth along the wall.  Ruvemir peered through the darkness.  “You think they might try to enter there, then?”

            “The wall is relatively low and easy to scale there, Berenion tells me.  I think it likely.”

            “We have three allies out there, the King has told me.  Try not to hurt any of them.”

            Folco smiled.   “They will most like come after.  They aren’t likely to do anything until the other party actually attempts the wall or the gate.  Now, you’d best get back inside.  I suspect they’ll try something fairly soon.”

            Ruvemir nodded and retreated back inside.  He had seen that Folco had worn a picking bag from the stores for the small orchard his father had planted for his mother’s delight, and saw that it was full, most likely of stones.  He sincerely hoped his sister’s husband would not be hurt in whatever might happen.  He watched from a darkened window, and waited to see what might happen.

            Gilfileg sat quite still, watching for the sign those apparently targeting the farm were finally ready to start the assault.  How often he’d done this over the years, in Eriador, around Lake Evendim and the ruins of Annúminas, in the Ettenmoors, in Ithilien, on the margins of what had once been Angmar, in the passes above Rivendell.  Often it had been in company with his Lord Cousin Aragorn himself, and most often with Hardorn as well. 

            Aragorn and Hardorn had often worked in concert.  Gilfileg had been told that when Aragorn, at age twenty, had finally been released from his fostering in Rivendell, he’d sought out his uncle Halbaleg who was steward in his name, and had indicated he wished to join the Rangers of Eriador and Arnor immediately.  He’d been placed in one of the companies that patrolled the borders of what had been Angmar, a company in which his cousin Halbarad, oldest of the three sons of his mother’s brother, was already a member.  Halbarad, who was three years the elder, served as Aragorn’s mentor in many ways, the first young person near his age that Aragorn had met since before his mother fled with him to Imladris.  The two had become close friends, particularly after Aragorn saved Halbarad’s life in the first major battle the troupe entertained since the coming of Aragorn to join it.  Certainly they had much in common, both having a bookish bent and an interest in other people.  It was only natural that they would become friends and close confidants, Gilfileg supposed, and that when Halbarad’s father was killed Aragorn would place him in the Steward’s position.

            Halladan had a nose for politics, and was one of the most keen to discern when he was being lied to that Gilfileg had ever seen.  Hardorn, however, had been born to be a warrior; and after he’d joined the company that Aragorn now led four years after he entered the Rangers himself, it did not take long for Aragorn to make a decision regarding this, the youngest of the three brothers--he would send him to Imladris, to his foster brothers Elladan and Elrohir, to have the warrior capabilities in him trained as fully as possible. 

            Five years Hardorn spent with Elrond’s sons, and he came back honed into a weapon fit for his cousin’s hand.  The four cousins became closer still, and Hardorn became Aragorn’s second in command and often his bodyguard, the primary role he saw for himself to this day.  That he would consent to be separated from Aragorn spoke to two things--the seriousness of the threat toward the security of the two kingdoms Aragorn ruled, and the fact that, when it came to battle, Aragorn truly needed none to guard his back, for he was the most consummate warrior any had seen.  In battle he would always seem to find one place to look at the battle from, then would move into it, apparently having become aware of where each enemy was and which way he would be most likely to move during the course of the fight.  Gilfileg himself had seen it again and again--one moment Aragorn would be dispatching three Orcs facing him, and then, almost casually, he would take a backwards stroke with his sword, a stroke Gilfileg could not begin to duplicate, to take care of the one enemy trying to take him from the rear while he was otherwise engaged, and then he’d be moving sideways to protect one of those fighting alongside him. 

            Gilfileg himself was younger than Aragorn and the sons of Halbaleg.  He was the son of Gilthor, grandson to Argonui through his daughter Nienoreth.  Five children had Argonui and his beloved Elanoreth given life to, only two of whom lived to adulthood, Arador, the eldest, and Nienoreth, the youngest.  Gilthor had been one of those who sought service in Gondor, and while he was under the command of the Prince Anorahil of Dol Amroth, father to Adrahil, he’d fallen in love with the Prince’s niece, Arien.  Arien had seen the tall officer from unknown climes and had quickly become enamored of him.  However, when her uncle refused to grant his permission for her to marry one of unknown origins and ordered Gilthor back to Minas Tirith, Arien had simply walked out of Dol Amroth and followed after.  Gilthor had finally found her, and sending a letter to Ecthelion indicating he was resigning his commission to return to his own people, he set her on his saddlebow and headed into Eriador.  When their son was born it had been suggested that Gilthor and Arien name the infant for his father. 

            “He’s too small to be an eagle,” Arien had said, laughing.  “No, he’s but a small bird, this one,” and so he’d been given the name Gilfileg.  He’d always planned to go to Dol Amroth to see where his mother had been born, but somehow it had not happened as yet.

            Suddenly he saw a movement, realized those he watched were getting ready to assault the estate.  One moved toward the gate itself while another began to scale the wall nearby.  Immediately the barking of a dog could be heard, one of the small dogs with jaws like steel, judging by the bark.  Gilfileg smiled--it appeared that those attempting the assault were not going to get inside the wall as easily as they’d planned.  He moved forward to take them--if possible, Hardorn wanted them alive, as many as possible.  He looked up to see the one atop the wall, and knew this one was now silhouetted against the moon, just a couple days past its full.  He saw the Man suddenly sit up straight, just before he toppled outward toward the lane.  The other swarmed over the gate and immediately was pinned against it by two dogs--no, three, the small dog, a big wolfhound, and the one which had trotted after the youth on the horse when he’d first begun following the party.  He thought he saw the glint of a sword being drawn, heard a clank, then a thud and a cry of pain, then a second thud and could see nothing more. 

            He was already approaching the one who’d fallen off the wall, saw the Man start to sit up, shaking his head.  He came up and set his sword to the Man’s throat.  In a low voice in the Common Tongue he advised, “If I were you, I’d drop my weapons.  I suggest you do so now.”  The Man reached for his sword and Gilfileg struck his shoulder, a blow he knew would incapacitate but not kill, as long as he was treated fairly quickly, at least.  The other snatched his hand back, clamped it reflexively to the wounded shoulder.  Gilfileg came forward and with his maimed right hand still managed to undo the sword belt.  Not the knot over the buckle common to the soldier of Gondor--a shorter belt with simpler buckle, easily undone.  The belt fell away.  Gilfileg already had lengths of rope ready, quickly caught the Man’s hands behind him and tied them securely--he’d become surprisingly proficient at doing this quickly.  Shoving a rolled kerchief into the Man’s mouth, he gagged him, then turned to see what was going on inside the gate.  Far off he heard an angry bellow, the bellow of a large animal.  Inside the gate a small figure with a club struck the side of the head of the person pinned against the gate, then looked outside.  “You are a Dúnedain Ranger?  Glad to see it.  Wish to help me with this one, then?”  He called off the dogs, moved to open the gate.  Gilfileg pulled his prisoner inside, then seeing a use for the gates untied the Man and set him with his hands pulled through the bars, and with the assistance of the person within the gate tied him hands together securely.  Then they did the same with the other, and again together they gagged this one before he came back to full consciousness.  Well, they had two of the eight secured now. 

            He looked at the small individual with whom he’d been working, and realized it was the Perian.  “Well done, Sir Hobbit,” he said.  “Shall we assist in the capture of the others?”

            The Hobbit nodded, gave the word to the big dog to guard, and together they went to the next closest position.  Across the field could be heard the continued bellowing of the angry animal.  “Rupter is apparently unhappy to find his field being entered by way of the wall,” smiled the Hobbit.  “Wonder if the fellow will make it out of there?”

            “And Rupter is?”

            “A most unhappy herd bull.  First he is separated from his cows, and then he is kept upset most of the day by smells of Men he doesn’t know, and finally someone disrupts his rest by coming over his wall near his head.  I doubt he’s being a genial host.”

            Gilfileg laughed quietly.  “No, I suppose not.”

            By the time they made it to the area watched by Ben’harin, he’d managed to kill one of the two who’d come over the wall there, and had the other pinned against the stonework.  Gilfileg saw another form show itself atop the wall.  “We have them, Orophin,” he said in Sindarin.  A nod, and the Elf slipped down alongside them, gracefully slipped an arrow out of his quiver, and covered the Man with his bow.  The figure this time was slight.  In Rhunic Gilfileg suggested, “Slowly, turn around and put your hands against the wall and lean on them, or he will shoot you.  I assure you, he will not kill you, but you will wish he had if he looses the arrow.”

            It was one of the envoys from Rhun who had been guarding the inside of the wall here, he realized, so he addressed his next suggestion to him.  “You know where he is most likely to have his weapons secreted--search him and search him well, if you don’t want him to cut himself loose and assault us again later in the night.”

            “Oh, indeed I will search him,” the Easterling said through gritted teeth.  He did his job efficiently and neatly, and had found six weapons before he was done.  He removed the belt sash and checked it, removed something that he let fall to the ground, and finally used the sash to tie the Man’s wrists.  Gilfileg unfastened the belt sash from the other body, again managed to fix a gag to this prisoner.

            “How many are there?” asked the Easterling.  It was the voice of a middle aged Man, probably a warrior of fair experience.

            “There were eight altogether.  The Perian and I took care of the first two together, with the assistance of the dogs.”

            “Then we have subdued half of them.”

            Together they headed for Rupter’s field.  In the moonlight they saw that one figure stood against the wall--the surface of the wall here was much smoother than the outer side was; a second form lay motionless nearby.  A head looked over the top of the wall, and a gruff voice asked, “Do you have them, then?”

            The Hobbit straightened.  “Orin, is that you?”

            “Yes, Folco.  Do you have them?”

            “Rupter appears to have gored one--he is on the ground; and he has the second against the wall.  We will have to be careful if we don’t wish to join them.”

            “And who is Rupter?”

            “An angry bull.”

            “A bull.  You guarded this portion of the wall with a bull?”

            “Well, it worked.”

            The Dwarf laughed.  He clambered atop the wall and looked down.  He picked something up, looked down, took aim, and let it fall.  The Man against the wall fell.

            Orophin looked at the animal.  “I think I could calm it,” he said in Sindarin, and he slipped over the rails to the gate into the field, approached the bull with quiet words.  Slowly the animal lowered its head, blew plaintively at the ground, then walked quietly up to the Elf and nudged his shoulder with its head.  The Elf rubbed between its ears, and the bull began to nudge him again, then put its head down, obviously in pleasure.  Finally the Dwarf carefully dropped down into the enclosure as Folco clambered between the bars of the gate, followed by Gilfileg.  They went first to the one lying still. 

            Gilfileg felt for the pulse on the Man’s neck.  “Still alive, but badly hurt, I fear.”  Together Man and Dwarf carried the stranger out of the enclosure where Ben’harin stood watch over him as they went back.  The second Man was shaking his head and trying to push himself up from the ground. 

            The Dwarf placed a heavy boot on the side of the Man’s head.  “I wouldn’t move quickly if I were you,” he advised.  The Man lay still.  Folco tied his hands behind him.  Gilfileg drew him to his feet and out of the field, then searched him expertly.  Having dropped the two knives he found on the ground, he unfastened the hands, had the man sit down against the gate to the small field where Rupter was housed, thrust his hands through the rails, and tied him much as the others were tied to the main gates.

            “What surprise do you have at the other likely site for entry?” asked the Dwarf as Orophin finally came out to join them.

            “Most of the farm’s herd of cattle, including a number of cows with calf.  They, too, are not likely to appreciate strangers dropping into their midst.”

            “Very clever,” Gilfileg said.

            Folco looked to the Elf.  “Mae govannen,” he said carefully, “and hannon lei.  I hope I said that right.”  Orophin smiled and nodded in acknowledgment.

            Hardorn and Ifram between them had managed to subdue the two who’d entered here, and once again they were disarmed and tied.  Finally all were led to the workshop.

            “I have some sturdy support pillars in the workshop we can secure them to for the night,” Mardil decided as he looked at those who’d come over the walls.  “We’ll have to put the dead Man into the cool cellar.”  A blanket was brought to wrap the body in, and it was secured with thongs before being consigned to the cellar.  The one who’d been gored was treated as best Hardorn, Gilfileg and Orophin could manage, and was laid on a hastily prepared pallet on the floor in Mardil’s secure room where he usually kept his store of most expensive woods and tools and those of his projects he’d finished and had ready for transport to patrons or fairs, which had been cleaned out the preceding evening in case it would be needed.  Once he was secured, they had each of the others sit by one of the support pillars and tied their hands around the pillars behind their backs.  They could rest, but it would not be comfortable.  Ben’harin and the Elf indicated they would keep watch on the prisoners for the rest of the night, Lairon said he and the dogs would walk the perimeter of the estate till after dawn, and the others went to the house to refresh themselves.

            Ruvemir looked at the three who’d come into the dining hall with interest as he served them each a glass of wine.  “Lord Hardorn?  This is a surprise and an honor, I must say.  And Orin, it is a pleasure to see you here.  I had no idea there was a Dwarf in the King’s party.  I am sorry, sir, but I fear I don’t know you and don’t remember seeing you in Minas Anor.  Did the King change his mind, then, and send four?”

            “I have not been to the capital in many years,” Gilfileg said with a slight shrug.  “I am new come from Eriador, on the way to Dol Amroth, and saw your party while I was on my way south.  I am sorry if I stare--I’ve not met a mannikin personally before, I fear.”

            “That is quite all right.  Your service, then, has been in the North?”

            “Yes.”

            Shefti had awakened at the sound of trouble outside, and had followed the others to the house once all appeared quiet again.  He recognized the Dwarf easily enough, having seen him at the work site; and he recognized the Lord Hardorn, of course.  But he felt he recognized the third as well, and could not think where or under what circumstances.

            Ruvemir continued, “How did you come to join the watch, then?”

            “Your party passed me the other day, and I saw there was a Hobbit of the Shire riding a pony and leading a second and was quite taken by surprise.  It is a shock to see such in Gondor.”

            “I can imagine.”

            Miriel came through the door carrying a sleepy Lanril in her arms.  “Folco, is all well with you, my love?”

            Gilfileg saw the Hobbit smile at the mannikin woman, and felt even more wonder.  “I am well enough, Miriel.  Did the noise waken the babe, then?”

            “I am not certain what disturbed him--perhaps it was the noise Rupter’s been making.”

            “We believe we have all of them now.”

            “That is good.  How many were there, then?”

            “Eight,” the Dwarf said.

            “Eight?  Were they intending again to make it look the work of Gondor’s people?”

            “Yes, it appears they were,” Hardorn affirmed.

            “My Lord Hardorn, Master Orin, sir, it is a pleasure and an honor.  Sir?”

            “I am Gilfileg son of Gilthor,” the Ranger said with a bow.

            “Master Gilfileg, welcome to our father’s home, then.  Is Ben’harin watching the prisoners alone, then?”

            “No,” Folco said.  “Orophin of the Galadhrim is with him.”

            “Then the King sent four to guard Ifram and Shefti?”

            Gilfileg felt the names as if they were a blow aimed at the pit of his gut.  Involuntarily he looked to them, recognized them in spite of ten years’ worth of changes.  Shefti was looking at him intently, then suddenly went very still with recognition.  He started to smile in spite of himself.   “Staravion?”

            Ifram looked up in surprise, searched the face of the second Ranger, looked at the gloved right hand lying on the table.  Gilfileg looked at it, then back at those he’d served so long ago, carefully removed the glove.  “Two of the fingers are stuffed to make them appear to be full,” he explained as he showed them his hand.  “So, you are the envoys sent by the Shkatha?  Who is Shkatha now, then?”

            Ifram smiled.  “Staravion--Gilfileg?”  He shook his head in wonder.  “So we have indeed found you.  But you were not in Gondor, then?”

            “No, after I escaped the Lord Denethor would not allow me to fight for Gondor any more--didn’t feel I could handle a sword any more.”

            Hardorn laughed.  “He didn’t recognize the significance of the reversed hangers for your sword, then?”

            “No one except for the Lord Boromir seems to have appreciated it, I fear.  Nor,” he said to the two Easterlings, “did your grandfather.”

            “I do not understand,” Ifram said, shaking his head.

            Shefti began to laugh.  “Then, does it mean that your natural hand to use is the left one?”

            Gilfileg nodded, smiling.  “Yes.  But you have yet to tell me--who is Shkatha now?”

            “Our brother, Moritum,” explained Shefti.

            “Moritum?  I see.”

            “Gilthor means Star Eagle, does it not?” asked Ifram.  At Gilfileg’s agreement, he thought some more.  “And avion means what?”

            “Bird.”

            “Star Bird, son of Star Eagle.  And the King went by the name Thorongil here, which means Eagle of the Star, and we knew him as StarEagle.”

            “Yes, he said he accepted the names Thorongil and StarEagle in part in honor of my father.”

            “So you are another of his clan, then?”

            “My father’s mother was younger sister to his father’s father.”

            He looked at Lord Hardorn.  “And your relationship to the King?”

            “My father was his mother’s older brother, although I am related to his father as well.  My brothers and I are five generations descended from one of the line of Kings, while Gilfileg here is only three removed.”

            “You are then a Lord also among your people?”

            Gilfileg shrugged and smiled.  “In the North, almost all who are Dúnedain are related to the King in one manner or another, and all carry some degree of royal blood.  I fear that we have become so few we have become very interbred.  But I am a captain among the Rangers.”  He took a sip of his drink, looking at the two brothers thoughtfully over the rim of the goblet.  “Why did you hope to find me?” he asked at length.  “I will tell you now I will not again submit to slavery or any such service to those outside my own people.”

            Ifram shook his head.  “We do not wish it or ask it of you.  We wished to simply see that all was well with you, and to thank you.”

            “Thank me?”  Gilfileg straightened somewhat.

            “Yes, thank you, for teaching us that we do not need to fight all battles with swords.”

            The smile started in Gilfileg’s eyes, then filled his entire visage.

Ruses of Protection

            Hardorn, Gilfileg, and Orin went out just ere dawn to bring in the horses and goods of their prisoners as well as their own steeds.  Hardorn sent Gilfileg and Master Mardil into Passaurin to hire a large covered wagon and draft horses such as was used for hauling heavy goods and to take it to Crown land some two miles away from the farm, for he intended to carry these prisoners back to the capital under guard.  He also sent an order for six skilled archers and swordsmen plus four soldiers in the garb of private guards of goods to come secretly from the garrison there to Mardil’s farm.  Two of the archer-swordsmen would accompany the four guards and himself with the wagon back to the capital; the other four would guard the farm and its folk until the source of this attack was identified and dealt with, for once whoever masterminded this assault became aware it had also gone astray those on the farm were likely to reap bitter retaliation to punish all for the disruption of plans.  He also asked Orophin to take a swift message to Osgiliath--he wished eight Rangers brought here as swiftly as possible to keep a secret outside guard on the premises and the approaches to it.  Orophin took the message gladly and slipped away before midday, promising to be as swift as he could. 

            In five days, Hardorn knew, those eight would be here.  But what could be done in the meantime to distract whoever had masterminded this plot?  Suddenly he smiled.  He consulted with the three Rhunim representatives, and they agreed to take part in the deception. 

            Ruvemir was pressed into service to do detailed drawings of each of their prisoners, who were brought one at a time into the dining hall for this purpose.  They were stripped and forced to dress in clothing from the farm staff, and compensation was given the staff to buy more with the proviso they do this starting in six days, one at a time, and each from a different shop or vendor where few would pay attention to them.  A fine new outfit in exchange for old clothes they were thinking of discarding anyway seemed more than fair, all agreed.

            The dead man, who was Rhunim, was stripped and a likeness done of him as well, and when Ruvemir was done they dressed him in a suit of Ifram’s more familiar outfits.  His body was shot with two of the arrows brought by the attackers and was then carried down to the river and sunk there--they’d hold it down for three days to allow it to become hard to identify, and they would then release it.  

            Ifram, Shefti, and Ben’harin were dressed in the garb of the three Easterlings who had been taken or killed in this raid, and when the guardsmen arrived near mid-afternoon three were dressed in the garb of three of the party and were mounted on the horses of those who’d attacked the farm and sent to the Pelargir, where they were to show themselves before putting on the garb of knights of Dol Amroth and riding swiftly back to the Crown land with five knights already stationed there.  Some time after they rode out Lairon was sent riding swiftly to the garrison at Passaurin to summon aid, with instructions to request a good deal of confusion as to how many might be coming or going.

            They loaded the goods Ruvemir and Elise would need in Minas Anor into the coach, and it was taken north by back roads to the Crown Land, where the ponies would be exchanged for a team of horses for their return trip.  Celebgil exchanged clothing with Lairon so he would look different for the return journey, and notes were made to the steward of the Crown land to paint on the side of the coach the King’s crest so none would be likely to consider trying to halt it on the return journey.  Hardorn asked Gilfileg if he would agree to accompany Ruvemir’s coach back to the capital.  With a sigh the Ranger agreed, and Orin agreed to return to Minas Anor inside the coach. 

            Somehow they got through the next few days, and at last they mounted horses brought in from the Crown land to take a circuitous ride to the lodge there.  At dawn the eight Rangers arrived and were given their orders, and they took up surreptitious posts about Mardil’s estate and the approaches to it. 

            It was a great wrench for Ruvemir to say goodbye to his sister and Ririon, and Ririon also was deeply distressed.  “When this is settled,” Mardil assured both, “we will come frequently to the White City until you are able to go north.”

            Ruvemir sighed, then held the boy one last time.  “Be diligent in your studies, dearling, and come to us as you can.  I am so proud to have you as son to my house.”  Ririon held him close one last time, and they finally parted.  “Take care of your granfer,” added the sculptor as he was lifted to ride behind one of the guards. 

            “I will.  Go well, Ada.”

            Ruvemir was weeping as they rode away.  His last glimpse was of Lorieth clinging to Ririon’s hand in comfort, the scar on her face visible as she looked up at the youth.

*******

            Faramir had examined some of the more unfathomable orders left by Aragorn with interest.  He had no idea why a surreptitious watch was to be kept on the premises of Master Sculptor Varondil, but he assured himself that this was continuing as desired by the King, and set one of the agents employed to investigate matters privately to examine the business of the establishment and the quarters for Master Varondil’s apprentices.  He also was to find out who served as the one who coordinated the regular examinations of the apprentices for the Guild of Stone Carvers and send him out of the city through the rest of the summer.  Well, there would be work for sculptors in Osgiliath.  He set one of his aides to find out that information and tried to think up reasons why only this one would be suitable. 

 *******

            Master Orilias was flattered to find out he particularly was asked to work on part of the facade for the Square of Gathering in Osgiliath.  However, the timing could not be worse.  Master Varondil was going to be very angry.  The review of his apprentices was due this coming month, and that was always a worry for him.  Orilias had always managed to smooth things over for Varondil.  He had, after all, the most apprentices in the city, and needed to have things made simpler from time to time.  Master Varondil had been very grateful all the times Orilias had assisted him during these reviews, very grateful.  There wasn’t even time to warn him.

*******

            Master Dorion was looking forward to the examination of Master Varondil’s apprentices.  He was glad that Orilias had been given the chance to work in Osgiliath.  It would give Erasgon a good chance to learn how to examine the apprentices, what education they were supposed to experience, how well Master Varondil prepared his apprentices.  He liked Master Varondil, and felt honored that the Guild had such a giving soul represented within it, as he provided very heavily for youths who had been left orphaned, mostly by the war, he understood.  He felt Erasgon would learn a great deal from the interviews with Master Varondil’s apprentices.  Yes, it was well that Orilias was busy elsewhere and another would have the chance to learn from the excellent Master Sculptors in the city.  He looked again at the list of apprentices Varondil had registered with the guild, and smiled.

 *******

            The first agent sent to see to it that Master Varondil had an accident disappeared, and when, where, or how this happened none could say.  There was no recollection of such a person entering the White City, no record of him taking a room anywhere under any of his known names.  The second was arrested for suspected thefts from a shop--Landrion had known better to send him--was always under suspicion of thefts (with good reason), but he’d been available and already headed for the White City, and he had a reputation for making falls from walls and down stairs look accidental.  The third approached had refused to accept the job, and Landrion was looking for someone to deal with him now.  So far he’d not been able to find a fourth person even to approach.

            As for the ambassador from Rhun--it appeared Ifram, at least, was dead.  Certainly a body wearing his clothing, and definitely one of Rhun, his height, weight, and build, had washed up south of Passaurin four days after the planned assault ought to have occurred.  Apparently the body had been weighted down and dropped into the river, but it had broken free.  He himself had seen it, for he’d been waiting in Passaurin.  Its features were unrecognizable, for it had obviously in the water for some days and the face was rather battered.  But the arrows in it were those of Gondorian forces such as his folk had been instructed to carry.  No one had appeared to have identified the Man as being from Rhun, though--maybe someone should be sent to the garrison who could identify the clothing as having originated in the East.

            However, it was obvious that some on the farm had survived the assault, for late on the day after the planned assault someone had ridden into Passaurin on a winded horse, straight to the garrison complex on the south side of the city.  How many survived was not known, nor who they might be.  How many guards were sent to check out the situation was unclear, for there were so many comings and goings happening that it was impossible to tell.  At least three had been sent to the estate, however.

            His agents, however, were apparently being pursued.  He’d caught a glimpse of one of the Rhunim early in the day after the assault riding rapidly through the city--his clothing and horse were familiar to Landrion.  Later he’d caught a glimpse of Maril’s horse on the outskirts of town.  Both had been seen before the arrival of the messenger to the garrison.  The next day his people at the Pelargir spoke of seeing all six, once gathered together as if talking together, then scattering as a line of the King’s troupes approached; later, on the road heading north along the Anduin, followed not long after by Ranger trackers.  The Rangers had reentered the city late the next day and had reported to the garrison headquarters building there.  After that his own agents appeared to have disappeared completely.  They were probably in hiding, but where he had no idea.  They weren’t using any of his own safe houses, although Maril knew of several that he had access to that were not controlled by Landrion, so they could be anywhere at this moment.  He’d not worry for three more days.

            At this point he would simply have to await developments.  He finished his ale and gathered his meager belongings, headed for the stable, prepared to purchase a new horse to replace the one he feared might be getting recognizable to some within Gondor he’d prefer not realize he was inside the realm.  An hour later he was well on his way back toward Umbar.  He never noticed the Ranger tracker following after him.

 *******

            The reports were satisfactory so far.  The three Rhunim and the three guards sent with them had split up as they entered Passaurin, each taking a different route through town.  Most folk had not paid any attention to them, but the Ranger trackers set to watch more obvious ways had noted one person who appeared to be watching with interest for someone from the northern road, and who smiled with satisfaction when he saw an Easterling rider headed quickly south.  The Ranger who spotted this Man then prepared to follow him through town, saw him keeping an eye on the activities of the garrison, and a second Ranger joined his watch when the stranger went to a public inn for the night. 

            Late the next day and for three days after he sat at one of the inn’s outdoor tables drinking ale, and was approached by five different folk as he nursed his tankard for hours at a time.  One of these was a known seller of information; the last had just entered the city from the south, from the road to the Pelargir.  They saw the stranger to his rooms, saw him leave the inn with his saddlebags and head for a stable, and watched as he arranged the purchase of a horse, set his own saddle upon it--a very expensive saddle, and not one of Gondorian design or manufacture; one then followed him out of town, melting into the grass at the side of the road. 

            Halfway to the Pelargir the Man stopped his slow but steady ride, looked around to see if any were at hand to note his activities, and seeing no one he urged his mount east toward the river.  He obviously knew where he was going, and started down a hidden track to the riverbank that the Ranger had previously not been aware of.  The Ranger watched from above as the Man rode his horse to the bank where a small, flat barge waited, and dismounted.  He led his horse onto it, and held its head as the barge started out, being poled across the Anduin.  The Ranger smiled--the road on the other side stayed close to the river bank and thus twisted and turned a good deal.  He sped south to another crossing where he had to ford a series of channels, but where he arrived at the south road before the stranger; he lay in wait in the brush until at last he saw the stranger indeed approaching, headed for Umbar.  So, this was an agent of Umbar, was it?  The folk of Gondor now knew how to deal with such. 

            On entering Umbar he saw the Man to a walled property where he was obviously the master, considering the obsequious behavior of the gatekeeper who allowed him entrance.  The Ranger quickly sought out one of the Gondorian agents in the area.  On being told which house it was, the agent nodded.  Yes, he knew the Man, descended from the Black Númenoreans, a Man named Landrion and a known warlord.  His hatred for Gondor was well known.  His disdain for Marcipor, the acknowledged Lord of Umbar, was also well known.  Landrion was kept under steady watch, but was known to be canny at evading observation if he had any idea such was being kept on him.  He regularly sent spies and agents of several sorts into Gondor, and had met several times the previous year with folk from Rhun.  Lately he’d been seen entertaining three known paid assassins, two of whom had headed north and one who had returned to his own quarters, then moved quarters secretly that night.

            Landrion had disappeared from the area a couple weeks earlier, and where he went no one had known--until now.  So, he’d been in Gondor and in Passaurin, had he?  As for ridings of Easterlings--three Easterlings had stayed with Landrion for several days, and had disappeared with him.

            A report was written and sent to the Crown land north of Mardil’s estate.  The Lord Hardorn received and read it with interest.  The name Landrion had been given him before.  He’d been one of those who had been in the last embassy from Rhun, and had been most upset when Aragorn had dictated his own terms for a treaty.  He’d certainly examined the room carefully, and had separated himself from the rest of his party to observe the doings on the Seventh Level before the Lord Wasnior, who’d headed the embassy, insisted they return to Umbar as rapidly as possible. 

            They now had a name and a face.  Hardorn began to formulate his next plan.

 *******          

            The singletree had been changed on the coach to accommodate two small horses instead of ponies; a new coat of varnish had been applied with a reddish tint; and the doors had been changed altogether.  The steward for the property tended to speak in a drawling manner, and was plainly proud of himself.  “We hadn’t time to do the new coat of varnish and the crest and have both dry satisfactorily, so we simply exchanged the doors.  Of course, the King, should he come south and desire to use our coach, will find himself in a coach without the carved crest; but this changes the profile of your coach as well as its looks--it will better fool anyone seeking it out.”  Hardorn was plainly pleased.

            The prisoners had been brought from the farm one at a time over the past two days and had been held in secure cells on the property--for generations the Stewards had used such properties as secure sites for prisoners taken in the fiefdoms who were being sent to Minas Tirith for judgment.  It had been six years since these had been so used, but they now came in handy.  The seven prisoners were all bound and gagged and their eyes bound as well, and now they were placed in the goods wagon, each manacled to one of the staples intended to be used to tie down the load.  Two guards rode with them under the tarp with instructions to treat the two wounded as needed, and to lift the gags once every two hours and give them drink, but to stagger the drinks so not all were ungagged at the same time.  Once all was done, Hardorn himself took the driver’s seat and they set out northward, saluting the others as they began putting their personal satchels into the coach for the resumption of their own journey.

            An hour later the guards at the gate indicated the road outside was now again empty of traffic, and the coach set out with its smart guard.  Orin seemed pleased to ride with them inside the coach this time.  “Suspect we will be going at a faster rate on the journey home than in the journey south,” he said.  “I am sorry if you had hoped to stop in Bavarin, but it might do better if you travel to it deliberately after the one behind this whole affair is taken.”  Ruvemir nodded distractedly in return.

            Having been given leave by Gilfileg to ride alongside the coach and speak with those inside, Shefti and Ifram did just that.  It took a time for Ruvemir to figure how to lower the windows on the new doors, but at last he had it done, and they smiled in at him.  “We are on our way north, it seems, safe and whole,” Ifram commented.

            “No thanks to those who would see you dead, and those around you as well,” Ruvemir responded.  “I only hope that my family remains safe, and that the capture of the one who ordered this is the end of it.”  It was the turn of the Easterlings to nod distractedly this time.

            They described the ride through Passaurin and the Pelargir followed by the quick trip into the fortress there to change into the garb of the guard for the Prince of Dol Amroth, then their ride on new horses back to the Crown land within a troupe of actual such guards.  “No one appeared to look at us twice when we rode with them, no matter we were shorter than the rest.  But the horses were much taller than the ones we are accustomed to, after all.  Perhaps we don’t look that much smaller riding upon them.”  Now they had their own horses back, although a uniform hair dye had been used upon them to change the color of all to dark chestnut.  “I hope none will recognize us or the horses now.”  Ruvemir agreed.  Soon they came into more traffic and the Easterlings resumed their places in the guard following the coach, and found the coach and its company received interest indeed, but not this time for the company but simply because it was one of the royal coaches, and speculation was rife as to what great lord or lady traveled inside.

            Within five days they were back in the capital.  They’d not stayed in inns on the way back, but in the homes of Lords and in lodges prepared for Lords and Ladies and the servants of the White City and its Citadel.  It was not as comfortable as the journey out had been, traveling at their leisure and meeting all kinds of folk, kindly or otherwise; but the food was excellent and service beyond compare.  It was with a feeling of relief they rode through the gates of the Rammas Echor and trundled at last across the Pelennor, therefore.  Soon they would be home again, and hopefully less likely to attack.

Note:  This chapter deals with the subject of sexual perversion and its aftermath.  If the subject distresses you and you do not wish to hear how it has been known to affect its victims, please skip it.

It is not only the good we do which can have long-ranging effects, making things better for all--the evil we do can also have serious effects on many we may not meet personally.

Dealing with Master Varondil

            Master Varondil had not had a particularly good last few weeks.  It had started when a knock at his door proved to be a Guard with a Man who had been apparently caught trying to break into the Master’s home.    No, Master Varondil had never seen this Man before, had no idea who he was or what he’d thought to take from Varondil’s home.  The stranger had been taken to the prison, questioned, and searched.  A packet of herbs was found on him, herbs the herb master at the Houses of Healing identified as being all poisonous.

            The second time was two weeks later.  A tall, muscular Man had passed him on the stairs up to his house and that next to his, a broom over his shoulders.  Varondil was just past the Man when he heard his name called, and the other was swinging the broom, obviously intent on sweeping the sculptor off the stairs entirely--until an arrow took him in the shoulder and he stopped still, his face draining of blood as he stared stupidly at the arrow and at the broom he’d just dropped. 

            An Elf stood nearby, his bow in hand, watching the muscular Man intently.  “I would suggest you stand still,” the Elf advised.  A second later a Guard appeared, heard the Elf’s statement.  The Elf was checking the growth of a tree planted at the end of winter in a nearby garden, heard a voice calling a name, rose and saw this muscular Man swinging a broom at the Master Sculptor, drew his bow and stopped him.  The Guard took the Elf’s testimony and turned to the sculptor.  No, Varondil had told him, he’d never seen this person before, and he had no idea why any would wish to attack him in such a manner. 

            A second Guard appeared, saw and recognized the wounded prisoner.  “We’ve been looking for him for two hours.  He walked into a jeweler’s shop in the Fourth Circle and took a handful of gold chains and disappeared.  And you’ve found him here in the Fifth Circle?  Good enough, particularly if he has Mistress Lileaneth’s chains.”  A search found the chains and more in the Man’s belt purse, and he was arrested and taken again to the prison behind the Citadel. 

            There had been no further assaults on him or his property since, but Master Varondil was taking no chances.  He hired a private bodyguard who watched his premises and went with him between his dwelling and his workshop and the apprentices’ quarters in the Fourth Circle, one who after a few days shook his head but wisely kept his own counsel.

            Today Guild Master Dorion would be coming for the regular review of the apprentices, and he sincerely hoped that Orlias would not expect more this year than previously for easing the evaluation.  It hadn’t taken a great deal when Orlias had become first secretary to the Guild Master to convince him to have the apprentices divided into two groups, having the Guild Master examining the one of the regular apprentices and Orlias simply signing off on the second group without actually interviewing any of them.  But as the years passed Orlias had begun taking advantage of the situation, often asking for special favors between reviews, making it plain in the last two years he expected a good deal more than previously for his assistance in easing the reviews.  Varondil had tried to meet with Orlias at the Laughing Oliphaunt last night to discuss the situation, but his note to Orlias had been returned with the terse note that Orlias was not available.  Signs appeared to indicate that Orlias was becoming difficult--and increasingly greedy.

            Varondil looked around the workshop with satisfaction.  He’d set the youngest to sweeping the place and cleaning windows and such starting a week back, had instructed all to wear clean smocks and to make certain their tools were properly sharp and laid out on their benches.  Most of the kept boys were back at the apprentice quarters, although three of them were among the proper apprentices.  He’d made certain that the books of history were available, that the regular apprentices had their sketch booklets handy to show and that they’d each done the sketches he’d suggested.  All appeared to be in readiness for the Guild Master’s arrival--and then he noted the stone blocks in the entrance.  He’d forgotten to clear them out!  Well, hopefully the Guild Master would ignore them, just think of them as blocks for practice pieces for his own apprentices.

            The door opened and he saw the smiling face of the Guild Master, but with him instead of Master Orlias was Master Sculptor Erasgon.  Erasgon?  What in Middle Earth was that one doing here?  He knew Erasgon all too well, for they’d done much of their studies in record keeping and projecting sizes, weights, and costs for projects together.  Erasgon of Lamedon was five years the younger, was diligent in his studies, and had become a stickler for details when it came to their work.  Varondil had found himself wishing their own Masters had not studied together and decided to share the cost of an instructor for this part of their apprentices’ educational requirements.  There had been no love lost between the two as apprentices, and the situation had not become any better over the years between.  Erasgon simply had a look he used when he looked at Varondil that Varondil did not like, a look that spoke of awareness of Varondil’s shallow nature.

            Dorion’s smile broadened as he looked about the workshop.  “How bright it is in here, how pleasant an area in which to work.  It is a pleasure, Master Varondil, as always a pleasure to examine your apprentices.”

            Varondil was starting to sweat.  “Oh, yes, I see, Guild Master.  And where is Orlias today?”

            “He received a commission to do work in Osgiliath.  A fine commission indeed it is, also.  It was a great honor to be asked to work on such after the ten years he has served as secretary to the Master of the Guild.”

            “Yes, a great honor indeed, Master Dorion.”  Varondil felt himself sweating more heavily.  How was he ever going to get through this with Erasgon?  He knew there would be no approaching him with the idea of skimping on the questioning.

            Just how disastrous it was became evident all too soon.  Erasgon had begun by looking at the list of apprentices, then counting the bodies present.  The list showed sixteen, but only ten were here.  “Where are the other six apprentices, then?” he asked.

            “Other six?”  Varondil felt the dampness on his upper lip.

            “Yes, the other six.”

            “Oh, young Duinnedor is ill, and three are at the math instructor’s home....”  It was the wrong thing to say, he realized.  On this day they were to all be present, with no lessons.  The smile on Guild Master Dorion’s face began to fade.

            By midday it had been replaced by a look of shock and anger.  The seven regular apprentices had been barely given the requirements for history, and only two could name all the Kings of Gondor or tell what had become of Eärnur.  None appeared to have any idea how much the piece he was working on was likely to weigh, and only five could tell how much the piece cost to produce and how much it was likely to bring.  And the three irregular apprentices could barely speak the Common Tongue, much less tell much of what they’d learned or from whom.  Nor, it proved, were their articles of indenture properly prepared--one had apparently been signed as witness two years past by a man Varondil himself knew to have died six years ago.  And although all had sketch booklets, the sketches were all done only in the past few days, not ongoing as was required; nor did he see any signs of practice pieces.  Most did not even know the names of the tools they used!

            At noon a Guard entered the workshop.  “The Lord Prince Steward asked me to attend on you this afternoon, Guild Master,” he explained.  “It was his belief there would be found irregularities you would wish to explore more deeply.”

            “Indeed!” Dorion said, his face stony.  “I am supposed to examine all of Master Sculptor Varondil’s apprentices today, and find far too many irregularities, the first being that not all sixteen are present.  I know one is not in the city at present, but there are still five missing.  His quarters for his apprentices are in the Fourth Circle in the Street of Bakers.  Could you go or send someone to bring the rest here?”

            “I will send immediately,” the Guard responded, going to the door, opening it, and summoning another Guard inside.

            By midafternoon the worst had happened.  Eight additional boys had been found in the apprentices’ quarters, two of them locked into their rooms.  Most of these had come not from Gondor at all, but from Rhun, Umbar, Dunlending, and even Harad.  Further Guards with language skills in their tongues were called in, and it was learned most were not even orphans--or had not been at the time they were kidnapped and sent into Gondor to enter the service of Master Varondil.  Nor could it be concealed that all those who had remained in their quarters in the Street of Bakers were expected to serve as playthings for the Master’s less savory appetites. 

            Guild Master Dorion’s expression had gone beyond anger.  He was filled with a cold fury, a fury of betrayal and disgust.  He looked at the former Master Sculptor, shaking his head.  “I remand you into the custody of these Guards, Varondil.  You have no place in our guild, and are stripped of your status as Master Sculptor.  I find you yourself do little or nothing to teach your apprentices--that they mostly teach one another, and that you give them no chance to grow in our trade.  And what you have taught them--” his expression twisted “--is not to be borne.  You have not treated these as apprentices, but as slaves and chattel.”  He turned to the Guard.  “Please take him away.  He sickens me.”  Then he saw the blocks.  “Wait.  Varondil, for whom were these blocks intended?”

            “For practice pieces, Guild Master,” Varondil said, pleading.

            Erasgon knelt, examined the bill of lading attached to the top block.  “This states these were ordered by Master Sculptor Ruvemir, Guild Master.”

            “Yes, for practice pieces for his apprentices.”

            Dorion sighed.  “Those were ordered weeks before he left the city.  Why do they lie here?”

            “They arrived on the day the King’s babe was born, Master.  There was none there to accept them that day.”

            Erasgon looked at the dates on the bill.  “They arrived here two days before the High Day the week preceding, Master.  He is lying.  Here is his signature acknowledging receipt, and the date is clear.”

            Varondil shot him a poisonous look, but it was deflected by the other’s lack of attention.

            “The day before the High Day that week I know that Master Ruvemir was not at the site save for an hour when he showed his work to us and then to the family gathering for his wedding.  So, it is likely that there was no one there to accept the blocks that day.  However, they ought to have gone up the first day after the High Day, for there is no question Master Ruvemir and his apprentices were there every day thereafter save for the day of celebration after the birth of the child.  He was even there the day the child was born until the hour of its birth.”  Dorion shook his head.  “Take him.  I will arrange for the delivery of the stones to Master Ruvemir.”

            Guards led the former master sculptor away, up to the prison on the level of the Citadel.

 *******

            Erasgon looked to the Guild Master.  “Now what do we do, sir?”

            “When Orlias returns from Osgiliath, he has much to answer for.  He has assured me he has checked those apprentices I’d not questioned before, and that he’d already qualified their educational requirements.  It appears he has been covering for Varondil’s--irregularities--for some years, then.”  He looked at the apprentices, separated into two groups in the room, as they stood together, unsure of what would become of them.  “I feel quite the fool, trusting the two of them.  They have both caused great harm to the Guild.”

            “And even more harm to these,” Erasgon sighed.  “What do we do with them, I wonder?”

            Dorion shook his head.  “I don’t know.  This is a question for the King, so I suppose it must now go before the Lord Prince Faramir as Steward.”

            At that moment the door to the workshop opened once more, and a Guard entered.  “I took the liberty of summoning the Lord Steward, Masters,” he said.  “I did not know of any other with sufficient authority to make the determination as to what to do about these.”

            Dorion looked up with grateful eyes.  “Thank you, Captain, for this was our determination as well.”

            It took another quarter mark for the Steward to come, accompanied by the Queen herself, carrying her daughter with her.  Their guards and two advisors fanned out behind them.  Faramir looked the situation over, the two Guild Masters, the two groups of apprentices, the Guards skilled in tongues, and sighed.  “Tell me,” he said simply. 

            Two of the valid apprentices brought chairs from the small table for the Prince and the Queen, who received them with thanks, then retreated back to their own group, looking over at the other group with a mixture of pity, disgust, and worry.  The list of apprentices was given into the hands of the Prince and the situation described.  “I am not even certain if the names given are correct, my Lord,” Dorion finished.  “The paper describes all as having come from Gondor, yet it appears many were stolen from other lands and sent here by someone who was aware of Varondil’s--appetites.  Certainly not all who stand there are listed here.”

            Faramir stared down at the list for some minutes.  “I see.  Give me something with which to write.”

            The oldest apprentice came forward with his sketch booklet and a drawing stick, and the Steward thanked him graciously.  “Let us now see which are proper apprentices and which were brought here against their will.  If I call your name, please come forward.  Marvilion of the city.”

            And so it went.  The seven proper apprentices were mostly from the city or somewhere nearby.  One came from Lamedon, and two were from hamlets upon the Pelennor.  Three of the others were from far south in Gondor, near the River Anduin.  Two of these were indeed orphans, their parents lost in raids from across the River before the war, and they’d indeed been sent by relatives who’d expected them to learn the sculptor’s trade.  They’d been cut off from correspondence with their kin, and had been abused from their earliest days in the keeping of Varondil.  Both of these were older youths, one eighteen, one seventeen.  The third was but twelve, and had been kidnapped from his work scaring birds in his father’s fields, which lay by the River.  He had been in Varondil’s keeping for almost two years, and his name was not on the list at all.  The others came from outside the realm, most from regions immediately around Umbar.  Two were from Rhun, and two were from the north of Harad.  The boy from Dunlending had also been brought in two years past.  His parents had died in the war, and he’d been living partly on the street and partly with a distant cousin who did not wish to be responsible for his kin.  His cousin had sold him to a Man who had styled himself a trader, one whose merchandise appeared to mostly consist of children.  The names of most of them were not those by which they were known on the lists, and it appeared two names, which were on the list, were of boys whose current whereabouts were unknown, but who had indeed been numbered among the apprentices three years past.

            For the two from Rhun, their names and clan designations were learned.  “Ambassador Ifram will be able to deal with you when he arrives back,” Faramir decided.  He looked at them and those from Harad.  “Do you wish to remain in Gondor or to return to your own people?” he asked, having the words translated to each pair.

            Both Rhunish boys wished to return to their own families, as did one of the two from Harad.  The other shook his head.  “My mother is dead many years ago, and my father could not keep me.  He sold me to one from Umbar who brought me here.  I have nowhere to return to.”

            Faramir sighed.  “I see.”

            Looking at the boys from Umbar again he sighed.  “Sending you back to your homeland would only serve to send you to possibly worse than here,” he said.  “I know not what to do with you.”  He looked to the Queen.  “Lady Arwen, do you have any ideas?”

            She raised an eyebrow, then looked to them, holding Melian protectively.  They’d been able to get a name for each boy.  “Jamal, what would you like to do most of anything you could?”

            The youth was startled by this question.  He looked at her searchingly, but finally answered.  “I want to go back to farming, for that is the way of my people.”

            She questioned each and all, and as she got answers they were written down on the list by the Prince by each name.  Two, surprisingly, wished to continue to study sculpting.  She nodded.  Then she asked the valid apprentices if any wished to follow any other trade than sculpting.  Three indicated they wished to follow other trades, one wishing to become a merchant.  The Queen thought for a moment.  “Then it appears we have six only who wish to remain in training as sculptors, while the rest wish to follow other trades.  Master Dorion, can you find proper placements for these six among your guildsmen?”

            “I believe so, my Lady.”

            “Then I will approach some of the other Guild Masters to find placements for these others.  And I have a farm in mind for young Jamal where he would be able to learn farming--if they will agree to take one more.  The one thing I will promise you is that none there will treat you as you were treated by Varondil.”

            She sighed.  “Now that you have received the treatment you have from Varondil, you may find yourself wishing that the intimacy of it continued in your lives.  I will tell you that what you have known is only a twisted shadow of what you ought not to have known until you were older in body and spirit.  You will all be watched to make certain you do not seek to visit what you yourselves suffered on other innocents.  Do you understand?”  Several nodded while the others looked at her confused.  “Once my Lord Husband returns he will visit with each of you, he and my brothers.  Hopefully they will be able to assist you to the healing of spirit you will need.  It is a terrible thing to awaken such appetites in those who ought to know the innocence of childhood.  I will say that the punishment granted to Varondil will be harsh.”  All looked at her, and then back to one another.  She looked to the valid apprentices.  “Did Varondil seek such intimacy with you, also?”

            Two of the boys, after several moments, nodded their heads.  “He would often seek to touch me,” said one.  The other told a darker tale. 

            She sighed.  “So it goes.  It is probable that when he was a boy or youth one did similarly to him, and so he now finds full pleasure only with those who are as he was then.

            “There is in the First Circle a house which during the war housed those few children who remained in the city when most others were evacuated to the safe places in the mountains.  It has become a home for children who have no parents or family.  Guards will accompany those who live within the city or on the Pelennor to your family homes for now, until proper apprenticeships can be arranged.  Those who live elsewhere will go to the children’s house for the next few days until we can arrange for your new apprenticeships or your return home.”

            With the confirmation of the Steward, the decision was affirmed, and soon Guardsmen were leading the apprentices off in different directions.

            Master Dorion looked after the departing boys and sighed.  “I feel so responsible, Majesty.  Why did I not realize what was happening here?  I could  see the contrast between these and those who serve with, say, Master Ruvemir.”

            Arwen sighed herself.  “You cannot begin to realize everything, Guild Master.  Varondil was very clever.  Young Celebgil has failed to speak of what he realized was happening here, although Master Ruvemir had realized something serious was amiss before he left.  He told my husband, however, that until he had some true indication of what was wrong and evidence to support his suspicions he would say nothing more, that he cause no harm through speculation.  The King left word with Faramir to examine the situation with Varondil while Master Ruvemir is gone, but your own examination has proven the more efficient at unmasking the villainy.”

             “It would have been proven years earlier had Orlias not assisted in the covering of it.”  Again the fury rose in the Guild Master.  “Orlias has much to answer for.  And I must re-examine all he has assisted in examining to see what other laxness and perfidy has been covered up.”  The line of his mouth thinned more.  “I would not see my guild diminished in honor so, my Lady.”

            Steward and Queen gave each other significant looks.  At least the Guild Master had not proven complicit in Varondil’s evil--his fury was such it could not be feigned.  The honor of the guild was already restored through his very disgust, though he did not yet realize it.

Exposing Intrigue

            It felt odd to ride past the King’s Head to the Sixth Circle--full odd.  It felt odd to not have the chatter of the apprentices around them, to have Ririon and Pando so far away now.  It would be but the two of them for a time.  Ruvemir hoped he could bear it, then looked at his bride and realized he would have ample aid in bearing it with her.  He smiled and took her hand.  She looked on him and kissed him gently.  The kiss deepened--then the coach was stopping and they came to themselves to realize they were home.  Home.

            The Lord Steward was there to greet them, Eregiel at his side.  “Lord Hardorn has brought word of what befell you all, Lord Ambassador, Master Ruvemir, Mistress.  Much has happened here as well.  There is now a workshop open for use on the Fifth Circle.”  He paused, giving a significant look at Celebgil. 

            The youth paled.  “He has been found out?”

            “Yes, through the review of apprentices.  Master Orlias was not there this time to hide things for Varondil.  The Guild Master is letting him remain in Osgiliath for now--but when he returns all will be revealed before the entire Guild.”

            “What of Meredin?”

            “Who is Meredin?”

            “He was accepted as an apprentice the same time as I.  Master Varondil used threats toward him to keep my silence.”

            “I can find no records of him.  I will speak to Master Dorion, then.  There are other names I cannot find bodies for, either.”

            The boy’s eyes closed, and Ruvemir reached up to grasp his shoulder.

            The small sculptor looked up into the Steward’s eyes.  “Then he was misusing his apprentices?”

            “Yes.  The Guild Master is much disheartened.”

            “When was it found out?”

            “This very day.”

            Celebgil asked, “Have you searched his house yet?”

            “Not yet.”

            “Meredin may be there.”

            “I will have a Dwarf help in the search.”

            “Orin would be glad to do so, I think.  We left him near the Dwarves’ warehouse on the first level,” Ruvemir suggested.

            “I wish to help,” Celebgil said emphatically.

            Ifram’s face was pale.  “I had not thought such happened here in Gondor.”

            “Where Men are, all kinds of evil exist as well as good, my Lord.”

            The Ambassador nodded.  “It has happened among us as well.”  He turned toward his brother and Ben’harin.  “Come.  We are home.”

            “Additional guards have been placed on this level, until we find who has been responsible for the attacks.”

            “We thank you.  But when you find him, I wish to have my time with him.”

            “So it shall be, Lord Ifram.”  It was hard to say which face was more grim--that of the young lord from Rhun or that of the elder lord from Gondor.

            Ruvemir and Elise looked at one another, then sighed and walked to the house given them.  Elise unlocked the door and they entered in, Ruvemir looking over his shoulder to see the guards at the embassy house examining their masters’ dress surreptitiously.  Ben’harin appeared to have caught the glances, though, and his glare straightened them to attention.  The chief guard welcomed them to the door, apparently having been advised already that they were coming and in what mode.  He saw the other door close behind them.

            Eregiel had remained after the rest of the Steward’s party left, followed by the rest of those who’d guarded their coach on the trip back to Minas Anor.  “I’m here to assist in the unloading, and then to take the coach and team back to the first level.”

            “Thank you,” Ruvemir said automatically.

            Together they began carrying things from the coach into the house.  Eregiel carried in one crate and commented, “It feels as if this is filled with stone. 

            Elise, who was going through a chest of clothes to sort out that which needed cleaning from fresh, smiled up at him.  “That is because it is filled with stone.  When one assists a sculptor, one should expect such things, I suppose.”  Both laughed.  “Carry it into the north parlor.  He has determined that will be his studio within the house.”

            Within a half mark the coach was empty and most items apportioned to rooms here or there.  “I will take the coach now,” Eregiel said.  “And then I will be coming back to speak with you, if you feel you can bear such after your journey.”

            “We can bear it,” Ruvemir assured him, following him to the door and securing it after him.  He then went to the door to the balcony and made certain it, too, was secured.

            “I grow tired of anxiety,” he commented to Elise.

            “I understand, my love.”  They looked to one another and both shrugged, then laughed. 

            He went to her, embraced her.  “I am only so glad to have you, Beloved.”

            They kissed, and looked at one another.  “I,” she said suddenly, “find myself hungry.  Shall we see what has been brought in preparation for our arrival?”

            The house had been clean when they arrived, and had obviously been aired.  Discarded wrappings from those of their gifts they’d opened had been placed in a large basket, and the gifts themselves placed in appropriate cupboards and closets, while the still wrapped gifts stood on and around a sideboard.  In the kitchen they found a stew simmering gently on the stove and fresh-baked rolls in a covered basket on the table, along with plates and utensils, a tub of butter and jar of honey.  

            Elise looked at the set table and the vase of flowers that stood on the windowsill, and sighed.  “They are so working to make us feel welcome.”  She looked  to him.  “Shall you prefer wine or ale with your meal?”

            He laughed.  “Actually, I would like milk tonight.”

            “Milk it shall be, if we have any.  We drank what was left for us before.”

            A lidded jug of milk was found in the small cold room, and soon they were enjoying their first supper together in their new home.  Again both cleaned the kitchen together.  They were considering resumption of the opening of gifts when there was a pull at the bell.  Ruvemir opened to find both Eregiel and Gilfileg, back in his own clothing, waiting there.

            The next hour was spent going over every detail they could remember of the trip, trying to realize where whoever had ordered the assault might have come to realize that Ifram and Shefti were indeed with their party. 

            “It appears,” Eregiel finally said with a sigh, “that the only place where any might have paid sufficient attention to the Rhunim to realize their origin was in Casistir; but Orophin remained there for three days and saw no one meeting with the workmen who thought to assault you there, nor with any others.  The only messenger sent from there was sent here to Minas Anor from the engineers who directed the work, telling of the incident and the discipline given to the Men Targon and Everion, and praising the other worker, Húrin son of Hergion, who spoke against their actions.”

            “I suspect that as a watch was being kept on the farm, whoever it was who sent the attackers realized the chance was that Lords Ifram and Shefti did join your party, and set himself to figure out your eventual destination since he could not follow your route,” Gilfileg suggested.  “It was only after your party was seen approaching it and the two of them could be recognized as being Rhunim that the one watcher went to meet the others and lead them to the estate.”  Eregiel nodded in agreement.

            “I suspect you are correct,” Ruvemir said, “but it does not make me feel any easier for the safety of my family.” 

            There was another knock at the door, and all looked up in surprise.  Ruvemir went to it and called out, and was surprised to hear the voice of Lord Hardorn in response.  He quickly opened to allow him to enter, accompanied by Ifram, Shefti, and Ben’harin.  He led them into the dayroom where all sat and waited for Hardorn to speak.

            “I have asked these to join us as they have the right to know what has been learned and what is planned.  Reports have reached us from Umbar--one did see you and reacted to your party in Passaurin, my Lords; and then was followed back to Umbar.  He has finally been identified, Landrion of Umbar, a warlord of the land and one who seeks to rival the Lord Marcipor in power.  His hatred of Gondor is widely famed throughout Umbar, as is his penchant for intrigue, assassination, piracy, and spying.  He is descended from the Black Númenoreans, and is widely feared by his own people.

            “His own ships were lost to Aragorn at the Pelargir, a fact he still resents.  His brother Larigion captained the greatest of the ships, the one Aragorn took for his command ship.  Aragorn himself killed him.  Since his brother’s death, Landrion has stated he will do anything to see the throne of Gondor laid low, along with he who sits on it.  He also has been known to deal with Rhunim agents many times over the past six years.  The one seen most in his company wears a distinctive ring, one believed to have been given him by Sauron’s people.  Here is the drawing of it.”

            He unrolled a small drawing.  Ifram examined it and drew a deep breath, shared a look with his brother.  “Abdurin,” he said decisively. 

            Shefti nodded agreement.  “Abdurin of the Bedui, uncle to Solamonti and brother to the clan chieftain.  He’d always hoped his brother would be chosen next Shkatha, but instead Moritum received the honor.”

            Ifram snorted.  “He hoped he himself would become Shkatha, Shefti.  He has no real care for his brother Abduleram--he’d assassinate him in a heartbeat if he thought the rest of the Bedui would follow him.”

            Shefti simply gave an elegant lift to his eyebrows in response.  “I know only I have seen that ring on his hand and his alone.”

            The three Northern Rangers looked to one another.  Finally Hardorn commented, “It sounds as if the two of them may have been conspiring against the alliance between Rhun and Gondor.  You said before that the Bedui leadership always followed Sauron’s lead most closely.”

            Ifram agreed.  “They became very powerful under Sauron, for his people came to approach them first, gave them first pick of slaves and plunder, pride of place in the assaults.  Abdurin was the teacher of his brother’s son Solamonti, who headed their Men most of the time.  Solamonti was the arm that wielded the sword, but Abdurin was the brain that directed its aim.”

            Hardorn continued, “We have a tie here to Master Varondil.  Many of the questionable apprentices he held were from in and around Umbar, and the descriptions they give of where they were taken after they were chosen for Varondil’s purposes indicate they were held on Landrion’s estate--his gate, which displays several tokens of the Black Númenoreans, is quite distinctive.  The small boat that brought them up the river also is tied to Landrion’s people.  All were brought to a hidden landing that Landrion was seen using on his way back to Umbar from Passaurin.  One of the Haradrim boys also described similar gates and the ride on the small boat to the hidden landing.  And one of the boys from Rhun recognized this ring on the hand of him who stole him from his clan’s lands.”

            “Has this Varondil been questioned?” asked Ifram.

            “Only dealing with his perversions so far.  Not yet with regard to his ties to any southern connection.”

            “Is he where no one can slay him in his cell?” Ifram asked again.

            “My own people guard him, as well as our southern guests.”

            “You spoke of plans,” Shefti prompted.

            Hardorn’s eyes became very hard.  “I sent messages to my Lord Cousin from the farm, and a response was awaiting me here.  He has left the leadership of our forces to Prince Imrahil and King Éomer for a time, and he is headed now to Umbar.  I head that way tomorrow.  Together we will approach Landrion of Umbar, and I suspect he will rue the meeting.”

            “How goes the encounter?”

            “So far neither side has the advantage, although Aragorn’s devices and strategies have begun to change that.”

            “Can they afford to have him leave the fight?”

            “The Lord Prince and the King of Rohan have learned how to deploy Aragorn’s devices, which should be all that is necessary for the next two weeks until he can return.  The news he brings back regarding Abdurin’s perfidy ought to bring more of your own people more fully into the war as well.  At the moment this Abdurin’s calls to arms have been so phrased as to discourage rather than to hearten your people to the defense against the Wainriders.”

            “How do you go?”

            “Landrion is not the only one to have access to fast, small boats on the river.”

            “And the King?”

            “The King has Olórin.”

            Ruvemir smiled.  “I’d forgotten that--Olórin is of the Mearas, the Lords of Horses.  None are swifter.”

            Ben’harin, who’d remained quiet so far, commented, “I would not wish to be this Landrion facing your King,”

            Hardorn’s smile was as feral as could be that of his royal cousin.  “I am looking forward to seeing it.”

            Eregiel asked, “Would you take one of us with you, Cousin?”

            “No, I wish you to stay here and continue to guard the Lord Prince and the Lady Queen.  And I have a favor to ask of you two, Master Ruvemir, Mistress Elise--may Gilfileg remain here in your house?  He will serve to keep an additional eye on the two of you as well as the Embassy.”

            “And when am I to finish my trip to Dol Amroth, then?” demanded Gilfileg.

            “The Lord Prince Imrahil and his heir are not there--they are in Rhun with the King.  His second son is here in the city, and only the third remains there.  Do you truly wish to tell your mother’s story to the third son only, Cousin?”

            Gilfileg gave a great sigh.  “Since you ask it of me, I will consider it, then.”

            Ruvemir and Elise looked one to the other, and smiled.  “We will agree,” the sculptor announced.  “Which room would you wish to use?”

            Elise laughed.  “We were worried about being alone after so long with Ririon, Pando, Miriel and Folco.  It appears we shall not be as alone as we’d thought.”

Note:  This chapter deals with the subject of sexual perversion and its aftermath.  If the subject distresses you and you do not wish to hear how it has been known to affect its victims, please skip it.

It is not only the good we do which can have long-ranging effects, making things better for all--the evil we do can also have serious effects on many we may not meet personally.

Aftermath from Perversion

            Near midnight there was a knock at the door, and Ruvemir rose to answer, having an idea as to who it would be.  Yes, it was Celebgil, and a stricken Celebgil at that. 

            “Did you find him?”

            “No, but we found others.  His wife is quite mad, did you know?”

            “Mad?”

            The youth nodded helplessly.  “They took her to the Houses of Healing.  The Lord Prince Steward was sent for again.  The ones--the ones that destroyed themselves he took there, buried them in the garden.  She told us he was planting them for her, to grow a child for her since she’d lost her own.  She was watering the garden over each one each day.  They found four.  A sick youth was inside, terrified.  I don’t recognize him.  Orin and other Dwarves are going through the house still.”  He looked up.  “What did he do with Meredin?”

            Ruvemir held him as he wept.  Finally as he calmed he asked, “Do your parents know yet you are returned?”

            Celebgil shook his head.  “Not yet.”

            “Do you know of any other boys or youths who were placed with Varondil who left the establishment?”

            He shrugged.  “Gabon, who came from southern Harad.  But he is mute--does not speak at all.”

            “Your father’s apprentice came from Varondil?”  He felt alarmed.

            “Yes.”  The youth looked more upset.  “Do you think he is mute because of what was done to him?”

            Ruvemir shook his head.  “I don’t know.  It is possible.”

            He led the boy upstairs, chose a room and settled him there, remained by him till he fell asleep and a while longer, at last went back down and crawled back into bed by his wife.  She awoke and looked to him.  “Celebgil.  They did not find his friend, and what they did find is a further horror.”  She held out her arms and simply held him through the rest of the night.

*******

            The Lord Prince went to the prison the next day to question Varondil.  Varondil looked exhausted.  He answered questions slowly, but finally they pried details out of him.  A couple of soldiers were sent into Lossarnach to a small hamlet near the mountain’s roots where the marble quarries were.  They returned the following day with seven more, three of them now grown Men.  Meredin was among them.  Two more who had died were buried there.  Varondil’s own son was buried there as well.  He’d been eight when his father had begun to abuse him, had destroyed himself when he was twelve.  Varondil had spirited his body out of the city, gave out the boy had run away.  The mother had gone mad with grief.  She’d cared for those who became ill as best she could, but kept looking for her own son to come back--or to grow in the garden.  Varondil had refused the assistance of the Elves in caring for his garden, and now it was plain why.

 *******

            Celebgil returned home shortly after he awoke, thanking Ruvemir profusely for the comfort of the night before.  His parents saw how stricken he was, but he would not speak of it.  “It is not the journey--it is what was found on our return.  Let me be with it for a time.” 

            At mid-afternoon Ruvemir came to speak to them, told them about the journey and how courageous Celebgil had been, and then broached what had been learned about Varondil the preceding day.  “He did not speak out of fear for what might be done to his friend, but trusted his silence would buy his friend’s safety.” 

            Hirdon was stricken, and his wife white with shock.  “And we entrusted our son to--to that?” she said, shaking.

            “It is likely what he did to them was done to him when he himself was young,” Ruvemir said.  “Such was found in Passaurin when I was a youth myself.”

            “That does not make it easier to bear,” she said in fury.

            He sighed.  “No, it does not.  He is in prison now, and awaits the King’s judgment.  And I am told the Queen has promised harsh justice on him.”

            “I would not see him die--merely see what he has done to these for the rest of his life.”

            “Knowing what I do of the King, I suspect he may order precisely that.  I was going to come to you on our return anyway, to ask to have Celebgil’s indenture changed to me, to try to erase the anger he feels.  Now I am uncertain if he will attempt to stay in our profession, although he is very gifted.”

            Hirdon examined him closely.  “You mean this?”

            Ruvemir nodded.  “Yes, there is no question.”

            The mother was thinking.  “Gabon--he came from--from that one.  Does he not speak due to what he suffered?”

            “Celebgil has asked the same.  Possibly.  We should bring his case before the Lord Prince, although it is plain he is safe here with you.  I doubt he will seek to remove him.”

            They nodded.

 *******

            He went to the work site afterwards by himself, feeling bereft.  He found himself thinking on those he was to memorialize--what they had each been through.  He suspected what he and Celebgil were now experiencing was yet but a pale copy of the terrors and evils they had faced.  But now he felt he was beginning to understand what they had experienced, the courage it had taken to set their experiences behind them as well as they did, to live in the present instead.  And then for Frodo--he’d found the whole journey had left him too scarred.  Like the boys found in the garden, he’d thought to escape by destroying himself, but had been saved by the refusal of an Elven rope to partake in such an act, and in the end by his own courage and the promise of healing from the Powers Themselves.  It had taken a great level of courage--courage and faith--to take that step toward healing.  But it was a healing that could not undo--only fulfill what was.  Nothing could remove that horror--only give it a positive context in which to accept its necessity--and its blessedness.

            Ruvemir uncovered Pippin’s stone and looked into the face, then realized his vision was blurred--he was weeping.  At last he uncovered Sam’s stone, simply stood embracing it for a time.  Finally he felt a touch on his shoulder, and looked up to find the Lord Glorfindel standing by him. 

            “I’d wondered why I felt impelled to remain here in this city of Men after the babe was born and when there was no further need,” the Elf said gently.  “Perhaps it was for this.” 

            Ruvemir felt the gentle touch of the Elf Lord as he was led to the table, made to sit down, saw the Elf kneel before him, looked into the depths of his eyes.  And he felt the comfort of knowledge of both Realms wash through him as he felt a relief to his spirit.

            They remained together for quite some time, neither speaking more.  At last the Elf Lord helped him drape the stones, and giving him a good night, Glorfindel went back to the Citadel.

Healing through Teaching

            The following day Ruvemir went up to the work site again, this time ready to do work.  He was relieved when, a half hour after his own coming, Celebgil arrived with his box of tools, set it where it had been before.  Ruvemir himself had brought only the paint pot and a few chisels at first, chisels to do rough cutting.  Together they worked that day on Sam’s stone. 

            At noon Faramir came out and watched them for a time with relief in his eyes, relief and, when Ruvemir looked to him, reassurance.  An hour later the six apprentices who had indicated to the Prince they wished to remain in sculpting had all been brought to the site by ones and twos by guards sent out earlier in the day to gather them.  Celebgil stopped, embarrassed.  Ruvemir smiled at him.  He, too, stopped, and looked at them, the parents who had accompanied their sons to the site, with reassurance.  He set down his tools and wiped his hands on the kerchief he carried, one that Miriel had embroidered for him.  He turned to them all.

            “I am Ruvemir son of Mardil of Lebennin, Master Sculptor.  Unlike your sons’ former Master, I have had but one personal apprentice in the past, and his indenture was transferred to another--not because of my appetites, but due to my preference to move about to take commissions.  I have worked in many places, and largely alone, borrowing apprentices from others from time to time to assist in the rough cutting, as my own ability to do such is impaired by my condition as a mannikin.  However, each apprentice I have worked with, no matter how temporarily, has learned from me, and three are already Master Sculptors in their own right.

            “I am told that these youths have learned largely from one another rather than from their Master.  This is not what is expected of us as masters.  It is not what I do or will do, or what any legitimate master will do.  Do you understand?”

            All, youths and families, indicated understanding.

            “Very good.  We will start with the names of the tools.  I will have Celebgil tell these not because he should work as the teacher, although senior apprentices do assist in the instruction of junior apprentices, but to show you that he has learned this.”

            Celebgil stood proudly.  “I did learn this, not from--him, but from Master Ruvemir, as he began to instruct the other apprentices with whom he has worked here.  They were not intended to be primarily sculptors of stone, but work with other materials.  However, while they remained here, waiting to be taken to their primary masters, they learned what he would teach, and it was more than I’d learned before.

            “Now attend.  This particular mallet is....”

            Ruvemir watched with approval, watched as automatically the others began to gather near, to handle the tools as Celebgil named each and described its primary purpose, and demonstrated on one of the stones brought from Varondil’s sources for use in practice pieces how it was used.  Soon all were repeating the names, examining them, and a few taking the chance to experiment with them, although most were familiar with the tools and how they were used.

            Celebgil’s parents arrived not long after with Gabon and their children, and these, too, began to gather near as they listened to their brother explaining the use of the tools.  Finally Celebgil had described all the tools that they had at the site that day, and he stopped and looked at Ruvemir.  Ruvemir nodded approvingly.  “There are many more that we use, and chisels of all sorts and sizes for different sizes and cuts and effects.  Those will have to wait until we have the chance to bring more back to the site.

            “We are working here on a memorial commissioned by the King himself in honor of the Pheriannath who assisted in the War of the Ring.  I had the honor to meet with three of the four and many in their families and many also of their friends in their own land of the Shire, far to the west and north in Eriador of Arnor.  The fourth, the Ringbearer himself, the Lord Frodo Baggins, has left Middle Earth, having been granted the grace to go to the West into the Undying Lands to find the healing he could not receive here.  The cost to him for what he accomplished was too great for his mortal frame and nature to continue to bear here in Middle Earth.  Believe me when I tell you that there has been far worse evil than what you have known for many to face in this world.

            “Many have looked at the small stature of the figures and have been amazed.  However, I was made to promise I would depict them as they are, not as great heroes who are larger than life.  Pheriannath are small, a bit more than half the size of most Men.  They do not grow beards, and their ears are gently leaf-shaped with slightly pointed tips.  They mature more slowly than we Men, coming of age in their early thirties, usually; and they typically live to be around a hundred years in age.  They are, however, subject to the same maladies as Men, the same fevers and typical illnesses.  They are primarily farmers, and most work at gardening if not at farming, even when their primary employment is something else entirely.  They must eat more frequently than we Men, and most of the menfolk take pleasure in a strange pastime called smoking as well, a skill they have taught to the Dwarves and Men who live near or pass through their homes in the Shire and in the nearby Breelands.

            “These figures are only slightly larger than the Hobbits themselves--Hobbits being the name they give their own race.  The figure with the completed face is that of Captain Peregrin Took, who while he was in the city took the oath as a Guard of the Citadel.  This will be the figure of Sir Meriadoc Brandybuck, who swore allegiance to the King of Rohan and who is seen as a Knight of the Riddermark.  The third is that of the Lord Samwise Gamgee, the Esquire, the Faithful, who accompanied his friend and Master, Frodo Baggins, all the way to the Crack of Doom and back again.  The fourth figure has been worked upon, and is in storage down lower in the city for safekeeping.  It will be brought to the site only when it is almost finished.

            “Who can tell me what stone they are being wrought from?”

            The teaching went on for another hour and a half, and then the Lord Prince Steward came forth to call all into the Citadel.

            He took his seat on the black Steward’s chair, and today the Lady Queen sat on the grey seat provided for the Steward of Arnor, again with her daughter in her lap.  The child was growing, and her eyes were becoming clearly blue-grey with the same intensity seen in those of her mother and father.  Her hair was also lighter than it had been at her birth, becoming a dark gold.  She sat up now in her mother’s lap, watching the coming of the apprentices and their families with interest.  Chairs had been provided, and most now sat, somewhat nervous.  Faramir examined them all for a time, his mild yet discerning eyes seeking out and noting discomfort.  At last he spoke.

            “I have received word that more apprentices have been found in the small community that works the quarry from which Varondil’s family has garnered its wealth as a source of the marble which they have supplied to the city for many generations.  Exactly how many illegal and illicit apprentices the Man has had over the years we have no idea, although it appears to have numbered somewhere close to thirty. 

            “I assure you that Guild Master Dorion has had no idea what was happening in this workshop, for Varondil was able to suborn one of the Guild’s secretaries to help in hiding his perfidy from scrutiny.  The secretary involved was taken out of the city some time ago and held from communication with Varondil that we might more easily learn the nature of those activities the sculptor had been involved in--it was becoming plain there was major ill here, but of what sort we had no idea.  Most thought it the more common crimes of tax evasion, substitution of poor quality stone for monument quality, or such.  All were shocked when we finally learned, just the other day, just what was involved in this situation.

            “Celebgil here was lent to Master Ruvemir by Varondil to assist in rough cutting the stones for the memorial to the Hobbits.  He was granted this in return for his silence regarding what was happening among Varondil’s apprentices, although he was also threatened with harm to befall a personal friend among the apprentices if he spoke.  I suppose similar threats were used on the others who were approached by Varondil for immoral purposes?”

            The two boys who had been subject to the advances of Varondil nodded.  The Prince sighed.

            “Celebgil’s friend has been found, largely unhurt, sent to be held outside the city.  He says this happened after he sought to run away, to return to his kinfolk in Lossarnach to tell them what was befalling him here.”  Ruvemir noted the look of relief on Celebgil’s face, the relaxation of his shoulders.  “He will soon join us, for he, also, wishes to continue to learn the work of sculpting, but from a proper master.

            “I wished for you all to see what a proper master is like, which is why I had you all brought to this level today to meet with Master Ruvemir.  He works outside, largely, and so his teaching has been seen by many of the city as he has offered it to those who work with him.  However, as I believe he has told you, he is one who travels from one place to another to accept commissions, and so has not kept an apprentice full term as yet.  His next commissions are to be completed in Eriador of Arnor, and so when he is finished here he will travel to the Northern Kingdom.  He will not be able to take with him more than two apprentices, and he hopes one of these will be Celebgil, with whom he has learned to work well.

            “Master Dorion has instituted reviews of all apprenticeships examined under the auspices of the corrupt secretary, who will be disciplined when he returns from his current employment in a few months.  Lord Ifram of Rhun is working now on contacting the families of the boys taken from his land to facilitate their return to their own people, and we have sent word to Lord Rustovrid of Harad regarding those taken from his land.

            “Is the youth Gabon here?”

            Celebgil’s parents urged him forward.  He stepped forward to stand before the Steward.  “We found this in Varondil’s home, in a secret place.  Can you indicate what we must do to release you from the curse of silence?”  Faramir held out a small, dark doll.  The boy’s eyes grew very large but hopeful.  He looked at the face of the Steward as if to ascertain this was not further torment, but apparently reassured he stepped forward, examined the thing but would not touch it, then pointed to its face, then to his own tongue, miming pulling something forth.  Faramir watched him closely, then examined the doll, finally noting something.  Carefully he reached down as if trying to remove something, but stopped when he realized Gabon was acting as if physically distressed.

            “Let me try,” the Queen directed, and he rose to bring the doll to her, pointed to the face.  “I see--a thorn in the mouth to still the tongue, and in the throat to still the voice.  Crude, but effective.”  She took the thing and held it, sang softly over it, finally reached down and delicately removed two thorns, setting them carefully on the arm of her chair.  She asked for a dish, and it was brought.  Gently she set the two thorns on it and directed they be taken and immediately burnt.  She then summoned the boy to her, placed her hand on his mouth, gently touched his tongue, then his throat, singing again softly.  Ruvemir could see the youth start to tremble, then to straighten as the Queen again brought her hand to hold her child.  She gave the doll to the boy, and directed, “Take care of this that no other enemy might gain such power over you.”

            “I will, Lady Queen,” the boy whispered, still loudly enough to be heard by all.

She smiled and indicated the Prince should continue.

            Faramir straightened.  “What do you wish to do with your life, Gabon?  Do you think your parents are living?”

            The youth shook his head.  “I am from Far Harad, where slavers are numerous.  My whole village was emptied when I was but twelve circles of the Sun.  I was sent to Umbar, where I was made to serve a Lord Landrion until he sent me here to Varondil’s workshop.  I have no home to return to, little hope of finding my family alive, if at all.”

            “What then is your wish for your future?”

            “I have had joy with the family of Hirdon, if they will agree to keep me now.”

            Prince looked to Queen, who nodded.  “So be it, then.  Master Hirdon, do you and your wife wish to continue with this one as an apprentice in your shop?”

            “We are full willing,” Hirdon affirmed, his arms about his wife and oldest son, his younger children crowded before them, their mother grasping a shoulder of the two elder, the youngest boy, Curion, standing protected between them.

            The Prince smiled.  Finally he continued, “Once Master Dorion has qualified all masters of record within his guild, he will find proper placements for those of you who have indicated you still wish to continue in sculpting.  Until then, you will be subject to the instruction of Master Ruvemir, if he is willing.  He is now offered the use of Varondil’s workshop, and is asked to see that those commissions it has taken are completed.  It will lengthen the amount of time it will take to complete his own work, but perhaps we can arrange for at least one of the figures to be moved to that place so he can work on it as he teaches.  Is this acceptable to all?”

            Ruvemir was not particularly pleased to find he’d be working primarily inside, but agreed to allow the figure of Master Samwise brought to that place for the time being, as long as the Steward should find one to instruct in record keeping and figuring volumes and weights.  Faramir laughed as he indicated he knew exactly the one to offer such instruction.

 *******

            The next day the cart on which the blocks had been transported was brought to carry Sam’s stone down to the workshop in the Fifth Circle, and a group of Dwarves led by Orin saw to its transport.  Orin then set himself as the secondary instructor under Ruvemir.  The majority of Ruvemir’s tools were brought out from the house on the way, and soon all were settled in the workshop.  He and Ruvemir had the apprentices set out their tools and inspected their condition, then examined the youths one by one on their knowledge of the names and uses of each.  They also had some of the older ones who had done maintenance and sharpening display their knowledge and use of the tools and devices maintained for this purpose. 

            Again the Dwarves supplied the group with many samples of waste stone for practice pieces, and all were invited, from youngest to eldest, to choose pieces on which to work when they were not otherwise involved.  All were also informed they must do at least two drawings a week, and subjects was given for those who could not find one of their own. 

            Then the effigies currently underway were examined and all were questioned as to who had done what part of the work.  Three of the eldest had done the greater part of the shaping, one of whom had decided to leave sculpting altogether.  Now the remaining two agreed to oversee much of the shaping of the remaining commissions, although each was to practice sculpting figures and faces, hands, and feet for at least an hour a day.

            Not certain how to handle things otherwise, Ruvemir had discussed with Elise the possibility of bringing the apprentices into their home in the upper rooms for their new quarters, and she’d agreed.  Gilfileg was amused with the situation and agreed to oversee their behavior in the evenings. 

            Seeing that now Elise was starting her new duties as the Princess Melian’s nurse, Ruvemir decided it was time to hire a housekeeper and cook, and on catching Mistress Loren come down to prepare one of the guest houses on the Sixth Level for an expected party arriving from the Dunlendings, he asked her how he would go about finding such a person.  She laughed and told him whom to contact in the Guild of Carers, and he made plans to set off for that Guild Hall in the Fourth Circle on the next afternoon, once he was certain the apprentices would be engaged in their work and he could trust Orin and Celebgil to keep them on task and out of mischief.  Given permission by the Queen to take Melian with her as long as they were accompanied by a guard already approved by Lord Hardorn, Elise arranged to meet him at the workshop and accompany him.

 *******

            Mistress Mirieth looked up surprised when her secretary led into her rooms the mannikin, small woman, infant, and accompanying guard.  She had been examining the papers of a woman who had applied to the guild for membership but who had not yet fulfilled the requirements for acceptance, and was troubled, for she wished to see this one helped.  She’d not been advised of any appointments to seek a housekeeper, maid, or nurse.  However, she set aside the papers before her and smiled politely as she asked how she might be of assistance.

            “I am Master Sculptor Ruvemir, and this is my wife Elise, who has been a member of your guild, she told me last night, for five years.  I work on the memorial to the Pheriannath the King has commissioned.  We are newly married, just over a month so.” 

            Mirieth looked at the child with a question in her eyes.  Elise colored.

            “I am employed in the Citadel now, Mistress.  This child is my charge.  The Guard is here on her behalf.”

            “I see.  Please forgive me, Mistress Elise.”

            The mannikin continued.  “I have been asked to take over instruction of the apprentices of another master who has left us, and we will need to house them and arrange for their upkeep.  As both Elise and I are employed, I with my work and she with the care of the babe, we require a housekeeper and a cook to assist in the keeping of the house and the preparation of food for us all.  Elise and I and our other guest will be kept full busy overseeing the apprentices when we are home.

            “So, how many will there be to care for altogether?”

            “The two of us, Gilfileg, eight apprentices all told, although a few may wish to remain in the homes of their parents, and during visits, my ward and possibly my father.  They, however, will come probably only two or three times in a year.  Normally eleven and up to thirteen, most likely.”

            “Most likely,” she said dryly.  She shook her head.  “This is quite a household for two newly married to manage.  I agree, you will need help.”

            She looked to the papers before her, then smiled.  “I have one who is not yet qualified for membership who needs employment desperately.  This position will assist her in qualifying for membership.  She is accustomed to cleaning after a large family--we could see if she will accept the position of housekeeper.  And as for the cook--I know the perfect person.  One thing--the one I suggest as housekeeper has a small child, and one who is crippled.”

            The mannikin shrugged.  “I am to worry if a child is crippled, Mistress?  We will consider her.”

 *******

            Liana looked at the message sent down to her from the Guild of Carers with shock and hope.  She was not yet qualified under their rules for membership, but needed something to support herself and her child.  Angara sat on the floor, clasping her cup to her chest between her hands.  Angara had been born with arms exceptionally short, and no one could say why this had happened.  Liana’s husband had seen this the result of evil will and had turned her out.  After five years of marriage to that one and after caring for her father-in-law’s family all those years, she was surprised and bewildered by this turn of events.  Not able to find acceptance in her own land, she had gone west, finally reaching the borders of Gondor, where compassionate border guards had assisted her to make her way to the White City.  For two years she had had employment in a smaller inn in the First Circle, until Angara was old enough to walk about and follow her mother, at which time the keeper of the inn became afraid the girl’s appearance, with her abnormally short arms, would scare away custom, and he’d let her go.

            Could she truly have found a place now?  She certainly hoped so, for her funds were running out.  She carefully prepared herself for the walk up to the sixth level to see this Ruvemir son of Mardil and his wife.

            She arrived shortly before sunset and was let into the house by a tall Man, a handsome man who wore a glove on his right hand.  “Master Ruvemir?” she asked in her heavily accented Westron.

            “No, I am Gilfileg son of Gilthor, Mistress.  Master Ruvemir should be home any time now, and Mistress Elise will be kept busy this night as the child’s mother must meet with an embassy from the Dunlendings.  I am not certain what hour she will be here.”

            “The child’s mother?”

            “Mistress Elise is employed caring for the Lady Arwen’s daughter, Mistress.  You are Mistress Liana?”

            “Yes.”

            He smiled down at the child she carried in her arms.  “And this is whom?”

            “My daughter, Angara.”

            “Angara?  Welcome, Angara.  How old are you?”

            The girl looked up at him silently, and her mother sighed ruefully.  “Until she knows you better she will most likely not talk.  She is two years.”

            “Where are you from, Mistress Liana?”

            She’d been dreading this question.  “From the East.”

            “From Rhun?”  She noted he was not the least concerned, which surprised her.

            “Yes.”

            “You were married there?”

            “The marriage is no more.”

            His face grew solemn.  “Why did he cast you out?  You do not have the look of one who would be unfaithful.”

            The anger still filled her.  “Because of the child--it was a girl and not a boy, and--and----”  She set the girl on the ground, and then Gilfileg could see.

            “Ah, he accused you of evil will, then.”

            She looked at him, shocked.  “You know of our beliefs?”

            His own face was grim.  “I spent eight years among your people as a slave.”  He removed his glove and she could see his hand.  “Yes, I know somewhat of your beliefs.”

            The door behind them opened and she looked to it, then down as she saw the person entering was a child--no, not a child at all.  He looked tired, but smiled to see her.  “You are Mistress Liana?  Well and good.  I am Ruvemir son of Mardil.  Shall we go into the day room then?”

            She felt hope, hope that here she and her child would find acceptance.  The first unforced smile before others in two years graced her face.

Master of the Household

            Master Ruvemir sat himself in a low chair.  She was amazed to see how low the chair was, in fact.  He noted her expression.  “Much of the furniture was adapted for the use of the Pheriannath when they lived in this house, so when we were offered its use while I work on my commission, they shortened the legs again for my comfort.”  Liana had not the slightest idea of what he was speaking, but nodded as if she did.  “My sister and I were both born this way, and our father did much in our home to make things comfortable for us.  That the King took thought for the Pheriannath when they were here and has prepared for visits from others of the Halflings has done much to increase the respect she and I feel toward him.  My sister has now returned to Lebennin with her husband to live again on our family’s estate, while I must remain here in the capital until I am done with my commission.”

            “Please,” Liana interrupted, “I do not understand all words in Westron as yet.  What is a commission?”

            “I am an artist, a sculptor.  Artists may do pieces of work that please them and sell them to whoever is interested in buying them, or they may accept commissions, where someone wishes a particular work or type of work done, and the artist agrees to do it for a fee.  I have accepted a commission from the King, and it is for a sculpture to be placed before the Citadel and the Court of the White Tree.  Until I complete the work, I will live here in the city.”

            “Oh, I see.”

            “As I am a Master Sculptor, I have been asked to accept apprentices who worked under another of our guild who has left his position, until other masters can be found to accept them.  Several will be living with us, and it is due to their coming we will need one to serve as housekeeper.  I hope you will be able to deal with youths.”

            “I lived five years with my husband in his father’s house.  I was the first son’s wife to come into the family, and I cared for all while I was with them.  My husband’s father had had four wives, two daughters, and eleven sons, with my husband being the eldest.  I have dealt with younger sons.”

            “Your husband died, then?”

            Gilfileg leaned forward.  “Liana is from Rhun, Master Ruvemir.  Her marriage was dissolved.”  Ruvemir looked surprised.  “Their customs and marriage laws are different from those to which we are accustomed.”

            “Oh, I apologize if I have inadvertently offended you, my lady.”

            She could not keep the bitterness out of her voice as she said quietly, “It is the way of our people, Master.”

            His eyes, she noted, were wise.  “I see it may be the way of your people, but it is not a welcome way for you.”  He looked to Angara.  “This is your daughter?”

            “Yes.  She is called Angara.”

            “Angara.  A lovely name for a lovely child.”  He looked at her carefully.  “I was told she was crippled, but I see it is only her arms are abnormally short.”  He addressed himself to the girl.  “Well, small mistress, we are two of a kind, as my arms are short also.  Although you have normal legs and body and head, where I do not.”

            “She does not offend you, Master?”

            He looked at her with unfeigned surprise.  “And at what am I, being as I am, supposed to be offended?  Am I supposed to feel she is somehow mimicking me?  She cannot help being as she was born, any more than I can help being as I was born.  No one will ridicule her in this house, not without running the risk of my anger falling on them.”

            “Thank you, Master.”

            “Lord Gilfileg here has only recently come to Gondor from his home in the North.  He has accepted a room here with us for a time, although once his cousin returns he may leave for the South and Dol Amroth to be a time with his mother’s kindred.”

            “I bid you welcome to Gondor,” she said to the tall Man.

            “It is not my first visit.  I came here first twenty-one years ago to serve in Gondor’s army.”

            “You came as a boy, then?  Do boys serve in the army here?”

            He laughed.  “I am of the Dúnedain.  We age very slowly.   I am older than I appear.  No, I was a Man grown when I came here before.”

            Ruvemir smiled.  “His Lord Cousin is even older, and is constantly surprising everyone.”

            “What will be my duties?”

            “To assist in the care for the home, to make certain the apprentices do the household tasks set them when I cannot do so, to see that clothing and linens are cleaned and assist in the purchase of food and supplies, perhaps to assist the cook on occasion.  To remind Elise or myself of what we have forgotten from time to time.”

            “The apprentices will do household chores?”

            “Yes.  They will care for their own quarters and assist in cleaning after meals, and assist you in the care for the house during the time they are here.  Mostly they will be responsible for cleaning up after themselves, though.  Now and then for discipline’s sake one will be required to do even more, and you might be required to see the one does what is expected of him.  I will be often away in the early evening working on the Lord Frodo’s stone, and there may be evenings when, as with tonight, the Lady Arwen is required to attend a banquet and Melian will require one to watch and care for her until her mother’s return.  Then you and Lord Gilfileg may need to see to it those apprentices within the house or the Sixth Circle behave themselves.  I hope that will not be too frequent.

            “I pray this list is not too onerous for you.”

            “Onerous?”

            “Difficult--overwhelming.”

            Liana laughed.  “Overwhelming?  It is little enough.  And you will have these apprentices work also?”

            “Of course!  They will live here, too, after all.”

            She shook her head in wonder.  Gilfileg laughed.  “Menfolk among the Rhunim do not assist in the care for the house--that is seen as women’s work.”

            “But we are not among the Rhunim, and we have few enough of those jobs available possibly seen as masculine for a decent male from Rhun to do.  But as I have seen the King himself wield a broom at need, and I understand that all of you who have served as Rangers are as familiar with cooking and repairing your own clothing and cleaning up after yourselves as any woman, how am I to justify sending these out not knowing a few simple skills?”

            Again the Lord Gilfileg laughed.  “Logic of this sort is not usually thought of among the Rhunim, Ruvemir.  Perhaps that is why food cooked by Rhunim Men during hunts and on campaign is so often bad.”

            Liana began to laugh helplessly.  “Is it, truly?”

            Gilfileg looked at her, chuckling.  “Bad?  Oh, yes, my lady, it is almost always awful.”

            Ruvemir smiled.  “Obviously a male Hobbit would be a good thing to have along then, I suppose.  The Lord Samwise is as accomplished a cook as is Mistress Rosie, I have found; and both Folco and Pando are excellent cooks and did much of our cooking along the road back from Eriador.”

            “Aragorn himself is a decent cook, and told me the Lord Elrond saw to it he learned how to care for himself in the wild, knowing he would serve in the Rangers.  But I suspect the Periannath, as devoted to eating as they are, took over most of the cooking chores during the quest.”

            “Pardon,” asked Liana, “but I do not understand the word ‘Periannath’.”

            Gilfileg explained, “The Periannath, or Pheriannath as they are called here in Gondor, are the Halflings, the Hobbits.  They are a small people who live in the northwest of Eriador in Arnor, the Northern Kingdom.  They are little taller than Ruvemir here, but with arms and legs and head of proper proportion to their height.  They seldom leave their own lands of the Shire and the Breelands.  They are mostly farmers, and must eat more frequently during the day than do Men.  I was amazed to learn one has married Ruvemir’s sister Miriel, and has left his own place to come to live in Gondor with his wife’s family.  To marry among the children of Men is totally unheard of in the history of Hobbits.”

            “For a child of Men to marry a Hobbit is equally unheard of, but it has now been done.  After all, there have now been several unions between Elves and Men.”

            “Including the marriage of the King and the Queen.  Yes, I am full aware.  It is because we are descended from Elros Tar-Minyatur that we of the Dúnedain live as long as we do.”

            “You have Elvish blood?” asked the woman.

            “Yes, very long ago in our family.”

            “I see.”  She looked at him with open curiosity and a heightened respect.  She had come to honor the Elves she had met during her stay in the White City, who had been unfailingly kind and respectful toward herself and her child.

            “Maman,” Angara said, tugging at her mother’s skirts, “I am hungered.” 

            They all looked down, for the child had almost been forgotten.

            “We can remedy that,” Ruvemir said, smiling down at her.  “Come along, then.”  He slid from his chair and headed for the kitchen.

            Soon she was eating a section of apple, her tiny hands barely reaching her mouth.  Liana looked at the indulgent smile on the face of the small Man before her and was again amazed.  Yes, she thought, this will be a good place. 

 *******

            The recommended cook was a woman of late middle age who had lost her husband and two of her sons in the war, and whose other three children lived in the city.  She had once been the cook in an inn in the First Circle, one destroyed in the assault on the city but not rebuilt.  She was happy to find a position where her talents would be appreciated, and after learning the preferences for dishes for the Master and Mistress, the housekeeper and her child, and the Lord Gilfileg who stayed with them, she began to devise menus and write out lists of provender to be purchased.  She lived now in the Fifth Circle, and indicated she would prefer to sleep in her own home, but would come in during the day. 

            The morning after Liana accepted the position she and her child had moved into the room in which Mistress Loren and Lasgon had stayed when the Pheriannath had lived in this guesthouse, and they were beginning to find their place within the household.

            Elise had been relieved to find these positions so quickly filled.  She was finding her own employment interesting, watching the Queen, seeing how she would order her own household, how she did her best to escape the attentions of the maids assigned to her, how devoted she was to her tiny daughter.  The maids might assist her in dressing and in dressing her hair as well, and might keep her chambers clean; but otherwise she preferred to do for herself whenever possible.  She had a small brazier over which she would cook at least a meal a day; she herself assisted in the keeping of the herb garden and a garden of flowers below the windows of her quarters; and she oversaw the brewing of simples and herbal draughts used within the Citadel and often in the Houses of Healing as well.  Now and then, Elise had learned through the gossip of the maids, she and her Lord Husband would descend on the main kitchens and personally prepare a meal for themselves and personal guests, which horrified the cooks, but which aberration they had learned to tolerate.  She also went daily to the Houses of Healing to offer what aid she could, for her Elvish ancestry gave her the ability to calm and hearten and some command over the healing of the body as well.  Her knowledge of healing herbs was even broader than that of the King, the herbalists had learned, and her knowledge of how to obtain the best of their virtues through mixing, drying, and brewing was also very complete. 

            But it was her love of embroidery that fascinated Elise, as she saw the Queen crafting a formal robe for the Lord Gilfileg.  “Mistress Miriel will be impressed with this,” she said, fingering the design of a stag with raised antlers the Queen was working onto cloth of a copper color.

            Arwen laughed.  “I’ve been warned she is like to induct me into the Guild of Tailors and Seamstresses as a Master Embroiderer.  Not that such would be a bad thing, to have my children know I am seen as having a vital skill by the people of the lands.  Certainly Estel’s skill as a healer gives him a feeling of accomplishment.”

            Elise looked up surprised.  “Is not his skill as a warrior sufficient for that?”

            But the Queen shook her head.  “He does not joy in bringing death, even when it is necessary.  He prefers to relieve pain rather than to inflict it.”

            This idea heartened Elise somewhat, and further increased her respect for their ruler.

Letters from the Sixth Circle 

Dearest friends within the Shire,

            I send you greetings from Gondor.  I did start to write while in Lebennin, but was unable to complete the letter--not that I could have sent it from my father’s home after all.  We were accompanied south by those who live across from us, people, we have learned, who have powerful enemies.  My father’s house was assaulted, and there was one death.  More than that I cannot say now, but hope to tell you at length some time in the future.

            The handfasting was done in the garden before the King’s Head, and it was attended by many.  The King, fearing there would not be enough food to please Folco and Pando, brought even more with them from the kitchens of the Citadel, more than enough to please any family of Hobbits, I think.  I know that I am now well and truly married, and rejoice to be so each morning I awaken to find Elise beside me.

            It is a grief to have Ririon, Pando, Miriel, and Folco so far from us, and for my father to be returned home as well.  He and my own former master from when I was an apprentice came for the handfasting, and I have found that Master Faragil is enchanted by Mistress Idril, Elise’s grandmother, while my father is attracted to Elise’s mother Lisbet.  Now that Master Faragil and Adar are returned to their own homes I am uncertain what will come of the attraction.

            Elise and I both thank you for your extraordinarily kind and thoughtful gifts for our wedding.  They are all well appreciated.  The stone tumblers are wonderfully suited for use by Ririon in especial; Elise has already put the cloths for the table into use; while we were gone one of those who care for the guest houses of the Citadel set the windowbox on the ledge of the window here in the day room, and planted the strawberries in it.  We will use the book on the history of the Shire in teaching both our apprentices and Pando when he comes to visit us.  The vase is even now sitting on the table filled with flowers.  And the book sent by Sir Merry is well loved and read frequently.  I hope our own gifts to you will reach you before Midsummer.

            Folco and Miriel are now happily on the farm of my father, and Folco has already earned the respect of those who work it.  They are now fostering two children rescued from a fire upon the Pelennor, two children saved from that fire by the King.  The girl was badly burned and spent some weeks in the Houses of Healing under the care of the King and his brothers.  Miriel often visited them and came to love them during the time of their recovery.  They are very happy now with their new home, and the Lady Ioreth is gladdened to know they will always be surrounded by the love of good people.

            We live now in the house in which once dwelt four Hobbits, a Wizard, an Elf and a Dwarf for a time.  I have met the Healer Eldamir’s wife next door, and she is one who is joyful.  Her young son whom you saw as a babe, as is true of Ririon as well, is determined to grow as tall as the King himself.

            I miss you all very much, and hope fully we can come north quickly.  However, when that will be is still a question, for I will not be able to focus on the King’s commission properly for some weeks yet--possibly some months.  I had become concerned about the distrust the apprentice lent for assistance in the project has shown to his own master.  The day we returned was the day on which the Guild Master for the Guild of Carvers came to examine the other apprentices, and learned that Master Varondil had been misusing his apprentices.  Many, many problems were found, problems which one who had worked as a secretary for the Guild had assisted in covering from view.  The Lord Prince Faramir has given me the oversight of Master Varondil’s workshop and remaining apprentices for the time, and I anticipate it will be a worrying situation for a time.

            Master Samwise and Mistress Rosie, I am enclosing a gift in honor of the birth of your daughter.  The King tells me she was born apparently at the same time as the small Princess Melian, and he says also she is darker than Elanor but is also very beautiful.  Certainly the Princess Melian is surpassing fair, which I suspect you will agree once you see her.  How the King came to know so much of the birth of your daughter he would not say, although, having read the Red Book, I believe I can guess how it was done, with the use of somewhat brought from Isengard.

            All is quiet in the city now that the King has gone to the war in Rhun.  We have heard but little so far; how long it will last and what the outcome will be we do not know.  Evidence has been found of treachery among the Rhunim, although what has been proven we do not yet know.

            I send this first to Master Saradoc, and ask that he forward it to each in turn as was done before.

            Elise and I are very happy; and although in the last day before the handfasting the anxiety did catch up with me, I got through it all very well.  Miriel made part of the clothing and embroidered almost all of it for all to wear.  I wore Prince Faramir’s mantle, and Ririon wore the surcoat gifted to the Lord Frodo; and our Lord King and Lady Queen wore the garments made and embroidered by Miriel.  And it is my considered opinion that mine was the most beautiful bride in the history of Middle Earth.

            All send their greetings, and we look forward to seeing you when we come North at last--whenever that may prove to be.

                                                            Your servant and friend,

                                                            Ruvemir son of Mardil

Dearest Elanorellë,

            I understand you and Frodo-Lad now have a baby sister who was born at the same time as the Lady Queen’s new daughter.  The Lady Evenstar’s daughter is named Melian.  What is your sister’s name?  The King says she is very beautiful also, as you and Melian are.

            I miss you very much, and wish I could come to see you and your family now.  However, I must finish my work here first, and it grows more complicated. 

            Hug your father and mother for me, please.  And when they hug you, know I am glad every day that I have been granted the grace to know you and your family and your people.  Your people’s faithfulness strengthens me to face the world of Men, which is too often far more complicated than it ought to be.  And as you stroke your sister’s hair, know that Elise and I think of the two of you and Frodo-Lad, and hope to see you soon.

                                                            Love always,

                                                            Ruvemir

Dear Cyclamen,

            Did you realize just how determined and resourceful and brave your brother can be?  He has faced down the jeers of foolish Men and the threats of brigands, and done it with grace and efficiency.  I am so proud to have had him by my side. 

            He has now come to the house of Mistress Andúrien, and she is very pleased with his skills and talent, and had promised to teach him all she can, and to have other sculptors of clay open themselves to him as well.  He did not wish to leave us, but will learn so much.  And already he has a friend among the other apprentices in Mistress Andúrien’s home, a girl named Raineth who has dark hair as is yours, and who loves to tell small jests which are so wonderfully told you must think a few moments to realize just what it is that you just heard.

            I married my Elise on the last High Day of April, and then we went south to Lossarnach, Belfalas, and Lebennin.  The King himself wedded us, and the Queen Arwen sat across from us with their new daughter Melian, who was born much the same time as Master Sam and Mistress Rosie’s new daughter.  I love my Elise, and am so grateful to have found her; and Miriel and Folco remain joyful in one another.

            Be glad you live in your peaceful land.  If I could, I think I would come to live nearby.  Perhaps one day, after I have finished the King’s commission, Elise and I will do that.

                                                                        Yours always,

                                                                        Ruvemir son of Mardil

            These letters were followed by more, to Sancho and Angelica Proudfoot, to his father, to Ririon, to Master Faragil, to Miriel and Folco, to Pando.  Finally, as he went to put the rest of the writing paper back into the desk  where he’d found it, Ruvemir decided to write one last letter he’d not intended at first to do.

Oh, my dearest and beloved Master Samwise,

            You cannot know how much right now I miss your companionship, your gentle wisdom and humor and good sense.  All has become so complicated around us lately, I wish we could retreat to the Shire and hide from the world of Men for a time. 

            I cannot tell you all that has occurred at this time--let it suffice to say we have found ourselves facing danger, humiliation, betrayal, and uncertainty since the day on which your new daughter and the daughter of our Lord King and Lady Queen were born.  It has not proven as dire as what you and your beloved Master faced on your own journey, but it has been discomforting enough, believe me.  As a result we were unable to send any word from our family’s estate, and I cannot write all I would wish at this time.

            Hope is growing once more, however.  The authors of the worst we faced have been identified, and I am told the two most capable of the Northern Rangers are to see the end of the business.

            We have met one more Ranger from Eriador, and he has proven to be known to those who have become our neighbors.  He is close kin to the Ranger you know best, apparently the closest in kinship to his father after our mutual friend himself.  He now stays with us for a time, until the King returns to Gondor, we believe.

            The worst situation we have come to face, however, has proven to be that involving the former master of the apprentice Celebgil who was lent to my service in pursuing the King’s commission.  Master Varondil was found to be abusing many of his apprentices in the most foul manner possible.  He is now in prison, and so much disgust has he raised none will approach him.  He is being held for judgment by the King himself.  Until all other master sculptors within the city have been requalified (I will have to describe all the complications presented by the case when we see one another in person, I fear), it appears I will be required to accept authority over those of Varondil’s apprentices who will agree to remain in training as sculptors of stone.  I will also be required to see to it those commissions and orders for grave markers Varondil had accepted for the workshop will be completed and delivered, which, unfortunately will undoubtedly lead to others seeking to offer their own commissions.  I will be unable to focus properly on the figures for the King’s commission for some weeks--possibly even months, I fear.  I am very frustrated by this turn of affairs.

            To turn to more pleasant subjects, the wedding was the most profound experience I have ever known.  The King came early with his Lady wife and the small Princess Melian to speak to me before the ceremony.  Three of my fellows who worked alongside of me on the commission in Casistir had arrived to attend the wedding--Bergemon is nephew to the Master of the Guild of Carvers, and was advised by his uncle that I was to wed and when, so he brought with him Ferion and Damrod.  All three were amazed to recognize him, and he and I both garnered much amusement from the situation. 

            But as the King prepared to leave the room, he recognized the surcoat that Ririon was wearing, and called Ririon to him.  While he spoke to him, he laid his hand on Ririon’s head; when he at last pulled his hand away Ririon began to blink and speak of something being suddenly in each eye.  Afterwards he was shocked to find his vision had cleared somewhat.  The King drew the matter out of each eye, and realized it was part of the scar tissue from the front of both eyes being sloughed away.  He had already told us that it was unlikely that such a situation should occur; the Lady Arwen believes that the King’s healing gift was manifested without conscious thought.  Ririon’s vision is still mostly unclear, but even the small amount of improvement he has known has eased his ability to travel and see some details in what is directly before him.

            After the King gave the marriage document into our hands as is done in accordance with our customs, he laid a hand upon Elise’s left shoulder and the other on my right shoulder as he spoke quietly to us alone on that which faces us as husband and wife.  Both Elise and I felt a thrill pass through us at this.  I know that we are, somehow, very deeply married to one another from the inside out, if I can express it in that manner.

            I know that the King of Nùmenor stood before the Valar and the Creator himself for his people, and before the people of the island for the Valar and the Creator, much as does the Thain between the folk of the Shire and the King.  In this manner the King served both parties as emissary and representative for the other.  Apparently in our Lord King this ancient form of representation has been renewed; he himself expressed to Ririon that he believes the One desired for his vision to be somewhat improved on that day.

            If through the offices of the King’s touch this small amount of the mercy of Iluvatar was granted to he who is now as my son, how much more must the Lord Frodo be receiving, granted the grace to dwell for the remainder of his time on Tol Eressëa?  I find myself rejoicing he was given that great gift, and am certain his healing in body and spirit is giving him much ease and comfort as he awaits your coming to join him.

            I think of you and yours constantly, and rejoice so in the birth of your daughter.  At the last moment the King asked me to be one of the witnesses for the birth of the Princess Melian.  I was shocked at this honor and responsibility; but I believe that I was asked to perform this office as a surrogate for representation from the Shire.  If you, Captain Peregrin, or Sir Meriadoc had been here, I am certain whichever one would have been there instead of me, and from the first.  If Folco had been closer up to the level of the Citadel, I suspect he would have been there either instead of or alongside me.

            By the way, both the King and Prince Faramir are fully approving of the disposition of those gifts they had made to the Lord Frodo, and both believe that Frodo would also approve and would have liked Ririon and me, seeing in us friends and others who share his own love of beauty and skill.

            Please give Mistress Rosie and the rest of your family our greetings, and I pray your midsummer is a time of much happiness and ease.  And bestow upon Elanor a kiss from me.  I so hope to see you and all I have come to honor within the Shire soon, and to introduce you to Elise and Celebgil.

                                                            With much love and regard,

                                                            Ruvemir of Lebennin

            Once this was finished he smiled, carefully folding it about the letter written to Elanor.

Hiring Assassins

            Landrion was growing frustrated, for none of his usual contacts for obtaining the services of assassins were reaching the desired conclusions.  Why was this? he wondered.  Then one of his agents, looking very nervous, came to him to say he’d found a pair who usually worked together, two from the far North, known as Strider and Bowman.  They were accounted to be among the most skilled at approaching enemies undetected any had ever known, and both appeared interested in meeting with Landrion, having become aware that he desired the services of skilled assassins.  Intrigued, Landrion set a date and time for a meeting.

            The two came in unannounced wearing stained cloaks, one a faded green, the other grey.  Both wore stubbly beards and looked as if they’d spent days in the saddle.  Their shoulders were those of skilled swordsmen, and both carried bows that were well worn but also well maintained, and quivers of arrows fletched with feathers of birds Landrion had never seen.  They wore leathers beneath their cloaks, weathered and obviously often repaired by lonely campfires, and both wore archers’ gloves on their right hands.  The knife behind the belt of the one in green was beautiful and deadly looking, and had obviously seen as much use as had his bow.  Behind them came a third, a tall, broad figure, cloaked and hooded.  Landrion looked questioningly at him, and the one in green said succinctly, “Our witness.”

            “I understand you wish to employ skilled assassins, my Lord,” said the one in grey.  “What kind of targets do you wish killed, then?”

            “The first should be simple--an artisan, somewhat older than you, in Minas Tirith.”  He noted an ironic smile on the faces of both facing him.

            “The capital of Gondor?”

            “Yes.  He is a dissolute fellow with a workshop in the Fifth Circle.  His house is not far away, but high to the wall to the Sixth Circle.  There are steep stairs to his home where he might be easily taken alone.”

            “Is he trained in fighting?”

            “No, he is an artisan only, a sculptor.”

            “How do you wish for him to die?”

            “It should look to be an accident.”

            “You have other targets as well?”

            “Yes, one more within the White City, one from Rhun.”

            “Rhunim in the capital of Gondor?”  The one in green sounded interested.

            “Yes, in the capital of Gondor.  The King has concluded treaties with the Rhunim and the Haradrim.”

            “Is this death also to look like an accident?”

            “No, I wish you to simply kill him at this point.  Although if it should look like the death came from the hands of one of Gondor there will be a bonus.”

            “What kind of bonus?”

            “A substantial bonus.”

            “Where are there Rhunim within the city?”

            “They have an embassy house in the Sixth Circle, but the target may not be there as yet.”

            “Who is this target?”

            “Lord Shefti of the d’Bouti clan.”

            “That is the clan of the current Shkatha, is it not?”

            “Yes.”

            “He will not thank you for the death of his kinsman.”

            “He will not know he has me to thank.”

            The one in grey looked to the one in green.  “What think you, cousin--is this challenging enough?”

            The one in green shrugged.  “It hardly seems worthwhile--an artisan and an ambassador.  Is this one at least trained in war?”

            “Not to my knowledge--he is a scribe, and son to the lesser wife.”

            “Not even the ambassador?”

            Landrion smiled.  “The ambassador is already dead, though they suppress the news for now.  If the scribe is killed also they can no longer suppress the death of his brother.”

            “What fees do you offer for these deaths?”

            After several minutes spent in bargaining, mostly with the one in grey, the two indicated they would consider it, although the price he was now offering was tempting.  “And what happens after, Lord?”

            Landrion shrugged.  “If I like your work, I have two more I’d like to see dead, one also there in Minas Tirith, the other here in Umbar.”

            “Who are these?  Would they be more challenging than a sculptor and a scribe?”

            “The King Elessar of Gondor and the Lord Marcipor of Umbar.  Challenging enough for you?”

            The one in green straightened, smiled behind his scraggly beard.  “You would have us kill the King Elessar?  Do you know what you ask?”

            “He is reputed to be a canny warrior and is very powerful.  However, even the greatest can be brought down by a single arrow well placed.”

            “How are we to get to such a one?  He is surrounded by bodyguards, and his city is guarded by high walls and strong gates.  Once it is heard he is dead or even wounded, all gates will be closed and all strangers held for questioning.  There would be no getting out of the city for us.  The source of the arrow would be quickly known, and the chance of us collecting our fee would be nil.”

            The one in grey shook his head.  “I would like to hear instead how he intends we should kill the Lord Marcipor.  He is as powerfully guarded as is the King Elessar, I suspect.”  Then he turned to the cloaked individual he’d identified as their witness, who was straightening as if he would say something.  “No, you are to stay quiet--you are only to bear witness to what is said here, that there be no question later when the payment comes due.  Do you understand?”  The cloaked Man nodded his head.

            “He goes riding every day upon his estate.  There is a stand of trees there....”

            “The stand of trees on the west side a quarter mark’s walk within the walls?”

            “You know of it?”

            “Learning you were to be our proposed patron, we guessed that the Lord Marcipor might indeed prove to be your proposed target, or at least one of them, so we did an examination of the ground on which he might be approached.”

            “How did you get into the estate?”

            “Are we to teach you the secrets by which we earn our bread, my Lord?  Let me assure you we are well practiced in getting where we need to be, and at approaching our targets unseen.  My companion here is a master at it.”  He turned to their witness.  “Is he not, sir?”

            The witness nodded his agreement.  The grey-clad one smiled.  “We have practiced our art on many, including this one.  It is the second time we have taken him unaware, I fear.

            “So, you would wish us to take him from that stand of trees, would you?  It is a good place, for from there no guards can see him or those who might approach him, although that might change at any time, of course.  But there is a better place another eighth mark further on his route, where there is a bank and a hedge.”

            Landrion was very intrigued.  “It seems you examined that portion of the estate well.”

            The grey-clad one shrugged.  “We know our business well.”

            “Are you any good with those bows?”

            The two looked to one another.  The green-clad one answered, “Yes.”

            “Which of you is the better?”

            The one in grey answered, “I am.  He is good, though.”

            “I wish you to show me.”

            An elaborate shrug.  “If you will.” 

            Landrion led them through his villa to the wide side lawn.  At the far end was a great tree.  The one in green strung his bow, aimed and let fly.  As it flew he said, “It will hit the limb to the left, within a finger’s breadth of the new-cut branch.”

            The other laughed.  “I can do better than that--I will put it in the center of the cut branch.”  He drew an arrow out of his quiver, appeared to barely consider the target, and let fly.  They then walked down the lawn.  Both arrows were within the circle of the cut branch, one still quivering in its center.

            Landrion did his best to hide how impressed he was.  “But can you hit a moving target?” he asked the one in grey.

            “Of course,” the Man said.  He said to the one in green, “Let you throw up your ring, and I will catch it with the arrow.”

            The other sighed elaborately.  “Why is it always my ring which is used in these demonstrations?  Why not use your own?”

            “Yours is more impressive, as your fingers are more slender.  It is less likely to escape the fletching.  Also, yours looks better with the shaft of the arrow within it.”

            The one in green gave another great sigh, walked further down the lawn beyond the tree, drew out a chain from about his neck, unfastened it, and drew from it a great ring, which he suddenly threw into the air.  The arrow was loosed before Landrion was aware of it, and it flew indeed through the circle of the ring.  Landrion marked where it came to earth, went after it eagerly.  The arrow stuck up from the ground at an angle, and around its shaft was a ring--a gold ring, quite old--very, very old, with an great emerald with a serpent on each side, one crowned with blossoms, the other devouring the crown of blossoms. 

            Landrion felt himself go faint, particularly as he realized here he was away from his guard, and no one could help him.  He felt that beautiful yet deadly knife carried by the one in green prick him in the back at the perfect angle to enter his heart.  “Now, my Lord, we will leave the estate as we entered it.  Your guards did not see us come, by the way.”

            He was compelled back through the estate to an area that had heavy vegetation.  The one in grey carefully lifted away branches from shrubs to disclose a carefully cut open passage into which he was directed.  He heard the branches being replaced after them.  They’d been cut only today, he realized.  By the time his folk saw the leaves begin to wilt, he’d be long gone.  They directed him through the passageway they’d cut to the wall to the estate, where stones had been carefully pried loose.  Again he was pressed forward out through the wall, and the one in grey carefully placed the stones back into their places.

            “You ought to have seen to renewing the mortar in your wall, my Lord,” he said casually as he set the last one in place.  By this time the one in green had him bound and gagged.  “May we have your cloak now, sir?” the one in grey asked the witness, who removed it rapidly. 

            The Lord Marcipor stood there before him, his face white with fury.  “So,” he growled in a low voice, “you would target me, would you, my Lord Landrion?  I must say I never expected to have my life saved from assassination by the King Elessar of Gondor--but after he kidnapped me from my own estate!” 

            The King Elessar held out his hand to the one in grey.  “The ring, please, Bowman,” he said.  The one in grey made a show of giving a great sigh, and produced the ring from inside his shirt.  Landrion watched as the King replaced it on the chain about his neck.  “I would wear it, but I would prefer not to reveal myself to more than you two at this time,” he said.  His grey eyes were as Landrion remembered from the Citadel in the White City, cool and full of intelligence and power.  He took the cloak from his companion and wrapped it about Landrion, occluding his vision by pulling the hood over his eyes.  They walked to where apparently horses were waiting for them.  He was boosted onto a steed with his hands fastened to the saddlebow.  The others also mounted, and his horse was led away.

            Where they were when they finally pulled him from the horse he had no idea.  He was led into a building and brought to a chair.  Now his hands were being untied, then retied, each to one arm of the chair.  His legs also were tied, each to a leg of the chair.  Another rope tied him to the seat of the chair, with a final loop about his throat itself.  Finally the hood was pulled back, and he found himself in the Council Room of Umbar, facing them. 

            “I want a list of those agents you have set in place in my land, my Lord,” said the King of Gondor.  Landrion did not intend to tell them, but he found that the one called Bowman was far more persuasive than he’d imagined, and with far less fuss and disfigurement than those Landrion was accustomed to question usually endured.  “Now, how many watch the estate of Mardil the Carver?”  He answered this time before they had a chance to do more.  “Who have been your contacts among the Rhunim?  How much did they pay you for your assistance in destroying the treaty?”  There were a few more questions, all of which he answered quickly and fully.  Always the King kept him fixed with those keen grey eyes, the eyes with a hint of blue and green like the sea, and he knew if he lied the Man would know immediately.  Finally they declared themselves finished with their questions, which had included the names and last known locations of the sellers of children he’d employed. 

            “We leave you now to your own Lord,” said the one called Bowman; and the Lord Marcipor was looking at him with a very grim smile on his face.

            “You would destroy the peace for Umbar as well as for Rhun and Gondor, would you?  It is perhaps time you learned just what it means to be under the power of the Lord of Umbar, now the time for payment is come.  They have given you to me, you know, with full permission to do as I please.  And what I please to do with you....”

            The Lord Landrion did not show the stamina that had been shown eighteen years earlier in Rhun by the captured scout from Gondor who called himself Staravion.  He died shortly before midnight.

Accepting Apprentices

            By the third day those of the apprentices who would live with them had begun to arrive at the door.  One from the Pelennor was brought by his parents, who insisted on seeing the household and the room in which he would live.  That there were both a Man and a woman on the same floor where their son would sleep reassured them that no one would offer further insult to their child.

            The large room in which Pippin and Gandalf had once lived had two more beds placed in it between the two alcoves where the current beds lay, and small desks and thin wardrobes had been lined up along the two free walls.  One of the remaining rooms had two beds in it, the other three.

            Two of those who chose to house with them surprised Ruvemir--Celebgil and his friend Meredin both asked to stay with them, and they were given the room with two beds.  The youngest two were given the one with three beds.   Finally, with seven of the nine beds spoken for, it appeared all were now settled with their housing.

            The first morning all seven sat about the breakfast table with their new Master, his wife, and their housekeeper and her child, Ruvemir relayed to them the rules of the house.  They were fairly simple, and indicated basically each was to behave responsibly toward his own things and those of others, that abuse in any form would not be tolerated, and all would work to the keeping of order within the house and on its grounds.  Once assured all understood the rules, he explained that he would allow two each night he went to work on Lord Frodo’s stone to accompany him.  “On Starsdays we will also work primarily on other skills.  I will have some who will serve as models come on such days so you can begin to understand how to do likenesses from life; I will show you how to ask the questions to teach you the shape of faces of those you do not see; we will explore other materials, discuss the histories of the two realms, meet with other instructors and masters of other fields to speak of how their work and ours are to be used together.

            “No one is to lay any tool on the figures of the Pheriannath without my direct permission.

            “When you are not working on a specific figure for the workshop, you will work on your own practice pieces in whatever materials we might have on hand.  You will do at least two drawings a week in your sketch booklets.

            “As we work we will often find ourselves discussing specific topics inspired by what we do.  You do not need to take part in such discussions, but you will respect them when they happen.

            “Here, I am the Master of this house, Mistress Elise is the Mistress, and both Mistress Liana and Lord Gilfileg will be respected, as will any other individual who enters the house.  Are these understood?”

            All indicated understanding.  “So be it, then.”

 *******

            The instructor found by the Steward to teach projection, record keeping, and so on agreed to come to the workshop three days a week.  Mornings he worked with the younger apprentices on figuring and calculation; afternoons he worked with those who demonstrated they had basic skills on the other numerical processes they would need in their field.  Ruvemir reviewed tools with each of the apprentices and had each demonstrate how he was accustomed to use them.  Most of them handled their tools properly, two had found creative but nonetheless efficient ways to handle some, and two needed to be retrained to use basic mallets and chisels appropriately, and were restricted to practice pieces until they demonstrated mastery of proper technique.

            The search of Varondil’s home had produced his keys, and they found a locked stone chest in the office of his workshop area that yielded records not open to examination by realm officials of any kind during the former Master Sculptor’s tenure as well as his drawings and models for his current commissions.  The former were quickly given over to the Lord Prince’s investigators for study; the latter were studied by Ruvemir.  He was not particularly happy to rely on the works of others as a basis for his own work, but in three cases he had no alternative; in two more the orders were for simple grave markers, which one of the oldest of the apprentices had demonstrated he could do easily; in one a dying merchant was planning for his own tomb.  Ruvemir went to see him, and came home with a far different idea of what he wished to do than what Varondil had intended.  They soon had the first five of Varondil’s current commissions completed and the recipients notified they were done, while Ruvemir described to Celebgil and Gilmirion, the most experienced of the apprentices, what he wished to do with this last piece. 

            “That’s not the way Master Varondil did it,” Gilmirion objected.

            Ruvemir sighed.  “First of all, I am not Varondil, so I am not compelled to do all as he would do.  Do you understand that?”  The youth nodded reluctantly.  “Secondly, what Varondil wished to do is not what the client asked for.  Apparently Varondil put off working on this commission as long as he has in order to allow Master Riporion to die so as to deliver the piece to his heirs instead of allowing it to be seen by the client himself.  As Master Riporion is the one who has issued the commission, however, it is his wishes that ought to be respected.” 

            He set Varondil’s drawing down on the table beside that he had done that day, which Master Riporion had examined and assented to.  He also set down the two written descriptions, one that Varondil had taken and the one he had taken that day.  Gilmirion examined them moodily, and finally agreed that these were different than what Varondil had planned, but far more in keeping with the design Ruvemir had proposed.  He still glared under his brows, although he no longer protested that this wasn’t what his old master would have done.  Instead he led them to the stores area and together they inspected the blocks there until Ruvemir saw the one that would be best suited.

            “This one is more uniform,” Gilmirion protested, indicating a larger stone.

            “This one already has much of the contours we will need, however.  And it will more willingly be worked into the form of Master Riporion.

            Gilmirion grunted, but gave in, muttering under his breath as he had a few of the sturdier boys to assist him to bring it out into the outer workshop.

            Ruvemir found plans paper and took it to the master’s drafting table--a more elegant one than that he’d been allowed to use by the Dwarves, but really too tall for his form.  Finally he had an area of the floor cleared and moved it there, worked steadily for some time, referring to the notes he’d taken using his measuring string on Master Riporian.  In a day’s time they were completed.

            It took two weeks of solid work by several of the different youths, each of whom had a slightly different skill specialty, but finally it was ready for the face and hands and feet.

            “Master Varondil did not feel bare feet were dignified,” protested one of the younger apprentices.  Ruvemir sighed and glanced at Celebgil, who was just now pointing out that dignity was not dependent on whether or not the feet were shod.  Ruvemir stifled a grin. 

            “It is Master Riporion’s own wish that the feet be shown bare,” he explained as he took out his finest chisel and began the marking on the surface of the blank he’d had the boys prepare over the foot area.  Soon he began the shaping, going slowly and painstakingly at first, then going more quickly as the feet began to round.  He changed to another chisel, one with more of a curved blade, then went to another and then still another, narrow-bladed chisel as he worked the area between the toes.

            In three hours’ time he had the feet done, and all agreed they looked like those he’d drawn from life.  Then he began to work on the hands, and by the end of the day they were almost finished. 

            Meredin was impressed.  “I’ve never seen any stone hands look more like real ones than these,” he commented.  “You can tell they are of an aged Man, yet they are beautiful.”

            Gorondir, a slightly chubby youth with careless red curls falling away from a high forehead, agreed.  “They are aged, but experienced.  They remind me of my grandsire’s.”  He smiled down into Ruvemir’s face.  The mannikin smiled back.

            The next day he finished the hands, and then did the face, again working delicately and changing chisels frequently.  Finally the face was complete, and all could see the gentleness and nobility of the elderly visage, the slight smile just barely reflected in the stone lips.  He did the last, gentle rendering of the Man’s hair, and then he was done.  He looked at Gilmirion.  “Will you do the honor of smoothing it?” he asked.  The youth looked at him suspiciously, but nodded agreement.  Ruvemir sighed, and returned to Sam’s stone.

            This was the most frustrating part of working in such a setting doing so many things at once, having to constantly turn from one thing, one concern, one project, one apprentice, to another and then another.  He wished he could simply focus on the Pherian at the moment--he felt the stone calling to him--had done so since the afternoon he had clung to it for comfort.  Yet he managed only to get in a half hour here and a quarter mark there.  He looked at the plans posted on the wall, the little he had done so far.  He and Master Faragil had brought out between them the flare of the cloak, the over-large pack on Sam’s back, the shape of the head, the feet spread to balance the slightly bent torso, the general shape of the sword between his hands, the elbows akimbo.  He was looking up under his brows, as if guarding his Master from the great spider--or he would be, if Ruvemir could only get some time in which to focus on the details.  He chose a tool and a mallet, and began some careful carving over the hands area.

            The arrival of the couple a quarter mark later was a great frustration.  He was beginning to fall into the proper rhythm with the cutting, and suddenly he was drawn out of it all to deal with new clients--and new clients they were, new clients who were absolutely bereft.

            He listened to their story at first impatient, then gradually realizing the depth of their grief.  Their little daughter had died of a wasting sickness, a gentle, loving child, a beautiful girl.  They wished a small statue done of her.  Would he come look at her before they took her to the family tomb south of the city?

            He went, taking Celebgil and Gorondir with him.  Her body was with the embalmers, had been properly prepared.  He could tell the youths were upset to find themselves faced with death, and to such a one and in such a guise; but he knew they must realize this, too, was part of their business.  But watching him, their faces calmed.  Celebgil was remembering the concentration on Ruvemir’s face as he’d done the picture of the dead Rhunim in Lebennin.  Gorondir was amazed at the compassion reflected in the small sculptor’s eyes, the patience he now showed as he listened to the parents speak of her, of her likes, her dislikes, her joys, the stories she had liked best.  He began sketching, catching the face of a girl whose expression was calm, yet with just a hint of mischief to the eyes that had learned to see beyond pain, as young as she was.  They spoke of her cat, and he had them describe it, how it would wind around her feet.  He asked to see her favorite dress, and they took him to their home, showed it, showed the cat, her favorite chair....

            He left them with the promise to come to them in less than three days with sketches to show of possible compositions, asked the size of the figure they wished.

            As he reentered the workshop, one of the three smaller blocks ordered for practice pieces caught his eye, and he looked at it critically.  This stone, he knew, wanted to show the child.

            Celebgil caught the direction of his gaze.  “That one, then?”

            Ruvemir nodded.  He looked longingly at Sam’s stone, then back at the small stone that spoke to him of a little girl.  Together he, Celebgil, and Gorondir brought it out, set it where the light would fall on it best through the day.  He sat down and did three sketches, one after another, got more plans paper and set it ready, then went to check over the work the apprentices had done that day.  Orin came in and saw how work had been started and left off on Sam’s piece, obviously abruptly, and sighed; then looked at the effigy whose smoothing was almost completed and smiled.

            An older youth was sent off to the house of Master Riporian to tell him that the figure was complete, and just as they opened the shop the following morning the aged merchant arrived, accompanied and assisted by his son and the son’s wife.  All looked at the figure, and straightened.  Riporian himself was beaming, as well as his wizened features would allow.  “Yes,” he murmured, gently stroking the hands with one finger.  “Yes, thank you.”  The son was weeping gently, and the woman was comforting both.  “Yes, Ada Riporian,” she said softly, “it is done now.  When you are ready....”  They smiled in thanks as they led the old Man out. 

            Later in the day the son returned.  “His mind is more at rest, now, knowing he’ll be remembered as he is.  I wish to thank you for relieving him of this anxiety.  He is very happy.”

            Ruvemir went to the house of the girl’s parents, and they looked at the first picture he showed them, the one the block spoke to him of, and affirmed it.  “Yes, that is what we wish to see,” the mother agreed.  He nodded, went back, quickly did the plans, and began marking the stone, then set Celebgil to rough cutting it.  He actually was able to work on Sam’s stone for three hours that day, was able to get the waistcoat’s details shown, the right arm’s musculature brought out.

            Whatever they had thought of him at first, the apprentices were now realizing that with their new master they truly were in the presence of a master.   Not even Gilmirion doubted this now.  They did not fully appreciate what he was doing with the stone of the Pherian, but there was no question Master Ruvemir was in communion with the figure.

            That evening he’d hoped to go down to the Dwarves’ warehouse, but was so tired when he arrived home he found all he wished to do was sit.  The bell rang, and Liana admitted Orin.  She’d not met a Dwarf personally before, and she appeared somewhat in awe of him as he smiled briefly up at her and came into the day room to find Ruvemir leaning back against his wife’s shoulder on the lower sofa, she combing his hair with her fingers.

            “Welcome, Orin,” Elise said smiling.  “This one is being drained by the work.”

            “I have seen him work and work hard, Mistress Elise, but haven’t seen him this tired before.  What is it, Ruvemir, that drains you so?”

            Ruvemir sighed and stretched.  “More than the work, it is the different calls upon me all at the same time that drain me, I suspect.  I have little time to focus on one thing before three others must be attended to.”  The apprentices in the room looked over at him consideringly.

            “Tomorrow is the High Day--I will take you in the morning and see you fed, then get you down to the warehouse somehow so that you can be with the Lord Frodo’s stone.  Even if you do not work it, I suspect it will soothe you.”

            “Ah, you will get me down there, get me soothed, and then I must come up again all the way to the sixth level?  Now, that will be most restful--I will be so exhausted from the climb back up that I will want only to fall into bed and remain there for several days.”

            The Dwarf thought on this.  “Then, perhaps not.  We will have to find a place nearby for you to work it.  Is there a suitable place in the workshop?”

            “With so many apprentices, there is not.  There is barely room for the Lord Samwise’s figure.”

            Gorondir looked up from a game of draughts he had been playing with Meredin.  “Have you thought about the small workshop?”

            “What small workshop?” Ruvemir asked.  “I knew of no other workshop save the large one where we meet already.”

            “The next building over has a small workshop in it.  When Master Varondil first began to work in the city, that was where he did his work.  Then as he began doing more orders he needed more space, and he purchased the building where the larger workshop is.  The year of the war, after it was over, he would have some of the effigies worked there, for there were so many that needed to be done.”

            “I can imagine,” Ruvemir commented.  “Do you know which key opens the lock to it?”

            “It was brass, and its wards were intricate.” 

            Ruvemir got up and fetched the ring of keys, and together they looked for the proper key.  Finally Gorondir chose two keys.  “It is one of those,” he said.  “But I am not certain which it is.”

            “It would be easy enough to try both.”

            “Then we will go down in the morning and try both,” Orin said.  “Is it the building to the left or the right?”

            Gorondir thought, then answered, “The one on the left, with the golden ball on the top of the facing.”

            “Good enough,” his master replied.  “I hope only no more secrets of an ill nature are hidden within it.  We have had more than enough of those for a time.  Orin, would you like an ale?”

            The Dwarf smiled in answer, but before any could rise to get him one there was another ring at the bell.

            As he was already standing, Ruvemir went this time, and found that outside stood Lord Hardorn.  “My Lord, you have returned!  Welcome, welcome indeed!  Did you find your target, then?”

            “Yes, we found him and more besides.  Is Gilfileg here?”

            Elise answered from behind her husband, “He walked down to the fifth level a time ago with Eregiel to purchase some wine at the Silver Sword.  They ought to be back again at any time.  Won’t you come in?”

            “I fear I need to borrow your husband and my cousin--both of them, I suppose, if Eregiel returns with him--for a time.  We have matters we need to discuss with Lord Ifram.  When Gilfileg returns, will you please ask him to come over to the Rhunish Embassy?  And Master Orin, would you be willing to stand as a witness to a document?”

            Ruvemir and the Dwarf followed the Ranger across the lane to the gate of the embassy where they were admitted with a salute from the guard on duty.  Ifram and Shefti were sitting in the day room with a youth--a very sullen youth.  His surcoat and the shirt under it were both of fine materials, as were his trousers; but were all dirty and heavily creased as if they had been worn for several days.  His hair was tangled, his eyes suspicious; and as he watched Hardorn  enter he appeared to become anxious.  Both the Rhunim appeared a bit bemused, and Ben’harin, who stood over the young Man as if guarding him, was plainly reflecting displeasure as he looked on him.

            Once all were seated, Lord Hardorn sighed before he began his explanation.  “We found the one who ordered the attacks on the two of you, Lord Ifram, Lord Shefti.  He was indeed Landrion of Umbar, and I fear I cannot give you the promised time with him, for another had a prior claim on him and did not spare him once we were through with him.  This was his son, Armanthol.  We did not leave Umbar directly, Strider and I, but fetched him first, and then Strider entrusted him to me, that in his anger Marcipor not take him and slay him out of hand.”

            “Who is this Marcipor?” asked Ifram grimly.

            “The Lord of Umbar, who had just listened to Landrion suggest that once we were done slaying your brother Shefti for him, we should then target Lord Marcipor himself.  I fear he did not find himself amused by the suggestion.” 

            Ifram’s eyes widened.  “And how did he hear such a thing?”

            “Strider and I rose out of the grass of his own estate and took him from it, cloaked and hooded, as witness to what was being suggested by Landrion, who also suggested we target the Lord King Elessar for him.” 

            That in the youth’s presence Hardorn was referring to the King as Strider had impressed itself on Ruvemir--the King did not yet wish the young Man to realize the proper identity of the other who had taken him from his land.  “What was--Strider’s response to the suggestion the two of you slay the King of Gondor, then?” he asked.

            “He asked how Landrion believed such a thing could be done within the city.  He was smiling a bit as he asked this, by the way, I think trying to once again foresee any manner in which such an enterprise could be accomplished.  He and I have, of course, considered such a scenario many times in the past in order to guard against such.”

            At that the door opened to admit Gilfileg, followed by Eregiel.  They entered the day room and joined the group, quickly being advised of what had been discussed so far.

            Ifram thought a moment.  “Then this Landrion was convinced I was indeed dead, then?”

            “Yes, my Lord.  The ruse was successful.  And Strider took back to the war in Rhun the drawings done of those who took part in the assault on the farm to show the Shkatha.  I do not doubt the three Rhunim will be identified.”  He stretched somewhat.  “I was given charge over this one.  It was not Strider’s desire that Armanthol, apparently innocent of his sire’s designs, should also fall victim to Lord Marcipor’s fury, so we found him and took him from his father’s estates and brought him away with us.  He has been given a choice--either remain there to receive Lord Marcipor’s overflowing anger once his father was no more, or accept an apprenticeship here.”

            Ruvemir, realizing where this appeared to be leading, sighed and straightened in protest.  “I would not willingly accept a reluctant apprentice, and already have more than I ever thought to in my lifetime.” 

            Again the door opened, and this time the Lord Prince Steward and the Lady Queen entered, carrying her daughter with her.  All stood to greet them as they came forward into the room, Armanthol looking on the Lady Arwen with frank amaze. 

            “Welcome, my Lady,” Ifram said, and Shefti brought forward an armchair for her to sit on.  Ben’harin, on a sign from the ambassador, went to the door to call the servitors now working in the embassy to bring refreshments. 

            Prince Faramir carried a document with him, which he now looked at with some respect before he proffered it to the sculptor.  “It appears your number of apprentices is being increased by one more,” he commented.  “The document is unique, I must say.”

            “The King had it prepared already, then?”

            Hardorn laughed.  “Strider prepared it himself.  He is, after all, trained in the laws of both lands under the King’s rule.”

            Faramir handed it to Ruvemir, who unfolded it and read through its provisos.  He looked up.  “Well, the language of it is certainly that of the indentures I am accustomed to read; but some of the articles it contains are certainly unique, as you have stated my Lord.  I am to instruct him thoroughly in the nature of the Lord Frodo Baggins?”

            “He has his reasons, Master Ruvemir.”

            “I know he must have them, but I do not understand.”

            Faramir laughed.  “If you knew half the orders left to me whenever I must take over my offices as Steward, you would realize the King’s will is often apparently inscrutable but always sound--or so I have found it to be in the five years of my service under him.”

            For the first time the youth spoke.  “You are the Steward?”

            “Yes, I am Faramir son of Denethor, Prince of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor.  And this is our Lady Queen Arwen Undómiel, and the Princess Melian.”

            “Then you can end this farce.”

            Faramir raised an elegant eyebrow.  “I have seen no sign of farce, young sir.”

            The young Man bristled.  “I am son of the Lord Landrion of Umbar....”

            “Who is a Lord no longer, having been stripped of his title before he was killed,” interrupted Hardorn.  “You have not inherited your father’s honors, his own having been lost to him and his due to his many intrigues.  Whether you have honor yourself remains to be seen.  It is the King’s hope that you may bear honor not seen in your father, however, which is why you have been given to the tutelage of Master Ruvemir here.  He has been researching the nature of honor, true honor.”

            “He is not even a true Man....”

            Orin bristled and turned red behind his dark beard, stood and glared at the youth.  “You know not what you say, and would do best to keep a civil tongue in your head.”

            The Queen’s laughter cut through the anger.  “Not a true Man?  There you are wrong, as Master Ruvemir’s wife will be quick to point out.  She has found him to be more than Man enough for her, and my beloved husband has found him to be truer than many born to lordship.  Master Ruvemir is a Man, young Armanthol.  His body may be stunted, but certainly not his nature, his intelligence, his sense of responsibility, his sense of compassion toward others.  And although he is an artist and artisan, he is much given to honor, and has shown himself worthy of it as well.

            “My husband wishes you to study under him for a time.  Do you agree to do so?  If not, we will arrange your return to your own land.”

            “But Marcipor would kill me if I returned!”

            “So it is likely.  Which is it to be, then?”

            Faramir smiled.  “The preliminary indenture is for two years, with a provision for review at the end of that term.”

            “I do not truly have a choice, then.”

            Arwen sighed.  “You have a choice--life and learning, or return to the probable enmity of Lord Marcipor.”

            “He cannot be certain my father wished him dead.”

            “He heard your father openly discuss his wish to have him assassinated.  He is certain.”

            “My father was not that kind of Man!”

            Hardorn shook his head.  “Your father was precisely that kind of Man, Armanthol.  He was a political animal of the worst sort, and he nurtured the most base natures in those with whom he dealt.  If you do not wish to end up as he did, you must study another way.

            “You are correct--your choice is limited at this point.  If you wish it to be broadened, sign the indenture, and in two years you will probably have more choices open to you.”

            Ruvemir set the articles of indenture upon the table, and Shefti fetched quill and ink.  The youth glared at those around him, but finally took the quill, dipped it, and signed.  The rest signed as witnesses, even the surprised Ben’harin.  Sighing, Ruvemir signed the paper binding this youth to himself.

            Hardorn looked at the older of his two kinsmen who sat there.  “He is to be with you when he is not with his master, Gilfileg.”

            The Ranger straightened.  “With me?  Why?”

            Hardorn smiled with satisfaction.  “Whom better to study honor under when our Lord King is not present?  You are second to him in closeness to the line of Kings, after all.”

            Eregiel laughed.  “Third, now that Melian is born.”

            Gilfileg glared at both.  “I swear I will avenge myself on Estel for this.”

            Arwen smiled.  “Oh, I suspect he already anticipates your intent, and will be on guard for it.”  After a moment of shared gazes, Gilfileg smiled as well.

            The servitors brought in wine and fruit, and all shared a toast to the new indenture, only the object of that indenture and its holder sharing misgivings over it.

Tutelage in Honor

            Ruvemir, Gilfileg, Eregiel, Orin, and Armanthol finally crossed the lane to the house of the sculptor and went in to the day room.  Two others now played at draughts, while Meredin, Celebgil, and Gorondir were experimenting with clay on a table set aside for that purpose at one end of the room.  Gilmirion was reading a history of Gondor to the party, and Angara was delightedly receiving attention from one of the younger boys, who was making string figures for her. 

            “Celebgil, Gilmirion, come here, please,” directed Ruvemir.  “You can give the history to Marvilion, Gilmirion.  Please continue, Marvilion.”    

            Celebgil wiped his hands with one of the towels provided for that purpose and came forward.  “Yes, Master Ruvemir?”

            “We are having one more joined to our group.  This is Armanthol.  His father has recently died most tragically, and he is to study under Lord Gilfileg and myself for a time.  I wish the two of you to take him and show him where he will sleep, there in the large room.”

            Gilmirion looked at him, interested.  They appeared much of an age.  “The north alcove is empty--he can have that.”  He examined Armanthol.  “Do you have any experience with sculpting or carving?”

            Armanthol looked affronted.  “Of course not,” he snapped.

            Gilfileg looked at him with reproof.  “Here you are but one of many, and as you are but starting in your indenture you are the junior of all here, most of whom have studied sculpture for several years now.  Do not start with anger or pride in your heart, lest others be moved to seek to strike it down.  Go and see your place, then come down to bathe.  I will see to providing you with clothing for the next few days until we can obtain suitable garb of your own.”

            Ruvemir drew Elise apart and explained the situation, and she sighed.  “His father is the one who ordered the murder attacks on Ifram and Shefti?  How horrible!”

            “He also apparently suggested that the two he met find a way to assassinate the King Elessar.”

            She started to giggle in spite of her horror.  “Imagine how he must have felt when he realized this was the King Elessar, and he’d tried to commission him to kill himself!”

            Even Ruvemir found himself laughing at the idea.  “The King must have been enjoying himself thoroughly in a dark way.  But he doesn’t appear to have had any compunction this time about leaving the end of this fellow to Lord Marcipor.”

            Her laughter fled, and she reached down to embrace him.  “I wonder what he must feel some times, torn between the worlds of war and peace.”

            He shook his head.  “I cannot imagine.”

            The following morning he took Celebgil, Gorondir, and Armanthol down to check out the small workshop.  The first key proved to be the one to the door, and they quickly went in.  The windows were dark with several years of grime, and the floor thick with dust, with stone shards swept to one wall as if no one had bothered finding anything to remove them in the last time the space had been used.  Other than that the main room was empty, and would be a good space to work Lord Frodo’s stone.

            The second key proved to be to a back storage room.  Off of it was a privy that fed into the sewers that ran down through the city.  There were a few stacked blocks of stone, both marble and granite, he noted, suitable for grave markers; and there was one larger block of marble which had once been marked for rough cutting but had only had a small amount of work done on it, then was abandoned.  Behind the block they found a bedstead with a stained mattress on it. 

            Ruvemir wrinkled his nose in distaste.  “I hope this is all we find,” he said.  “Apparently he used at least one apprentice here, then.  The foul creature.”

            Gorondir nodded agreement, Celebgil looked almost sick with disgust, and Armanthol had but a little idea of what was being discussed. 

            “What use will be this space?” he asked.

            “Master Orin has indicated he will have his fellows have the stone for Lord Frodo brought here so I can work it again.  It is in the lower city now, in the Dwarves’ warehouse.  However, I cannot easily move through the city, so steep are its streets.”  He examined the blocks in the storage area, and smiled.  “Several of these are suitable for use in the surround for the base of the memorial.  I will have to tell the King when he returns.”

            “Is the one who stays in your house truly the King’s kinsman?” Armanthol asked. 

            “Yes, he is.  He is of the Northern Dúnedain, and they have told me several times that most of those are the Lord King Elessar’s own kindred.  The Lord King himself is of the direct line of Kings of the Northern lineage, descended directly from Elendil and Isildur father to son; and is descended from Anárion as well through the daughter of King Ondoher, the princess Fíriel, who married the last King of Arnor, Arvedui.  Lord Gilfileg, I am told, is three removes from the Line of Kings, the Lord Hardorn and his brothers five on the side of their father.  Lord Hardorn and his brothers are the King’s first cousins through the King’s mother; Lord Gilfileg is a second or third cousin.”  He smiled.  “I fear it would take a Hobbit to explain the full relationship.”

            “What are Hobbits?”

            “Their own name for the Pheriannath, or Periannath as the Northern Dúnedain call them, or the Halflings as they are called in Westron.  Hobbits are much given to the study of genealogy.”

            “Who is this Lord Frodo Baggins I am to learn of?”

            Celebgil looked at him pityingly.  “Do you know nothing of the downfall of Sauron, then?”

            “He was a great spirit who claimed lordship over the world, and he fell at the last, after which your Lord Elessar became King of Gondor.  He is supposed to have defeated Sauron in some manner.  I do not understand it.”

            Celebgil shook his head.  “No works of Man could defeat Sauron this time.  He was destroyed through the destruction of his own artifice.”

            Armanthol shrugged.  “It means nothing to me.”

            Gorondir snorted.  “It means nothing to you?  We are the ones who had to look daily abroad from our own walls to see the smoke of Mordor and the fumes of Orodruin reaching out to overwhelm us.  Always he hated Gondor, the descendants of the survivors of Númenor.”

            Ruvemir nodded his agreement.  “The three northern lines of the Kings were also threatened by Sauron and his creatures, and two of them were destroyed.  He’d thought the third destroyed as well, but he was wrong, it turned out.  Our Lord King’s family sent him to Imladris to be fostered from early childhood, hidden under another name, the word given that the son of Arathorn and Gilraen had died of a fever.  Once he came to manhood he was told his identity and returned to the Dúnedain to learn leadership among Men.  Long he labored against the Enemy, in the North, here in Gondor, and in Rohan.  He also traveled in secret among the folk of Rhun and Harad, even, I believe, in Umbar.

            “But it was not the might of the King returned that destroyed the armies and lord of Mordor.  What do you know of the Rings of Power?”

            “Only that Sauron wrought them and supposedly gave them to Men, Dwarves, and Elves to entrap and enslave them.”

            “Sauron made but one of his own, the great Ring, the Ruling Ring.  The rest were made by Celebrimbor of Eregion, greatest of Elvensmiths of Middle Earth.  He was taught the way of creating Rings of Power by Sauron in the guise of the Lord of Gifts, and was assisted in the forging of the Rings for Men and Dwarves by Sauron; but Sauron had no part in the forging of the three Elven Rings, which have now passed over the Sea, to the Undying Lands.”

            “The Undying Lands are but a place of tales and stories.”

            Ruvemir looked at him and shook his head.  “The Elves whom you will see here tell a different tale.”

            “I don’t believe in Elves.  I’ve never seen one.”

            “You saw the Queen last night.  She is the daughter of Elrond Peredhel, Elrond Half-Elven.  She gave up her own right to travel to the Undying Lands to remain here in Middle Earth, to marry her beloved, who is a mortal.  The King himself, as is true of all the true Dúnedain, has Elvish blood.  He is the descendent of Elros Tar-Minyatur, brother to Elrond.  When the Lord Elrond chose the life of the Eldar, the Lord Elros chose mortality and the life and death of Mankind.”

            “What does this have to do with the destruction of Mordor?”

            “When he created the Ruling Ring, keyed to reveal the works wrought by the wearers of the other great Rings and to govern them, when It was worn by one of sufficient power of his or her own, Sauron put the greater part of his own essence and power into it.  Only if the Ring itself was destroyed could he be brought down also.  But only in one place could that be done--within Mordor itself, in the Sammath Naur of Orodruin, in Sauron’s own Place within the depths of Mount Doom.”

            “Did your King Elessar carry it there, then?”

            “No, he did not.  A Hobbit carried it there, one who was not a warrior, but was a scholar and writer--and artist as well.”

            Gorondir looked up in interest.  “The Lord Frodo was an artist?”

            Celebgil nodded.  “Master Ruvemir holds a book the Lord Frodo copied for his kinsman when he was a child, and the Lord Frodo also illustrated it and bound it.  It is a thing of beauty.  He didn’t carve, though.”

            Ruvemir shook his head as he smiled.  “He did try his hand at carving once that we are aware of.  The walking stick Ririon carries--we found his signature sign on it.”

            “He did the carving of the dragon on it?”  Celebgil smiled in delight.  “How wonderful!  When did you learn this?”

            “Not long after we came to Bag End in the Shire, the home of which the Lord Frodo was Master after his beloved cousin Bilbo tired of the Shire and the effects of the Ring he’d carried for over sixty years.  A box built and carved by the Lord Frodo’s father Drogo Baggins lies in the study there, a lovely thing decorated with the image of a Hobbit leading a pony through trees.  On it we found the signature sign, and Ririon found it on a box he was gifted by the Tooks, who are also kin to the Lord Frodo.  Then when Pando came to me with his box with the image of a Dwarf carved on it, I saw the signature sign there as well.  After we found the signature sign of Drogo Baggins on Ririon’s box he looked to see if Drogo had carved the dragon on the walking stick as well, and instead we found the signature sign of the Lord Frodo himself.”

            “Ririon said the Lord Frodo’s signature sign is a dragonfly, didn’t he?”

            “Yes, it is.”

            “Will you work it into the sculpture of the Lord Frodo, do you think?”

            Ruvemir paused, having never thought of such a thing, then smiled.  “Yes, I just might do that.  It would be a private joke, I suppose.  I don’t know if I will tell the Lord Sam of it, though--let him find for himself.  He will be mightily amused, I am certain.”

            They came out into the outer room again, and Ruvemir decided where the figure must go while he worked upon it.  There was a knock at the double door, and it opened to admit three Dwarves, Orin, Borin, and Dorin.  Orin grunted with satisfaction.  “You were able to open it, then.”

            “Yes, we were.  I think to put the figure of the Lord Frodo there, don’t you agree?”

            The Dwarf looked, nodded, took a piece of soft red brick out of his pocket and marked the spot upon the floor.  “What of the others?”

            “The large block there, and the tall one there.”  Again the Dwarf marked the spaces. 

            “Anything else you wish moved once we are here?”

            Celebgil looked down on Ruvemir.  “The bedstead?” he asked.

            The mannikin nodded.  “Yes, we will have that out, at least, and the mattress burnt.  There is a bedstead in the inner room, behind the large block.  It appears Varondil--entertained--himself here from time to time.  I wish it out.”

            The Dwarf’s expression hardened.  “I understand, Ruvemir.”

            Ruvemir turned to the other Dwarves and bowed deeply.  “It is an honor to see you again, Masters Dorin and Borin.”

            Dorin smiled his small smile.  “I’d thought to take your apprentices tomorrow and teach them somewhat of the working of clay.”

            “Oh,” Celebgil said, delighted.  “May I ask my father and brothers to come, too?  They are potters.”

            “Very good,” Dorin said, smiling.  “It will be an honor to have them there, and your father can teach them somewhat of his work also, which is likely to be different than mine.  Master Ruvemir, may I borrow this one for a time, then?  If he will introduce me to his father, we can perhaps devise an even more elaborate lesson for your apprentices.”

            “Gladly, then.  And I thank you.”

            “It will give you the chance to work the Lord Frodo’s stone, or that of Samwise Gamgee.  Perhaps both.  We will keep the rest of your young Men involved and entertained.”

            Ruvemir smiled.  “You cannot know how much this means to me.”

            Celebgil took Dorin and Borin off to meet his father, and Ruvemir carefully worked the elaborate key off the ring for Orin.  “I’ll have a new copy made for you in case one should go lost,” the Dwarf promised.  “We will have the blocks moved here by the time you come down in the morning.  Shall I bring up your tools as well?”

            “I would be most grateful, Orin.  What do you hear from Lord Gimli and Dorlin?”

            “From the Lord Gimli that he is entertained by seeing our devices we wrought for the Lord Aragorn in use--they cause much confusion among the Wainriders, he tells me, when the wheels of their wains are caught and their spokes destroyed.  And they are so cunningly deployed that those driving the wains cannot see them until their wheels are damaged.  Others of our devices block roads for carriages and force the Wainriders to have to dismount to fight.  This puts them at a disadvantage for they do not practice to fight so.

            “Dorlin has already started on his journey with his family to Erebor.  He was able to travel to the North much faster on his own.”

            “I can imagine.  The coach is rather slow when pulled by teams of ponies which must be rested or changed frequently.”

            “He has said that traveling with you in the winter was a good experience, and he does not regret it.  He is proud to have assisted you.  Well, I must be off to arrange for the use of the cart.”

            “Thank you again for all you have done, Orin.”

            The Dwarf gave a great smile and headed back down through the city, while Ruvemir led the two still with him into the other workshop, to look on the figure taking shape there. 

            “This will be the figure of the Lord Samwise Gamgee.  Of course, in his own land Sam is not a Lord at all--he is a gardener....”  And so Ruvemir began telling the story of Frodo Baggins and how the Ring of Power came into his possession.

            Gorondir was fascinated, while Armanthol listened skeptically.  Yet, as the story unfolded the young Man from Umbar became increasingly involved in it, certainly more so than he’d thought to.  As Ruvemir described Bag End and the two Masters Sam had served there, the way that Bilbo Baggins had not appeared to age since he made his unexpected journey to the Lonely Mountain with thirteen Dwarves and a Wizard, the growing disquiet he felt, the description of feeling stretched like butter scraped over too much bread--as Ruvemir spoke, Armanthol was listening, his imagination beginning to fill in the images.  Gorondir had sat on his stool at the table where he worked and was listening also, but he was also beginning to sketch.  Ruvemir told the story from the time Frodo came to Bag End to the fateful Party when Bilbo left Bag End and the Shire to go back out into the Wilds, leaving behind his bereft adopted heir and a certain gold Ring.  Then he left off, and both youths gave protests, Armanthol surprising himself as he realized he was sorry to hear the story end for the time.

            Gorondir looked at his Master with fascination.  “And you have truly been there, in the Shire, into their homes dug into the hillsides?”

            Ruvemir nodded, smiling.  “I’ve been inside four smials--Brandy Hall where Sir Merry will one day follow his father as Master of the Hall and chief of the Brandybuck family and of the districts known as Buckland and the Marish; the Great Smial where the Thain lives, he who is father of Captain Pippin, Thain of the Shire, and chieftain of the Took clan wherever they may live within the Shire; Bag End; and the home of Hamfast Gamgee in Hobbiton.  Each is different from the rest, and all are warm, comfortable, and welcoming, even the relatively small smial in which the Lord Samwise was born and raised beneath the larger smial of Bag End further up the Hill.  Most Men could not stand within them comfortably.  As mannikins, Miriel and I could do so easily.  It felt odd to come out again into Bree where the rooms are taller, proportioned again for most Men.

            “I do regret not being there when the gardens begin to bloom and the crops begin to spring up in the fields.  You can see in the faces of the Hobbits as they speak of such things that they love the land and growing things.  My brother-in-law waxes quite poetic, although he appears quite happy on our father’s farm in Lebennin.”

            Armanthol stood straighter.  “Your brother-in-law?” he asked, shocked.

            “Yes, my brother-in-law, Folco Boffin, who is a cousin to the Lord Frodo.  While we visited the Great Smial we met him as he visited the Thain, and he became interested in my sister.  He drove our coach to Hobbiton and Bag End, and was invited to stay by Lord Samwise and Mistress Rose.  They married three weeks after Yule.”

            “And happy they are,” said the voice of one who’d entered quietly as Ruvemir had told his story.  The other three were all startled.

            “Master Faragil?” asked Ruvemir.

            The older sculptor smiled.  “Yes, I’ve returned to Minas Anor.  I found I could not live happily without pursuing the courtship of a certain small woman, as your friend Mistress Narieth would have called her.  It is long and long I’ve lived alone since Carien died and left me.”

            “Have you seen Mistress Idril yet, then?”

            “No--I have taken rooms again at the King’s Head, but came up first to bring you letters from home.  Elise told me you would most like be here.”  He examined the figure of Samwise Gamgee.  “It progresses more slowly.”

            “I am much distracted.”

            Faragil laughed.  “Do you think Master Dorion would allow me to share your duties?  It would give you more time with your figures.”

            “You would do this, and for me?  Oh, Master Faragil, I would be so grateful!”

 *******

            The next day the apprentices of Master Varondil began their proper education in the working of clay, Master Faragil had a long interview with Guild Master Dorion and the Steward, and Ruvemir took Celebgil, Gorondir, Gilfileg, and Armanthol to the smaller workshop where he gently undraped the figure of Frodo Baggins, bowed to it respectfully, examined it thoroughly to see it had taken no harm, and began the further shaping of it, carefully describing to the others what he was doing and why.  The sweep of the Elven cloak was becoming clearer, the shape of the head more that of the Hobbit, the right arm more definitely the arm and hand of Frodo Baggins.  Orin had lingered, and listened with interest, smiled and nodded with approval. 

            At noon they left it, went to a nearby inn for lunch, and then went up two levels to the work site.  “Three days a week I will work here, then,” Ruvemir decided.  He undraped the two figures, smiled into the features of Peregrin Took, began to describe him to those with him, told of the dropped stone in Moria.

            The servitors from the Citadel came out, delighted to hear he would again begin working here three days a week, asked what types of meals he would like served.  “We will miss the young Halfling who served you,” they told him.  “The cooks accepted his appetite as a challenge.”  All laughed. 

            “I am certain he is proving a challenge to Mistress Andúrien’s cook,” Ruvemir smiled.  “But the Mistress herself is full of praise for his talent.”

            The five of them went back down to the house in the Sixth Circle, and together carried the box of tools back up to the work site, and prepared for work there the next day.

 *******

            And so the pattern of the days for the remainder of the summer was set, one day at the work site, the next in the workshop with the apprentices, the High Day spent about the city, Starsday and evenings with Frodo Baggins’s figure.  Always at his side was Armanthol, and usually Celebgil and Gilfileg as well.  And always the talk centered upon the subject of honor and how it was embodied in these four strange individuals from the Shire. 

            Armanthol began to learn the names and uses of the sculptor’s tools, and soon had two practice pieces of his own, one in the workshop and one at the site.  He met his first Elf in the small garden that grew beside the house in which he now lived.  He watched the small sculptor to whom he was now bound and his obvious love for his wife, the growing respect shown to him by the rest of the apprentices, the delight shown in him by the housekeeper’s daughter with her absurdly short arms, the honor shown him by the Rhunim who dwelt in the embassy house opposite.

            At Midsummer a youth arrived from the south, a tall young Man who carried a carved staff and walked by the side of a dog and who wore a wide-brimmed hat.  Ririon was welcomed with joy, stayed two weeks, then went back to Passaurin on one of the boats that plied the River and the coasts of Gondor.

            The third week of July the word passed like wildfire throughout the city--the war in Rhun was won, and the King was returning.  Five days later the wagons carrying the wounded began to arrive, and three days after that those carrying the sealed coffins of those of the dead whom it was possible to bring back to Gondor.  The next day the main body of the army could be seen, and late in the day the King arrived with a large party.  His face was glad but tired, and he wore his left arm in a sling.  By his side rode Éomer of Rohan, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, his heir Elphir, a Dwarf and golden-haired Elf, the Sons of Elrond, Moritum, Shkatha of Rhun, and his retinue, and a small Man on an equally small horse, one whose beard was small and sparse but whose mustache was full, his hair pulled back into a tight braid down his back, whose silk garments were colorful.  All looked on him with interest.

            The King was met at the Gate by the Steward and his wife, and by the Lady Arwen carrying their daughter.  The King gravely saluted them all, then dismounted, giving his horse leave to enter the city and find its stall, then approached his wife and took her in his sound arm and kissed her with great love and tenderness, finally taking his daughter and carrying her as together husband and wife, King and Queen, walked up the ways of the city of Minas Anor to the Citadel.  Armanthol looked at the smiling face of Master Ruvemir as he sat his pony, and followed the rest of the populace back in through the great gates as all rejoiced at the King’s return.

A Tale of War

            The following day was again proclaimed a day of celebration, and an audience was held to which were summoned the tellers of tales, the artists of the city, those who told the news of the realm, the bards and historians, and the representatives of the realms of Gondor and Arnor and their allies who were within call.  Ruvemir was called with the rest, and with him went Armanthol, Celebgil, and Gilfileg; he was pleased to see that Master Faragil was also there along with many from the Guild of Carvers as well as other artists who would be expected to incorporate the images of the victory in their works.

            Great Lords and Ladies mingled with artists and artisans, writers and diplomats.  Finally the Sergeant at Arms stepped forward to call all to order, and heralds proclaimed the arrival of the King Elessar.  He was dressed in a green tunic over dark trousers, the dark green mantle over his shoulders, the green of the Elfstone and the emerald of his ring and the Star of Elendil on his brow shining even here within the room.  He looked up at the throne and paused as the Steward rose from his black chair to acknowledge him.

            “The Steward of Gondor rejoices to see the return of the King, and gladly gives authority back to you as the Lord of Gondor and Arnor.”  He held out the Sceptre of Annúminas to Aragorn, who received it with respect.  He then slowly mounted the steps to his throne and sat upon it, setting sword and sceptre over his knees.  His left arm, Ruvemir noted, was still in a sling, apparently a scarf green as was his tunic; and the King’s expression was carefully neutral in nature.

            The heralds then announced the arrival of each of the high Lords who accompanied the King--Éomer King of Rohan; Moritum, the Shkatha of Rhun, and his ambassador and scribe to the embassy; Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, accompanied by his two elder sons, Elphir and Erchirion; the Lords Elladan, Elrohir, and Glorfindel of Imladris; Prince Legolas of the Forest of Green Leaves; Gimli, Lord of the Glittering Caves; the Lord Gilfileg, the King’s kinsman, as representative of the Steward of Arnor.  Gilfileg smiled down at Ruvemir and stepped forward to bow before his cousin.  He wore the copper colored robe crafted for him by the Lady Arwen, and there could be no question he was of high blood.  Ruvemir could see the smile in the eyes of the King as he looked down on his kinsman and acknowledged him.  Gilfileg stood before the grey seat intended for Halladan, waiting the sign to sit down.  At last the Heralds announced Peveset, the Ghan of Mundolië, Lord of the Wainriders of the Far East.  The one who’d ridden by the King the preceding day now entered, wearing flowing silken garments of a bright red color, his small beard and flowing mustaches neatly groomed, his hair in its braid, heavy bracelets on his wrists.  Small as he was, he commanded attention as he stood at the foot of the steps to the King’s throne.  The Lord Elessar rose and bowed to all, all of whom bowed in return. 

            The last to enter was the Lady Arwen, carrying, as usual, her daughter.  She walked to the dais and directly up it to sit in the chair set there for her use, Melian on her knee.  The King settled sword and sceptre, reached down to clasp her shoulder, to rest his hand on his daughter’s head, his smile full of tenderness and delight.  Again the travel throne of Éomer was set for his use, and seats were prepared for each of the others as well, each obviously intended to show honor.

            Once the other high lords were seated, the King rose again.  “The Lady Arwen and I rejoice to welcome you to Gondor, to Minas Anor, and the Citadel.  We rejoice also the war is done, and with far less loss of life than such events usually provoke.  And, as was expressed to you on the battlefield, Ghan Peveset, we have reason to believe you were provoked into this conflict by those who sought to diminish your people, and to use you as a tool to remove a Shkatha in Rhun they found not apt to their purposes.  Are you still willing to listen to our proofs?”

            The small Man stood and looked unwavering up at the one standing before the tall throne above him.  “Yes, I would hear your proofs.  If there is any proof of what you say.”  His voice was heavily accented and carried an odd intonation that was exotic and intriguing, Ruvemir felt.

            Aragorn nodded.  “So be it, then.  I call first Éomer, the King of Rohan.  My friend and brother, will you please tell Ghan Peveset what has happened between Rohan and the folk of the Dunlendings in the past year?”

            The young King of Rohan rose and faced the ruler of Mundolië.  “Our lands lie north of the White Mountains and somewhat to the west of where we are here, and fill the lands between the White Mountains and the River Entwash, which runs from the southern reaches of the Misty Mountains.  Westward our lands stretch to the Gap of Rohan, which is the surest way into Eriador in Arnor in the North and West of Middle Earth.  Long were the lands where we now dwell part of Gondor, but they were little populated, for they are grasslands primarily, with little in the way of wood for fires and building.”

            Peveset nodded his head slowly.  “Then your lands are much like ours by the description you give.”

            “When our Riders came South almost a thousand years past to the aid of Gondor, following Eorl the Young, Gondor granted those lands to us as a land to hold for our own.  And it has proven a good land for us and our horse herds, although it is not especially fertile for crops in most of it.  Those from the lands of the Dunlendings had begun to enter that land before it was granted to us, and always the folk of those lands have been quick to enmity and hatreds.  Although they lived in only a small portion of the lands granted to us, they coveted it all and sought to claim it all for themselves.  Many times have our people been forced to defend ourselves against their forces.

            “Over the winter word came that once more those of the lands of the Dunlendings were being incited to attack our lands, much as happened when before the War of the Ring the fallen Wizard Saruman called upon them to assault us that we might be weakened and he might more easily claim lordship over both peoples.  The folk there began to once again carry out raids against our horse herds and the villages near the borders of our land.  They also began going against the trees of Fangorn Forest and were once again raising the ire of the Ents.  The Lord of Fangorn gave word to travelers that their trees were being slain wantonly once more, and that word was brought to us while the Lord King Aragorn Elessar and some of his captains visited in my land in the time between winter and spring.  A group of scouts from both our realms went among the folk of the Dunlendings to seek the truth of what happened there, and they brought back to my halls two, one who originated in that land but who bore the signs of both Saruman and Sauron on his body, showing he had pledged himself to both before their ends; and one who was from the people of Rhun. 

            “There are some among the kin of the King Aragorn Elessar who have traveled in Rhun and in Harad and who know the tongues spoken there.  One stood as translator as we questioned this one.  Both had been sent from agents to the South and East to raise trouble among those of the Dunlendings to draw off our aid when Gondor rode forth to stand as allies to the folk of Rhun in the expected assault from your people.

            “Those who sent these two are little known to those of us in Rohan.  We were able to bring some of the leaders of the Dunlendings to Fangorn to show them that the Ents are real and will not tolerate attacks on their trees, and they were also shown proofs that these two had been sent to purposely stir up strife between our peoples to their detriment.  The growing fight was quelled easily, and when they learned that the one of their own who had walked among them had been sworn to Isengard and Mordor they were angered, for both had betrayed their people repeatedly over the years.  When the one of their own was sent back to them for judgment, they found him guilty of betrayal and hung him in accordance with their laws and traditions.

            “But at least we found ourselves able to follow the banner of the King Elessar without fear our lands would be fired once more, and our women and children slain or enslaved.”  He then sat again on his travel throne.

            The King Elessar, who had sat again on his own throne while Éomer talked, now called forth Lord Hardorn.  “Lord Hardorn is my own kinsman from the North.  He is one of the high captains among the Rangers of Arnor, is captain of my own bodyguards, is a Guard of the Citadel in both Minas Anor and Annúminas, and is Officer of the Privy Purse for the Crown.  He is also one of the most skilled at approaching enemies unaware in all our lands, and directs much of the services of those who must guard our peace through watching for activity of enemy agents.”

            Lord Hardorn came out of the shadowed area beside the high dais for the Throne, his bow in hand, dressed today in the black and silver of a Guard of the Citadel.  He signaled another Guard to take his place behind the throne, shouldered his bow, slipped the arrow he held into its quiver.  He quickly confirmed what had been spoken by the King of Rohan, and held forth the pendant taken from the one who had been born among the Dunlendings but who had sworn himself to both Saruman and Sauron. 

            He described the assault on Lord Ifram, the ambassador sent by the Shkatha Moritum of Rhun, and the proof these had all come from Rhun but had been armed with the weapons of Gondor.  He also described the assault on the estate in Lebennin where the Lords Ifram and Shefti had gone to learn more of how the folk of Gondor truly live, and how three of the eight were from Rhun and carried Rhunish bows but arrows from the Rangers of Gondor, and how the other five had been shown to be outlawed Men from Umbar.

            A Ranger from Passaurin was called next, and came forward to tell how he had seen one Man in the city purposely watching for the coming of riders from the north of the city, and who had noted the passing of one in the garb of Rhun with approval.  He told of shadowing the Man for days until he left the city and took a barge from a secret anchorage on the River Anduin to the road on the east side of the River, and how he’d followed the Man to Umbar.  He placed the copy of the reports given by those agents who watched Landrion of Umbar into the hands of the Shkatha, along with the drawing of the ring worn by the official from Rhun who was obviously most senior of those who met with Landrion.

            The door to the Citadel opened, and a Guard of the Citadel worked his way through the press, approaching the Steward with a folded note.  The two spoke for several moments, the Steward turned from him and approached the Throne.  The King set his sword and the sceptre aside for the moment and the Queen put one hand on them to keep them balanced on the arm of the throne.  He came down the steps, took the message, read it and conferred with Faramir for a few moments, then nodded. 

            “Let them remain outside for a time, but keep the three parties apart, please.”  The Guard bowed and turned to carry out his orders.  The King resumed his seat and accepted sword and sceptre again from his wife.  Ruvemir could see a look of satisfaction on the King’s face, and wondered what revelations would be shown forth this time.

            Moritum’s expression was growing quite grim.  He looked up at his brothers and Ben’harin who stood by them.  “You have seen this?”

            “Yes, and recognized it.”

            “Did you recognize those who were in this last group?”

            Shefti shook his head, but Ifram answered, “There is one I believe I recognize, who is of the Bedui.  The one who died had no marks to indicate which clan he was from, nor did the other.  All three were quite young, barely of age to fight in battle.”

            “Where are they?”

            “The King’s people hold the two still living securely prisoner, along with those from Umbar with whom they worked.”

            Moritum looked up to the face of the King of Gondor.  “This is why you asked to have these particular individuals accompany us here, then?”

            “Yes, my Lord Shkatha.  It was the import of the reports I received from my own people.”

            “It will be interesting what explanations will be given.”

            “May I have permission to have your other people searched for weapons before they enter this room, Lord?”

            Moritum’s expression was very, very grim.  “Oh, you have my permission indeed.  Ben’harin, you will go out now and assist in the search.”  The guard smiled as grimly as his master, bowed, and made his way out of the door.

            The King now addressed the rest of the assembly.  “The war is finished, but it is difficult to say that it was truly won.  What has happened is that, once it was realized the entire war was being engineered by those who would destroy the peace between Rhun and Gondor as well as diminishing the people of Mundolië and hopefully leading to the death or deposition of the Shkatha, we began to make other plans. 

            “Those battles we fought we won, but fortunately they were few.  We went armed with many devices planned and crafted by the Dwarves, devices capable of damaging the wains that so mark the people we have known as the Wainriders.  Enough of their wains were stopped by such devices they could not effectively fight nor travel.  Then, once we realized the nature of the intrigues used against all, I went forth and captured the Ghan, hoping to be able to communicate with him the need not to become tools of others.  That he would understand the Common Tongue was more than I’d expected to find. 

            “We have managed to strike a bargain of sorts with the Wainriders--the Ghan has accompanied us back to Gondor, and one of our high captains has remained with them as a hostage.  I must leave Minas Anor in four days at the latest to return the Ghan to his people, for if he is not returned to them unscathed at the appointed hour they will kill our captain, slowly and most painfully.  We have that long to convince the Ghan that we have all been played against one another to the benefit of none.”

            Prince Faramir had paled.  He rose and faced the King.  “Who is this high captain, my Lord?”

            The King’s eyes looked steadily into those of his Steward.  “If he is harmed, Pippin will have my head.”

            Faramir’s face became set.  “Beregond?  If he is harmed, I suggest that Pippin will find he must follow me.”

            All those within the room were shocked into stillness.  Prince Imrahil rose and came to the side of his nephew, put his hand on the younger Man’s shoulder.  “Faramir, he offered himself freely for this service.  The King did not wish him to accept it.”

            Nephew looked into the eyes of his uncle.  “And whose name was suggested for this service by the King?”  Imrahil did not answer, and for some moments the two simply searched one another’s face.  Faramir paled more, then he looked up at the Man seated on the throne.  “You would have offered yourself for this?”

            “You did not ask how my arm was injured.”

            “No, I did not.”

            “He would not hear of me doing this, finally offered to arm wrestle for the honor, although he insisted we do this with our left hands, that neither be at an advantage--or so he said.  He dislocated my shoulder, and did it quite neatly.  He was intent on me returning to Gondor.”

            All could hear the sigh given by the Steward.  Finally he said in a voice that trembled softly, “I apologize, my Lord King.  If you would have me removed from my office due to my words...”

            Aragorn shook his head.  “Can I deny you your rightful anger?  And particularly as I feel the same?”

            Steward and King looked one to the other, and finally the Steward bowed deeply and retook his seat, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

            Finally the King continued, looking now into the eyes of the Ghan.  “You have now heard testimony regarding intrigues involving Men of Rhun itself intent on killing their ambassador to Gondor, and doing it in such a manner it would look as if Gondor had been involved in his death.  In the trial of those who assaulted Lord Ifram the first time all agreed this was being done so as to damage the peace and weaken the trust given Shkatha Moritum by his people.”

            Ifram nodded.  “Yes, this is so, Lord Peveset.  And the others who took part in the second assault appear to have come from Umbar.”

            Ghan Peveset looked thoughtfully between the Ambassador from Rhun and the King of Gondor and Arnor.  “You have witnesses to the intrigue being founded in Umbar?”

            “My witnesses stand at the door now.”

            “Then let them come in.”

            “So be it.”  The King spoke to those who stood within the great doors, “Call in those who have arrived just now from Umbar.”

            One of the two doors was opened, and a party of seven Men was ushered into the room and through the crowd to the front of the room, stopping just before the line of seats for the High Lords.

            “Lord Wasnior, Lord Marcipor, I welcome you to Minas Anor.”

            Lord Wasnior appeared to be the elderly man in dark blue robes.  His face was a fascinating study of fury and terror.  “You sent a request that an embassy be brought to Gondor and the White City this day in particular--although it appears to have been less a request than a demand.  May I ask why?  What right do you have to make demands on the Lord of Umbar?”

            “I told Lord Marcipor when we met last that I would need his services as a witness to an agreement proposed to me by Lord Landrion.”

            The face of Lord Wasnior blanched notably.  “Lord Marcipor has not been to Minas Tir--Minas Anor before, Lord King; and Landrion is no more--he was found plotting against Umbar and against our Lord Marcipor, and he was killed.”

            “I am aware of that, my Lord.  However, I assure you that Lord Marcipor and I have met before--twice--although you are correct neither meeting took place here in Minas Anor.  And the plotting against Umbar’s interests is also known to me, as it was to me it was revealed.”  He turned his keen eyes on those of the tall, broad Man next to Wasnior.  “My Lord, did I not ask you to stand as witness to that last encounter with Landrion?”

            “Yes, Lord Elessar, you did.  However, I thought the time of payment had passed.”

            “It is just come due here, my Lord.  I need you only to tell these what happened that day.”

            “And what am I to tell them?”

            The King’s smile was deceptively calm.  “Tell them what happened that day however you will.  I do ask only that the details of what was said by Lord Landrion be stated honestly.  The rest you have my permission to embroider as you will.”

            Marcipor’s face grew red with suppressed fury.  “And what evidence do you have that I would embroider the tale?

            The King did not answer, merely continuing the same smile.  Still Marcipor glared, but finally spoke. 

            “I was riding my horse on my own estate when two rose out of the grass and took me and the horse out of a gap they’d made in the wall, a gap they repaired as we left the grounds.”

            “We do attempt to undo what damage we may need to inflict in order to reach our goals, my Lord.”

            “So I have seen twice now.”

            The King merely continued to smile.

            “The two had me don a cloak they brought with them, and to draw the hood over my head and features, assured me they wished me no harm, but that they needed me to stand witness to the intent of another who sought to bargain with them.  They brought me to another’s estate, to a similar gap in the walls there already prepared, led me through it and by hidden ways to a house, where they let us in via an open window.  I was led to a front hall and to a door, where at last they knocked.  At the call to enter we went in and I found the room was in the house of Lord Landrion, was his personal study.”

            “I would interrupt you here, my Lord, so that we can get the testimony of another of your party here,” the King said.  He turned to a third in the group, a smaller figure who was most ill at ease.  He had no signs of lordship upon him, no signs he was a diplomat.  His face was almost nondescript, his form slight, his expression furtive.  “Master Mordion, it is a pleasure to see you again.  Will you please describe your profession to those here?”

            Mordion looked around as if trapped, licked his lips.  At last he answered in a low voice.  “I am a--”

            “Louder, please, Master Mordion, that all might hear.  There is no shame to what you do at this precise moment.”

            The man colored deeply, but when he spoke again he did so more loudly.  “I am an agent for those who need services of--of an odd sort.”

            The King laughed.  “Ah, yes, of an odd sort.  What services had Lord Landrion sought to find through you?”

            After a long moment he answered, “The learning of information, and the services of assassins, Lord King.”

            “Did he tell you whom he wished to see assassinated?”

            “No, my Lord, he did not.”

            Faramir interrupted here.  “You provide such services often?”

            The King admonished, “He is under my protection here, my Lord Prince Steward.”

            “I understand, my Lord King; however, I am now intrigued.”

            The small Man answered quickly.  “More, I provide agents who help--help acquire things--things and information.”

            The Steward gave him a piercing look, all idea of mildness forgotten in his visage.  “What kind of information?”

            Mordion was sweating profusely.  “Where one might look to find certain items or people; whether certain people are still alive; where they dwell.”  He was beginning to babble.  “This is often desired, you know.”

            “Whose existence have your--clients--wished confirmed?”

            Mordion looked sideways up at the King, who was giving his feral smile.  “I have been asked to provide one who could learn where a woodcarver named Mardil lives in Lebennin.  I have been asked to find one to learn if the son of Arathorn, late Chieftain of the Northern Dúnedain, did indeed survive the fever said to have killed him as a child.  I have been asked to find agents to learn the names of those closest to the line of Kings in the Northern Kingdoms.  I have been asked to find one to learn where one known as Baggins might dwell, where the Shire might lie, the nature of Hobbits.  I have been asked to find one to trace the movements of a woman named Gilraen and a man named Halbaleg.  I have been asked to find one who could confirm the identity of certain captains and soldiers of Gondor believed to have come from the remains of the Northern Dúnedain.  I have been asked to find one who could tell what might draw the aid of Rohan from the needs of Gondor--that I’ve been asked several times over the years.”

            Gilfileg leaned forward on his cousin’s grey chair.  “You have been asked to find agents to learn of the Northern Kingdoms?  By whom?”

            The Man shuddered.  “It was best not to ask too closely regarding the source of those questions, my Lord.”  When the scrutiny did not let up, he finally sighed, “Mostly, those questions came from agents I believe were sent from Mordor.  But some came from Gondor.”

            “From Gondor?” 

            Both Gilfileg and Faramir were looking very closely at Mordion now, and if it was possible he grew even paler, and blurted out, “Yes, my Lord Faramir--and I believe your father was the source of several of those requests.”

            Gilfileg sat back in his chair, while Faramir looked over his shoulder at his King.  The King was the only one who did not appear disturbed.  He nodded, in fact.  “This is no surprise to me, my Lords.  The Lord Denethor had, after all, a vested interest in learning whether or not I lived still, and when I might be moved to come south once more, or who else might rise in my stead if I had been slain in Eriador.”

            Faramir turned his own attention back on the one standing, now sweating profusely, before them.  “Do you know if they learned aught from such questions?”

            “Little enough.  We learned Halbaleg had died in an orc attack, but not whether he left sons.  The Lady Gilraen was said to have taken refuge in Imladris following the deaths of first her Lord Husband and then her son--and none would seek to learn more.  Wise Men do not meddle in the business of Elves.  Most of the questioners were pursued south by two of the Rangers of the Northern Wilds, insatiable Men known to my agents as Bowman and Strider.”

            Ruvemir found himself smiling, and saw the feral smile still could be seen on the King’s visage.  Gilfileg shook his head as if this was only to be expected, and the King of Rohan and the Lord Steward both straightened in their chairs and then relaxed.  The Queen was looking down into the eyes of her infant daughter and smiling.

            “So you learned nothing of Baggins or the Shire?”

            Mordion sighed.  “We learned Baggins was the name of a clan of a folk known as Hobbits, and that their land of the Shire was somewhere in Eriador, but that was all we learned.”  He shook himself.  “When two identifying themselves as Strider and Bowman entered my home unannounced some weeks ago, I was shocked, particularly as they--requested--requested an interview with Lord Landrion, and an introduction to him as paid assassins.” 

            The King straightened.  “I thank you, Master Mordion.  I now suggest you withdraw, and that you retrieve your horse and leave the city immediately.  I suggest you head south--far south.  If you are found within the realm of Gondor in five days’ time, your freedom is forfeit.  Do you understand?” 

            The Man gave a squeak of acceptance and turned and bolted.  A single soldier received the sign to follow but not to interfere.

            The King turned his attention back to Marcipor.  “You may now proceed, my Lord.”

            The story continued, and all listened raptly.  At the end the Lord Faramir asked, “What happened to Lord Landrion?  Is he likely to trouble us once more?”

            Marcipor lifted his head proudly.  “After he sought to purchase my death with me standing as witness?  Oh, no, my Lord, he will trouble none again.  I slew him myself, and slowly.  Too much strife has he assisted in causing in the past few years, and I will not tolerate any proposed attacks on myself.”

            The King turned his attention to Moritum of Rhun.  “Do you now question that Landrion sought to bring division between Gondor and Rhun, my Lord Shkatha?”

            Moritum shook his head.  “No, the evidence stands for itself, as does the testimony wrung from those who sought before to slay my brother.”

            “Will you give the picture of the ring to the Lord Ghan, then?  My Lord Peveset, do you recognize this?”

            The small Man examined it closely.  He looked up to the eyes of the King of Gondor.  “Yes, I recognize it.  It is worn by the one from Rhun who came to tell me the realm of Rhun was more fertile than our own lands, that the people of Rhun groaned under the evil of their Shkatha and would welcome deliverance.”

            “You have now traveled through Rhun.  Have you seen signs that what he told you was true?”

            “No, I have not.  I saw some pockets of growth, but much of it is even more spare than our own lands.  I have seen men, women, and children come out in gladness to speak to the Shkatha as he has passed by their encampments and dwellings.”

            “Do you understand now why I say all of us have been duped into a war that would profit none of us, only those who sought to engineer this war?”

            The small Ghan’s features became embittered.  “Yes, I see this is true.  We would get nothing by conquering the folk of Rhun, not at this time.  But the fact remains that we need more food to sustain our people, for our resources have been stretched to the utmost.”

            “What are you willing to trade for the food from our nation, or the excess from Arnor, my Lord?  We are a fertile land, and have much to trade.  No, do not think to answer now--we will have a feast tomorrow night where this may be discussed at more length.  The following day I will accompany you back to your own people.  As you can see, there are some here to whom our captain is very dear, and I would not seek to sustain their enmity and resentment.”

            The Ghan nodded his understanding. 

            The King now turned to those whose presence had been gathered.  “So, now you have the truth to the war between Rhun and the Wainriders--for this time, at least.  You now have permission to go and tell it forth before the people as you can.  In this case, it was not a righteous war on the part of any.” 

            The artisans, artists, bards, singers, writers, and tellers of news bowed and began to leave the Citadel, many discussing with their fellows what all had heard and seen, the discernment on the part of the King, the intrigue of the situation.  Ruvemir prepared to leave with the rest, but a servant of the Citadel took his shoulder, indicated he, Celebgil, and Armanthol should remain.  He sighed and nodded.  How much more, he wondered, would he be expected to be witness for and to?

Another Trial of Intrigue

            The King looked down at his Steward, who shared his grim smile.  “We shall now call in the party from Harad, then?” Faramir asked.

            At the King’s nod, Faramir indicated to the Guards at the door to do just that, and in a moment ten individuals from Harad were entering the hall, led by Rustovrid, whose carriage was both proud and satisfied.  King and Queen rose to bow respectfully to their returned guest.

            “We welcome you back to Gondor and Minas Anor, Lord Rustovrid,” the King said solemnly.  “I grieve we could not greet you as we did before, but there is much business which must be completed this day.  Will you and yours desire the same quarters as before?”

            “Perhaps we should look to larger quarters, Lord King.  My Farozi desires to open an embassy within Gondor as has done the Shkatha of Rhun.”  He held out a document that was accepted by the Steward, who in turn held it out to the King as he descended the stairs for the second time that day.  The King received it, as before produced a small belt knife with which to lift the seal, again giving it into the keeping of Lord Hardorn after examining it carefully, opened and read the document, gave it first to Faramir to peruse, then indicated it should be reviewed by Glorfindel, then finally received it back and gave it, too, to Hardorn.

            The King’s smile was unforced and true.  “It is with great honor we accept this embassy.  We had hoped this might happen, and a house has been prepared to receive you for such purposes, the large house across from where you stayed before.  Will you need the services of any of our people?”

            “We thank you for your generosity, Lord King Elessar, but we have brought sufficient to care for the household, including my wife and daughters and servants.  They wait lower in the city in one of the inns where they rest from the journey and find refreshment.”

            “So be it, then.  Will it please you to remain with us to see what business we have yet to do, then?  It should prove--instructive.”

            “With honor, Lord King.”

            Another seat was brought for Rustovrid, and the others shown to places at the side of the room.  The King then sighed.  “We will need some refreshment ourselves, for already the early audience has taken some time.  If you will excuse me, I will be needed in a different service when it resumes.  Our servitors have been instructed to bring fruit, meats, pastries, and drink for your easing, and we will resume matters in half of an hour’s time.  Is this acceptable to all?”

            After all had indicated agreement, he added, “For those of you who attended the audience with our Easterling guests before, much the same procedure will be used.  Please leave an aisle down the center for those to be questioned to be led, and room between the seats of the high Lords and the front of the witnesses for the circle of guards.  I thank you.”  So saying, he turned and looked up at his wife, who came down carrying the sword and scepter.  The latter he gave back into the Steward’s keeping, and hung Anduril on his belt with the aid of Lord Hardorn before he took his wife’s hand and led her out of the room.

            Armanthol looked with grief into the eyes of Ruvemir.  “It is true, then--my father is dead.”

            Ruvemir nodded.  “Apparently so.  I am sorry.”

            “He did little with me, but did appear to be proud of me, in his way.  And he was my father....”

            Ruvemir took his hand and held it in comfort.  Celebgil looked at him with compassion.

            Ruvemir found he had no desire to eat right now, and instead left the Citadel for a time, walking over to the work site and staring moodily at the shrouded stones.  Celebgil and Armanthol followed him, and took seats at the low table, Celebgil watching him, Armanthol with his head in his hands.  They were joined by a tall figure in flowing robes.  Ruvemir looked up, then bowed. 

            “My Lord Elladan, it is an honor to greet you here.”

            “Estel thought you might come here, and asked I join you and keep you company for a time.”

            “Thank him for me, then.  And thank you for agreeing.”  He indicated Armanthol.  “This is Armanthol son of Landrion of Umbar.  He has been troubled, for this day he heard confirmed the actions and death of his father.”

            The Elf grew grave.  “I grieve with you, for it is never easy to hear of the death of a father.”

            “Your father is dead?”

            “My father is Elrond Peredhel.  No, he is not dead, but he has passed from us, going at last to join our mother in the Undying Lands.  When my brother and I will join him we have not decided.  However, in the long centuries of our lives Elrohir and I have seen countless of the sons and daughters of Men bereft at the deaths of parents, both when the deaths were sudden and violent, and when they came after long and blessed lives and were greeted happily by those so released.”

            He sat by the youth,  placed his hand on his shoulder.  Armanthol at first appeared affronted by this gesture of intimacy, but suddenly looked up into the clear grey eyes of the Elven lord and found himself crying.  Elladan drew the youth to him and held him till the tears failed, which was not a particularly long time.  Ruvemir produced a kerchief for Armanthol to wipe his eyes with and blow his nose upon, then suggested he might find his eyes soothed if he cleansed his face either at the fountain by the Tree or on the side of the privy.  Celebgil accompanied him as he went to the privy.

            “The Tree might soothe him more,” commented the Elf quietly. 

            Ruvemir nodded his agreement.  “It has worked so for Celebgil.  The Lord Frodo wrote that he could feel the life in the White Tree, as he could feel it in the mellyrn of Lothlorien.  He made a note to that effect in the writings he wrote here.”

            “He was a discerning one,” Elladan smiled.  “Most unusual, to find one with such an Elven nature in the body of a Perian.”

            “So I understand.”  They remained quiet for some moments until the two youths returned. 

            Finally Elladan asked, “Do you wish you could have known him?”

            “The Lord Frodo?  Of course I wish that.  I hope that when I myself make my journey west I will be granted the grace to at least see him, either there or on the way.”

            “When you journey...?  Oh, I see.  You have given thought to that time, then?”

            Ruvemir looked up into the face of the Elf.  “I think all thoughtful mortals do so.  It will come to all of us, after all.  Better to think of it and prepare for it mentally than to have it come on us as a great shock, don’t you think?”

            Elladan smiled down on him.  “You, too, are an unusual soul, Small Master.”

            After a moment Armanthol asked, “Is the King the one who brought me away from my father’s house, the one called Strider?”

            Ruvemir nodded.  “Strider is the name those in Bree called him.”

            “But if he is King here....”

            “He is King of both Gondor and Arnor; but before the kingship was restored he was thought of in Bree merely as one more of the Rangers of the Northern Wilds.  The Dúnedain did not name themselves before the folk of Bree, but were given descriptive names by the Breefolk themselves.”

            “Does his shoulder pain him?”

            Elladan sighed.  “He will not allow Elrohir or me to do more to ease it for him, saying it reminds him of the grave danger in which Captain Beregond remains.  I am hoping that now he is back with my sister she will assist us to waylay him and ease it in spite of himself.  Only to put it back in its place has he allowed.”

            The bell began to toll, and they looked up.  Ruvemir sighed.  “I suppose it is time to return, then.”  He looked one last time at the shrouded stones, then they turned back to the Citadel.

            Near the steps to the Citadel remained the rest of those from Rhun, who stood, frustrated, surrounded by Guards of the Citadel and robed guards from Rhun, assigned by the Shkatha.  Two there were who resembled one another, although one was clearly several years older than the other.  Both were taller than was the norm for those of Rhun, and watched the approach of the Sculptor and those with him with interest.  The younger of the two Men lifted his hand to speak behind it to his brother, and on it Ruvemir saw the ring he’d seen pictured in the drawing of those who’d reported from Umbar.  So, this was the Lord Abdurin, and beside him his brother Abduleram.  One of those who stood with them had a marked resemblance to the young Rhunim Man who had been slain by Ben’harin.  Well, the coming audience promised to be interesting.

            As he started up the stairs, Gilfileg came down them, turned Ruvemir aside to lead him to the party of Rhunim.  “My lords,” he said, “I greet you in the King’s name.  I am Lord Gilfileg, and one of the King’s kin from the North.  This is Master Ruvemir of Lebennin, a gifted sculptor.  Those are two of his apprentices there.  They are doing a memorial sculpture commissioned by the King himself.”

            It was quite abrupt, but as he was brought to them Gilfileg was saying most softly under his breath, “Please, stay with them, watch and listen carefully as they wait.”  Then more loudly to all added, “I grieve you have had to wait so, but there has been a need to explain before the people of Gondor how it is that the war came to pass and is now ended.  The Lord King must, after all, justify his actions before the realm.”

            “Yes, we can see the need,” said the Lord Abdurin, his voice smooth and yet, somehow, grating on the ear.  “After all, this war has cost your people much, has it not?”

            “Far less,” Ruvemir found himself saying, “than the many years we defended ourselves from the forces commanded by Mordor, some of which were fought also against those of your forces which fought for the Enemy.”

            Abduleram colored.  “We are all free from the domination of that one,” he said hurriedly.  “Little good did our people know from the overlordship of Mordor.”

            “Then you are pleased with the peace that now lies between your people and ours?” Ruvemir asked.

            “Pleased enough, although change is always difficult.”

            “I am surprised how well you speak the Common Tongue.”

            Abduleram gave a swift look at his brother, then returned his attention to the sculptor.  “Our clan has always had more chance to deal with outlanders than most of the other clans of our people.  We hold grazing lands and oases near to the borders, and were often the first to be contacted by the emissaries of the Dark Lord, who never spoke to us in our own tongue.”

            “No, I suppose not.  It was ever Sauron’s way to force all others to his ways and not to respect theirs.”  Ruvemir realized he was now alone with these folk, and that Gilfileg had quietly withdrawn into the Citadel, taking Celebgil and Armanthol with him.

            “What was the business of those of Umbar before the King?” asked Abdurin.

            Ruvemir shrugged.  “It appears he had called upon the Lord Marcipor to serve as witness of some bargain being struck, and now desired him to tell of it to those who were now gathered.”

            “One went out alone.”

            “I know.  He held some information, told it to the assembly, and was dismissed.  What he told did not please all.”

            “We noted he went--swiftly.”

            Abduleram asked, “What is this memorial you are to do?”

            “Four came from far away to assist in the fight against Mordor in their own way, and the King desires to see their efforts remembered.”

            “They were great warriors, then?”

            Ruvemir laughed.  “Warriors?  Not at the beginning, at least.  But the Enemy had faced warriors and had seen them slain for two ages of Middle Earth.  No, it was a different form of opposition they showed to Sauron, a different way of fighting his oppression and tyranny.  Yet two of them have become warriors--after a fashion, at least.  I would not wish to face either with a sword, I know that.”

            Abdurin looked at him with that look of patronization and underestimation that Ruvemir had come to hate in his earliest days of realization he was different from other children.  “I do not see you wielding a sword in any case.”

            It was all he could do to hold his temper.  “No,” he managed, smoothly enough, “I am no warrior, and certainly have not the body for such.  However, I will set my own skill with mallet and chisel against any from your land.  I, too, fight for the good in the manner to which I am best suited.”

            “And what need is there to fight now, here in your rich capital and your fat land?”  There was no mistaking the envy in Abdurin’s voice, the wish he had to see this all brought low, and preferably under the weight of his foot.

            Ruvemir looked up at him steadily.  “There is always the need to fight the will to oppress, the will to use others for one’s own purposes with no thought to theirs.  My own apprentices have learned this to their sorrow, and now must seek healing for the damage done to many of them.”

            Abdurin looked down at him, but found he could not make the small Man quail.  Instead he himself looked away and shivered.

            Abduleram looked from brother to sculptor, realizing there was something not being said here.  “What was this evil they faced, then?”

            Ruvemir shrugged, looked off eastward toward the mountains that had walled Mordor.  The day was darkening--a storm was coming, he realized.  “A former master had abused many of them.  He will be judged by the King, I hope today, if there is time to come to it.”

            “Why did you come out?”

            “My work site is there,” he said, indicating the open shed roof, the shrouded stones.  “I find myself checking it constantly, even when I do not work there.”

            “You have worked here long?”

            “I came to the capital for the first time last fall.  I was then sent on a journey north to seek out information on those I depict, and returned in the spring.  Since then I have labored here, most of the time.”

            “Most of the time,” Abdurin said.  Ruvemir did not answer him.

            There was quiet for a time.  Finally Abduleram muttered, “I do not understand this long wait.”

            “Nor do I,” answered his brother.

            Again they went quiet, until at last Abduleram commented, “Apparently the reports of the death of Ifram of the d’Bouti clan were exaggerated.”

            Abdurin answered between clenched teeth, “Apparently, Brother.”

            The elder brother looked at the younger with surprise.  “Are you not pleased, Abdurin?  I would think that it would be a good thing in your eyes after the treason of Solamonti.”

            “Solamonti was only doing what he felt was needed to restore our own ways and sovereignty.”

            “And since when has it been our way to kill a Man unarmed as he goes to do honor to another?”

            “Are you ashamed of your son, then?”

            Abduleram turned away.  “Yes, he caused me deep shame.  He would have taken us away from peace, would have weakened the authority of our Shkatha.  I may not like Moritum personally, but he has shown himself a good leader, and our people have begun to flourish under his rule.”

            “We weaken, Brother.  We become soft, like these.”

            “They are not soft, not to have withstood Mordor as long as they did.  No, they are not soft.”

            Ruvemir realized they had quite forgotten he was with them.

            Abdurin spat to his right.  “They are not as we are.  Too easy a life they have, here in their rich land and their White City.”

            “Their King is a warrior, a great warrior.”

            “And one who wears his arm now supported in a scarf.  What happened there, then?”

            “I know not.  But it is not his sword arm that is injured.”

            Abdurin shrugged.

            Abduleram continued, “I have seen him fight.  The Wainriders are great warriors and fierce; but he is driven to fight and to fight well.  None got past his guard.”

            “Then how was he injured?”

            “It happened not on the field of battle.  It was an injury he sustained in his camp.”

            Abdurin looked up with a start of a sneer on his face.  “Perhaps one of his own sought to injure him.  Perhaps they are not all happy with this new King of theirs.”

            “I have seen no sign of such unhappiness.  No, all seem to love and honor him deeply.”

            “Since when do Men need to love their rulers?”

            “It is easier to serve when one honors the one who rules.  Others tend to last in their rule only until another stronger is able to overcome them.”

            “Then it appears those who are strong rule longest.”

            Abduleram shook his head.  “Sauron ruled as long as he did only because he was no mortal, and then he was brought low by what?  Not the army set against him, that is certain.”

            “A great sorcerer brought him low, it is said.”

            Ruvemir almost laughed aloud at the thought of Frodo Baggins being declared a sorcerer.

            Abduleram again shook his head.  “I do not understand how it was wrought, save that one brought down the Black Tower armed only with his will, or so I have heard.  But you have never understood, Younger Brother, that those who lead and rule best do so as long as they meet the needs of those they rule.  Let them meet the needs well, and they will endure, if they be no more intelligent or strong than the ant that crawls on the tent walls.  Let them fail to meet the needs of their people, and they will need to guard themselves always against those who would topple them, and then they will last only until one finds their weakness and utilizes it.”      

            “Is that how Sauron fell, then?  Someone found his weakness?”

*******

            Liana cheerfully reached the top of the ramp and looked to find her master, who was called to the audiences to be held here today.  She hoped he had come out to look upon the work site, for she did not feel right in seeking to enter in to bring him his letters that had just come.  Oh, there he was, near the door to the Citadel, standing with others.  She approached, the letters in her hand....

                        “Master Ruvemir!”  The small sculptor turned at the sound of his name, and the attention of the others was drawn also to the one calling out to him.  “Master Ruvemir, letters have come....”

            As Liana approached, she realized suddenly, with horror, those among whom her master stood were from Rhun, and she recognized one of them all too well.  She stopped well short of them, her face white with shock.

            “Ah, Liana, what is it?  Is there something wrong?”

            She did not answer, did not take her eyes from those of the Man who looked at her now, his own face as white as her own.  She held out the letters, and Ruvemir came forward, took them but remained focused on her.   “What is it?  Do you know this one, then?”

            She finally tore her eyes from the others, looked down on those of her master.  “Yes, I knew him, once.  But he is nothing to me now.”

            Ruvemir took a breath, looked from her to the Man and back again.  “Oh, so I see.  Go now, go and be at peace.  No one will harm you or Angara as long as you are in our care.”

            She nodded and turned away.  The others looked after her.  The one whose eyes she’d caught, the one who looked so like the dead Man Ruvemir had pictured, looked after with frustration.  Abdurin looked at him with barely suppressed pleasure at his discomfiture.  “She is the one whose evil will denied you a son, left you with a deformed daughter instead?” 

            The other was saved the indignity of a reply by the opening of the door at last by the Guards stationed there, the summons forward.  “They call now for you to enter.”

            It was with relief that Ruvemir rejoined his apprentices, while the others were led forward to stand near him.  Gilfileg was standing before the empty throne, Orin beside him.  “The King does not sit now upon his throne?” asked Abdurin quietly with a sneer in his voice.

            A nearby Guard looked at him with distaste.  “Our King is one who serves his people in whatever capacity he can, and has been known to even sweep floors when it is what is needed.  I suggest you stand and watch, listen, and learn.”

            The questioning of Orin and Gilfileg was continuing.  “You found the property under observation?”

            The two of them described what had been found on their arrival at  Mardil’s farm, the watcher Orin had followed, the observers Gilfileg had observed himself, the coming of the other six, the decision on where they’d be likely to attack, the separation of the four of them to places where they could keep the perceived vulnerable places under watch, the midnight assault on the walls, the finding that those within the walls had felt oppressed and had sought to protect the property as they could.

            “There were three accustomed to defense within the walls, and along with the Master’s son they had prepared for a possible defense as best they could.  In the most vulnerable corner they placed the herd bull--”

            “The herd bull?” interrupted an amazed King Éomer.  “They used a herd bull to defend their property?”

            “Yes,” Orin said with satisfaction.  “As Folco said, it was a strategy that worked.  And the stationing of the herd with new calves near another weak place also worked.”

            “Ruvemir son of Mardil, will you please come forward and  join these two?” Prince Faramir asked, his eyes showing he was suppressing laughter with care.  Ruvemir nodded reassuringly at his apprentices and joined the other two.  “You were within the walls that night?”

            “Yes, my Lord Prince Steward.”

            “Whose idea was it to place the herd bull and the nursing cattle where they were?”

            “Mine, my Lord.”

            “You were prewarned about the impending assault?”

            “No, we were not; but several  of us felt the disquiet of being watched from the moment we entered the farm gates.  If we would be assaulted, we would have warning if any sought to enter through those more vulnerable areas; if we were not, it would do no harm.”

            “What made you know these were weak places?”

            “It is a working farm, and it is the business of the foreman of the place to know which parts of the wall and other fences are most in need of repair.  Berenion knows his job well, my Lord.”  Behind him, he could hear the prisoners being brought to their places, felt one of the encircling guards not far from him.  He kept himself from turning to see, noted out of the corner of his eye the reassuring wink given him by Gilfileg.

            “I see.  And did those who sought entry enter through those places?”

            “Two at each of those places, two at the gates, and the last two near the kitchen garden where the wall is lower.  The dogs were stationed near the gates with Folco, and we had one of the two of us accustomed to using swords near the kitchen garden, and the other swordsman near the field containing the cattle.  Rupter guarded his corner himself.”

            “Folco would be an unexpected defender.”

            “He has the Pheriannath’s skill with thrown stones, my Lord, and we had already seen he is able to use this skill as much in defense as in scaring birds from his fields during our trip back to Gondor as well as during our stop in Casistir, my Lord.”

            “All were captured?”

            “All save one who was killed by the inner defenders.”

            “Was that one killed by the bull?”

            “No, although one of the two who entered there was badly gored.  No, he was killed by the swordsman on guard there.”

            “Lord Gilfileg, which of you four got into the grounds first?”

            “I did, Lord Steward.  And all was as Master Ruvemir has described.  It was a wonderful thing to find they were prepared as they were.”

            He then described how the seven prisoners were secured for the night, the treatment offered the one who had been gored, and the placement of the body in the cool cellar, the decision the following day to use that body as a ruse to convince those who were awaiting word on the outcome of the attack that one of those wanted dead had indeed been slain, the ruse of the ride through the nearby town and the recognition that one did indeed keep watch for riders from the north.

            “Thank you all,” said the Steward.  “You may resume your places.  We are all aware already of what happened to that one, save for our new Ambassador from Harad.  Please forgive us, Lord Rustovrid, if we advise you of that after the fact.”  Rustovrid indicated understanding.

            Now all focused attention on the hooded prisoners before them.  All seven still wore the garb given them on the farm, Ruvemir noted.  He wondered what his companions would do when the hoods were removed, so set himself to watch as he rejoined his apprentices. 

            “These are the seven who made the assault, then?”

            The chief of the Guards who encircled them said, “Yes, sir.  They are the same seven brought here by Lord Hardorn from the north of Passaurin.”

            “They appear well enough.”

            “Yes, sir.  We have given treatment to the two who were wounded, and they have responded well.  The others have known boredom and isolation, but no ill treatment since their arrival.”

            “Remove the hoods, please.”  Several guards stepped forward to do exactly that.

            Ruvemir noted both Abdurin and Abduleram recognized the two Easterlings, but where Abduleram shook his head in disgust, Abdurin did his best, once his shock was mastered, to hide his response.  The young Man who resembled the one who’d been killed was searching the faces of those there and had gone white.

            Behind the prisoners stood two in the cloaks of Northern Rangers, one in stained green, the other in grey with the silver star on his shoulder.  The one in grey held bow and arrow at the ready, the other had his right hand on his sword hilt.  Éomer smiled.  “Strider the Ranger will translate for the Easterlings, and....?”  He looked inquiringly at the one in grey.

            “Bowman, Lord King Éomer,” he was advised.

            “Bowman--I see.  Yes, the Ranger Bowman will translate for the folk from Umbar, who I understand speak mostly a form of Adunaic.”

            Bowman gave an abbreviated bow of his head.

            The questioning was as intense as the last such questioning Ruvemir had heard, and the seven found themselves answering several times when they’d tried to keep silent.  Strider kept up the quiet translation to Rhunic and back, while Bowman’s Adunaic was just as fluent and constant.  At the last all fell silent.  The two Rhunim had indicated they had desired to see their land return to what it was before, with no ties to Gondor, from which source no good could come.

            At last Gilfileg asked, “What tribe do you come from?”  And when neither answered, he asked it again in Rhunic.  Stung, one looked up and said, “Bedui.”

            “Both of you?” asked Gilfileg, Strider translating his question.

            “Yes.”

            “Who gave you authority to leave your people to do this?”

            “No one.”

            “Did Abduleram suggest you do this?”

            The contempt in the young Man’s voice was palpable.  “That one?  No, not he.  He would never order or suggest such action.  He prefers we grow weak.”

            “Did Abdurin suggest this?”

            He did not reply, became stony faced.

            Abduleram was looking at his brother.  He gave a deep sigh and stepped away from Abdurin.

            “Where did you stay when in Umbar?”

            “On an estate.”

            “Whose estate?”

            “We were not told names.”

            “Describe the gates.”

            Not knowing any reason not to do so, he did.  A paper was held by the Lord Faramir, and he was examining it as they listened.  He handed it to Prince Imrahil who sat by him, who nodded, then it was passed the other way.  Moritum examined it and nodded, then gave it to the Ghan, who examined it and handed it to Rustovrid, who then passed it to Gilfileg, who passed it to Éomer. 

            Gilfileg stood, addressed the two translators.  “This description matches that of Landrion of Umbar’s gates?”

            Strider answered, “Yes.”  Bowman agreed.

            Gilfileg addressed those from Umbar.  “Whose employ did you know?”

            One sighed.  “I worked for Landrion of Umbar.”  Two of the others glared at him, the other two looked forward with no expression.

            Prince Faramir sighed.  “I will tell you this--Landrion of Umbar is no more.  He was slain after he tried to hire assassins to kill the Lord Marcipor.  Lord Marcipor, will you add to the testimony you gave earlier, tell the answers to the questions put to him by those who brought him out of his own place?”

            Marcipor had been given a chair, also, at the side of the room.  He  now came forward, and four of the five facing him blanched.  The other shook his head, then bowed it.  Marcipor told of the questioning and the answers given.  All of them now either stood with heads bowed or looking forward with resigned expressions.  Marcipor’s own expression was twisted with a look of triumph.

            Finally he was allowed to return to his chair, and Faramir stood.  “I recall Ruvemir son of Mardil.”  Ruvemir came forward once more, aware of the look he was receiving from Abdurin.  “You made these drawings at the time of those who assaulted your family’s farm, did you not?”  He handed the mannikin the drawings he’d done. 

            Ruvemir examined each one and handed them back to the Steward.  “Yes, I did these.” 

            Faramir nodded and gave them to Prince Imrahil, then passed them to his right as he’d done with the diagram of the gates.  “Are all agreed these seven are among those pictured here?” he asked when all had seen them.   All nodded.

            Faramir next handed him the picture of the ring.  “Have you seen this object?”

            “Yes, my Lord Prince Steward.  I have seen it this day.”

            “I see.  I will question you more in a moment.”  Again the picture of the ring made its rounds, returning at last to Prince Imrahil.  “Will you return to your place now, Master Ruvemir?  Thank you.  I call now Abdurin of the Bedui of Rhun.”

            Abdurin looked surprised, but came forward. 

            “You are clan chieftain for your tribe?”

            Abdurin’s expression could be seen by his brother, a look of flattery and conceit mixed with an attempt to look innocent.  Ruvemir noted the suppressed anger on Abduleram’s face.  “No, my brother is clan chieftain for the Bedui.  I am but his servant.”

            “Your nephew Solamonti--how did you look on him?”

            “He was a foolish one, but an excellent warrior.”

            “Do you know any reason why he would have taken part in the previous attack on your ambassador to Gondor?”

            Abdurin gave a shrug.  “No, for at last we have peace.”

            “How did you feel when he was found guilty of betrayal of your Shkatha and was ordered executed?”

            An even more elaborate shrug.  “He knew he broke our laws and this would happen if he were found out.”

            “So, if he were not found out, he would have lived.”

            “Of course.”

            “What was his relationship with his father.”

            “That of a son.”

            “Was he a dutiful son?”

            “Usually.”

            “Did he ever disagree with his father’s policies?”

            “Yes.”

            “What are your brother’s feelings toward Moritum of the d’Bouti clan?”

            “He dislikes Moritum.”

            “What are his feelings toward him as Shkatha?” 

            “He feels he is adequate as Shkatha.”

            “What are your feelings toward Moritum?”

            “He is young and inexperienced.  He had not the courage to fight in our last battle against the forces of Gondor.”

            Faramir looked at Prince Imrahil.  “How did Moritum of Rhun acquit himself against the Wainriders?”

            “Very well.  He is an excellent warrior of great skill, and showed great  personal courage and leadership skills.”

             Faramir turned to Peveset.  “How did Moritum of Rhun acquit himself against your warriors?”

            “He is a great warrior.  If I’d killed him, I would have kept his skull with great honor in my yurt.”

            “I see.”  Faramir looked at Abdurin for several moments, then focused on his  hand.  “What a unique ring.  May I see it?”

            Abdurin held out his hand, and Faramir took it in his, turning it to look at the thing from several angles, all getting a good look at it.  Prince Imrahil handed a drawing to his son Elphir, who stood behind him, and Elphir brought it to Abduleram.  He examined it for several moments and then looked at his brother, grief and fury mixed in his eyes. 

            The Steward of Gondor now dismissed Abdurin back to his place.  “Will the King please come forth and sit in judgment?”

            As before, Strider the Ranger stepped forward, taking off his green cloak and unfastened leathers, showing the green tunic he’d worn earlier.  The hilt of Anduril was there under his hand, his left arm still in its green scarf.  Faramir set the Winged Crown on his head, and Gilfileg gave the scepter into his hand.  He climbed the steps to his throne while lifting the sheath from his belt, settled sword and scepter over his knees.

            “Prince Elphir, will you bring me the pictures?”

            Elphir bowed and did as he was asked, standing in front of the Queen’s chair and showing each picture in turn to the King.  At last the Lord Elessar had seen all, and said, “Turn the picture of the ring to the witnesses.”  He sighed.  “This picture was made by one of our agents within Rhun, who saw this ring on the hand of one who treated several times with Lord Landrion, who was killed for his treason to the Lord Marcipor.  This ring was recognized by two boys of Rhun who were stolen from their families and sent to Umbar and then to the service of Varondil of this city, who has been found to have used his apprentices in a manner that is disturbing and disgusting.  At least seven have destroyed their own lives in response to his unhealthy appetites and the uses Varondil put them to, including Varondil’s own son.  This ring was worn by the Man who brought to Landrion the three young Rhunim who took part in the assault on the farm of Mardil of Lebennin, who was hosting Ambassador Ifram and his brother and scribe, Lord Shefti. 

            “Master Ruvemir, when you were asked if you recognized a particular object, what was the picture you were shown?”

            “That picture, my Lord King.”

            “And you said you recognized it and had seen it this day?”

            “Yes, on the hand of Lord Abdurin of the Bedui of Rhun.”

            “Have you seen it before this day?”

            “Yes, yesterday at the arrival of your party from Rhun, again on the hand of Lord Abdurin of Rhun.”
            “You are an artist?”

            “Yes, my Lord King.

            “What do you see as the subject of that ring?”

            Ruvemir took a deep breath.  “It appears to be a stylized depiction of the Eye, my Lord.”

            “Have you ever seen any hand wearing such a ring before?”

            “No, my Lord King.”

            The King took the picture into his own hand, looked at it long and hard.  Finally he said, “Bring Abdurin and Abduleram of Rhun before me, Ben’harin, Hardorn.”

            Those two came forward and indicated the two brothers should go forward to face the King.  The King looked down at them for a long moment, then looked at Ruvemir.  “Is the Lord Abduleram, in your opinion, part of the plans and activities of his brother, Master Ruvemir?”

            Ruvemir shook his head emphatically.  “No, my Lord King, I do not believe that to be true at all.”

            “What evidence do you have for this opinion?”

            “His words outside when he had no idea that his brother’s evil would be exposed this day indicated he sought to reprove the Lord Abdurin for his lack of understanding of the proper means and ends of ruling, for his dismissal of the attempt on Lord Ifram’s life when he was unarmed.  His expression when he looked at the picture of the ring his brother wears also tells me he had begun to realize his brother has stolen children and suborned his men.  At no time in the period I have spent at the side of these have I seen any sign that the Lord Abduleram has supported his brother’s activities, or even truly knew of them.”

            “My Lord Abduleram, is my sculptor correct in his reading of your words?”

            “My Lord, I had no idea at all this one was stealing children.  I have long known he dislikes the Shkatha, but I did not realize he was active in trying to break the peace and treaty between your land and ours.  However, he is my brother, and I will stand beside him.  I do not support what he does, but I will not let him stand alone.”

            “My Lord Abduleram, when a mortal dies, even if he dies with others, he yet dies alone.”

            Abduleram blanched, but he did not waver. 

            The King continued, “Do you wish to die with him, my Lord, for no fault of your own?”

            The answer, when it came, was uttered in a low voice.  “No.”

            The King looked down on him with compassion.  “I am sorry, my brother, that you must endure this shame a second time.”  Abduleram looked up into the King’s face, and those who could see realized tears fell from the Rhunish lord’s eyes.  Hardorn, who stood to his left, placed his hand on the Man’s shoulder in comfort.  The King sighed, gave the picture back and stood to descend the stair again, sword and scepter in hand.  He handed both to Faramir that his hand might be free, and he came before the older lord, set his hand on top of that of his cousin’s.  Slowly, gently, Hardorn slipped his away.  Abduleram lowered his head and wept, then gathered his strength, looked up, into the King’s eyes once more.  At last he gave a small nod, stepped back.  The King smiled sadly at him, then turned to the other. 

            Abdurin was white, and beginning now to shake as the King’s gaze took him in, took him in and found him wanting.  The King finally said in a surprisingly mild voice, “Let me tell you tell you a tale, Abdurin.  How old do you think me to be?”

            It took some time to realize the King required an answer.  Finally he said, “Perhaps you have forty and five years.”

            Aragorn smiled.  “I was born over ninety-three years ago in Eriador.  Five years I have held this throne, worn this crown, carried the Scepter of Annúminas.  Before that I fought the Enemy and his creatures, Men, orcs, trolls, beasts, wraiths, other horrors, for sixty-eight years.  Most of the first twenty years of my life, after the death of my father and it was given out I had died as well, I spent in Imladris, Rivendell, in the home of Elrond, greatest of lore-masters at the time in Middle Earth.  From him and my brothers I learned many, many things.  But mostly I learned about Sauron, Sauron and his ways and his policies and his intents and his traps and his lies.  In the sixty-eight years I fought Sauron in Eriador, Rohan, here, in Rhun, in Umbar, in Harad, and elsewhere, I have seen only two others who wore rings like to yours.  They are lesser rings, by the way, intended to enslave as were the greater Rings given so long ago to the Nine.  Sauron never lost all of his craft.

            “Now Sauron is no more, yet you continue to wear his token, live by his rules and desires.  You have encouraged others to break the laws by which they and their people live.  You have encouraged unnatural appetites and have destroyed families by stealing children and encouraging their young Men to rebel against rightful authority while submitting to your own.  You have tried to slay innocents in order to pursue your own policies with no regard for the rights and desires of others.  You would encourage war in order to keep others so divided you can then rule them as you please.

            “What is the proper punishment, according to your laws, for those who rebel against the rightful Shkatha?”

            It was some time before he answered, “Death.”

            “By what means?”

            Abduleram at last answered for his brother, “Impalement.”

            “It is odd, Abdurin,” the King said quietly, “that your nephew Solamonti had more honor and courage than you have shown.  When he was asked this question, he answered himself, did not need another to answer for him.  You have worn this ring now for how many years?”

            “Fifteen years.”  The voice was barely a whisper.

            The King looked at him sadly.  “Fifteen years.  Did they offer this to any others before they offered it to you?”

            “They offered it to my brother.”

            “Why does he not wear it?”

            “He refused it.”

            “The other two whom I have seen wearing rings such as this were one in Eriador, in the remains of what had been Angmar, and the other in Harad.  That one was trying to slay a Man when I came upon the two of them--a youth, actually, unarmed save for a hunting bow.  The one who had gone hunting with him had cut the quiver from his shoulder.  I slew the aggressor, having no idea who the youth was whom I was saving.  He told me his name was Sohrabi.  It was a name that meant nothing to me--then.  In each case I found I could not bear to touch the rings, and had to have another remove them, place them in a silken purse my foster father insisted I carry with me for such a purpose.  I will not tell you what was done with them, or what will be done with this one when you are dead.  It would be best if you yourself took it off now, for then you have a chance for redemption ere you die.  If you do not---”  The King gave an elaborate shrug.

            “You want it for yourself!” hissed Abdurin.

            “I already have more power than I desire, certainly more than I need.  I need not the false power offered by such traps as that.  Will you take it off, or will you wear it to your death?”

            “I will not die!”

            “Oh, did he tell you that if you wore it you could not be killed?  Did no one ever tell you that his name from of old was the Base, the Liar?  The other two I have met with such rings on their hands are, I assure you, quite dead, and I slew both while they yet wore their rings.  Even the greatest of the Ringwraiths was slain when the conditions were properly met.  Ask Meriadoc Brandybuck and the Lady Éowyn.  By the way, his was the one of the Nine that could be found afterwards, and I will not tell you what became of it, either.  Its stone shattered when Sauron’s spell was broken, and the very gold of its shaft was twisted and blown.  You would not wish, however, to hold its remains--its power to enslave was far greater still than that which you wear, pale shadow of Sauron’s former craft that it is.

            “Think on this as you make your decision--he who gifted that to you, although I assure you it was no gift but a trap, is now no more.  Morgoth was meant to be among the greatest of the Valar, and he fell to become a spirit of malice.  Sauron was meant to be among the greatest of messengers and servants, and he became merely a tyrant and is now less than the whisper of Morgoth’s own voice.  Saruman was meant to be the Head of the White Council, and his end was mean and his spirit rejected by the Valar, as was that of his chosen master, as was that of his chosen master.”

            Ruvemir remembered the words of Samwise Gamgee in Brandy Hall and smiled.  The King noticed and asked, “What amuses you, Master Ruvemir?”

            The sculptor looked into his King’s face and explained, “It was something the Lord Samwise said, my Lord.  ‘All of them as tries to make themselves lords of the whole of Middle Earth come to a dark end.  You’d think as they’d learn.  No plain Hobbit sense.  Just goes to show as living more than a lifetime isn’t always a good thing, don’t you know.  Forget what they was intended to be and tries to make themselves boss of all, and then where does that lead them?’  I find myself believing the sentiment fits here, somehow.”

            The King laughed.  “Yes, that is our dearly beloved Sam for you--one of my wisest of counselors.”  He looked back into the face of the Man before him.  “What is it to be--die still enslaved to that, or die as a free Man?”

            Abdurin’s expression was desperate.  Yet, at the last, he suddenly scrabbled at his hand and withdrew the ring, threw it to the ground, and all could see his hand was bleeding heavily.  The King’s face was relieved.  “That is good.  Your spirit has a chance, at least.  But now I must give you to your own lord for final judgment, for, again, your crimes are more against your own than against my people or land.  This is true for both you and the two of your land behind you.”

            Moritum sighed.  “I take no joy in this, but our law is clear.  Death by impalement.”

            Aragorn Elessar looked at him.  “If they die here in Gondor, it must be a clean death and done outside the city, my Lord Shkatha.  Let it be through the heart that they die swiftly.  That is our law.”

            The Shkatha nodded his assent.  “So be it.  Ben’harin, will you do this for us?”

            “If you will, Lord.”

            “Abduleram, will you stand witness the laws of both lands are met?”

            “I will, and those here with me as well.”

            “So be it.  If you will have us shown where it is right to do this, my Lord King Elessar?”

            “And my Lord Marcipor, do you wish authority over these, or is it given to the laws of Gondor?”

            “I wish nothing to do with these.”

            “Our law requires a quick death, as I told the Shkatha.”

            “We grant you that, then.”

            The King bowed his head.  “So be it.  Tomorrow morning they shall be hanged outside the city.  Guards, please take them back to their cells.  My Lord Hardorn, will you show the Shkatha the proper place while I see to the disposition of that?  It is best it is dealt with quickly.”  The five from Umbar were led out of the hall.

            Hardorn looked down at the ring where it lay and shivered with disgust.  “I do not envy you the task, Lord.”

            “Lend me one of your arrows.”

            “Only if you agree to burn it after.”

            “I will promise.”  Using the tip of the arrow given him by his cousin, the King lifted up the ring.  He turned to the rest of those in attendance.  “I will return in about a quarter mark, but must see this isolated and the beginning of its end started.  My Lord Prince Faramir, will you take over proceedings for the moment?”

            Faramir nodded.  All straightened as the King carried his burden to a door in the back of the Citadel.

            “So has ruled the Lord King Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar of Gondor and Arnor.  We will meet again in half an hour to hear the judgment given to Varondil of this city, once Master Sculptor.”

Final Judgment and the Light of Kings

            Water, wine, and rolls were provided at the back of the hall, but few seemed to want them.  Several left, obviously not wishing to see this final act of judgment by the King.  When the time was done, all remaining gathered again.  The King entered from his private quarters, this time accompanied by his wife, and together they walked up the steep stairs.  The King was obviously very tired and his eyes shadowed.  Yet he sat upon his throne, straight and tall, his wife seated in her chair at his side.  Again the high Lords sat upon their chairs, although Moritum’s was still empty. 

            “Bring in he who was Varondil,” he said quietly.

            A few moments later they brought him into the room.  He was wet, and the windows were splashed with rain, for the storm had broken at last.  Behind him came several of the apprentices and their families, having been advised by pages sent out earlier that this hearing would take place in the late afternoon.

            Varondil’s face was white and drawn.  He looked up into the face of the King above him and began to tremble.

            “Varondil of this city, you have been found guilty of perversion of the worst sort, of abusing your authority as a master of apprentices, of causing bodily and spiritual harm to innocents, of corrupting innocents, of committing acts of such sorts you have driven at least seven youths to their own destruction, of dealing with slavers to obtain youths for your use, for breaking your marriage contract to your wife, for trading for youths with information to the detriment of this realm, for suborning an official of your guild, for lying in legal documents filed with your guild and the city, for unlawful imprisonment, for slavery in a realm where such is against the law. 

            “Whom have you given information to from outside our realm?”

            “No one, Lord King,” the Man whispered.

            “No one?  Not even a patron from the South?”

            “There was no--”

            “Several of your illegal apprentices were brought directly from Umbar.  What is the name of the one who sent them to you?”

            After a long silence, he said in a strained voice, “His name is Landrion, Lord King.”

            “How did you meet this one?”

            “I was--was trying---”  He swallowed.  “I was seeking a boy to use, and spoke to one who knew--sources.”

            “Who was this?”

            “An innkeeper in the first circle named Alangorn.”

            Faramir straightened.  “Alangorn of the White Blossom was found guilty under my father of smuggling slaves and goods.  He was executed fifteen years ago.”

            The King sighed.  “So it was over fifteen years ago you began this importation of illicit apprentices?”

            “Yes, my Lord King.”

            “What kind of information did Landrion desire?”

            “Troupe movements.  Which troupes were most likely to be overtired and easily beaten.  Which captains paid the least attention to the needs of their soldiers.  Who was most open to bribery.  The deaths of important people who would need to be replaced, and which possible candidates for replacements were most likely to be open to corruption.  When certain officials would be out of the city.  What new laws were under consideration.  Who might be moved to make certain--proposals favorable to Umbar or her lands.  Which officials were most open to blackmail.  When an official might be found alone to set up--set up a compromising situation.  Who was in heavy debt, and who held questionable paper.  Where agents and slaves could be filtered into the country most easily.  What ports were most open to smuggling.  The like.”

            “So you served as spy as well as bawdmaster?”

            The sculptor’s voice was a toneless whisper.  “Yes, my Lord.”

            “What other sources did you use to obtain children?”

            “A merchant of children from the folk of the Dunlendings.”

            “His name.”

            “Choristedon.”

            “How did you meet him?”

            “His name was given to me by Landrion of Umbar.”

            “Did he ask you for any information?”

            “Yes, for the names of individuals from Rohan who might be open to corruption.”

            “What did you tell him?”

            “I knew none, my Lord.”

            “What did he say then?”

            “He wished to know who dealt with the Rohirrim on a regular basis here in Gondor, particularly those within the City.”

            “You were asked to make a total list of all the apprentices you have had over course of your mastership.  Did you bring it?”

            “Here, Lord King.”  He brought out a much-handled piece of parchment from inside his shirt, and gave it to the Steward, who brought it up the steps to the King.

            The King smiled crookedly and commented, “On days like today, I wish my predecessors had been a bit less ostentatious in preparing this throne.  It is pretentiously high, is it not?”

            Faramir looked at the drawn face of his monarch, and his gravity broke, and he started to laugh in spite of himself.  “You have had much exercise in ascending it, have you not?  Perhaps it is why it remained empty so long.”

            The King sought to ease his shoulders and winced.  “Unfold it for me, please.”

            He read through it at length, and gave it to Faramir.  “Have it compared to the lists of apprentices filed over the past twenty years for him.”

            “I will, my Lord.”

            The King finally looked down at Varondil.  “Your guilt has already been proven.  What say you ere sentence is passed?”

            “I--I....”  Varondil gave up trying to speak, dropped his eyes.

            “So be it, then.  There is no real defense for what you have done.  Even if it was done to you when you were still a child or youth, there is still every reason to desist from passing on this misery and guilt and horror.  I could have you hanged several times over for what you did, but that would meet no purpose.

            “You will go first to the Houses of Healing, where you will be gelded.  You will remain there in servitude for the rest of your life--unless you are found even fondling another, at which time you will be returned to custody, then taken out and hanged summarily at the next dawn.  Do you understand?”

            Varondil looked up into the eyes of the King, turned white, and fainted away.  The King sighed and signed he should be removed. 

            “So has judged the Lord King Aragorn Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar of Gondor and Arnor.”

******* 

            Gilfileg came to Ruvemir and asked him quietly if he would remain, and suggested Celebgil go back to the house in the Sixth Circle.  He led Ruvemir and Armanthol again to the private audience room, then through it to the chamber where the King had examined his hip before.  The King came in a few moments later accompanied by his wife, who steered him into a chair and signaled her brothers to come forward. 

            “Take no notice of what he says, Elladan, Elrohir.  Ease this now.”

            Aragorn did not even try to resist, but sighed loudly.  One of the brothers unfastened the scarf. and the other untied the placket laces of the tunic, then assisted in easing it over the King’s head.  Again the Man winced as the shoulder was moved. 

            There were scars on the King’s chest, old ones, mostly, with one fresher one from what appeared to have been a flesh wound below the left shoulder.  Elladan ran his hand over this wound, sang over it.  Arwen sighed.  “I ordered water to be boiled just ere we went into the throne room,” she said, “and they were to bring it here afterward.” 

            Just then a door opened and two servitors came, one carrying a basin of steaming water, and the other a tray on which lay clean cloths and a couple of fresh leaves.  Elrohir and his sister smiled in relief and thanked them, took the trays and set them on a nearby table.  Elrohir took the leaves and rolled them between his hands and breathed on them, then set them in the water, held the basin near the face of the King.  The scent was of running streams and green growth.  Aragorn breathed deeply of it, closed his eyes; and much of the tension began to run out of his face.  Ruvemir could see the shoulder muscles relax, the body ease.  Elrohir took one of the cloths and dipped in into the water, wrung it out, handed it to his brother, who carefully ran it over the King’s shoulder again and again, then set it down on the tray and began massaging the muscle, rubbing deeply and continuing his song.  There was a brief look of pain, then easing as the Elf gently shifted to rub both shoulders, then moved around to the Man’s back and continued from there.  The breathing of the King became deeper and more regular, almost the rhythm of sleep. 

            Several others came into the room, paused near the doorway.  Gilfileg looked up at them from where he stood near his cousin, and Ruvemir could see him tensing somewhat.  He looked to see who it was who had entered, and saw Legolas, Gimli, Prince Faramir and his wife, and Prince Imrahil and the two of his sons who were with him.  Behind them was Eregiel, who was smiling across at Gilfileg encouragingly.

            At last Elladan stopped and pulled his hands away, and it was plain that the King felt some regret that the massage was over.  He straightened and opened his eyes.

            “My Lord King, we did not mean to interrupt,” said Prince Imrahil. 

            Aragorn merely shook his head.  “No, my wife has finally convinced me to allow our brothers to ease my shoulder is all.  And it feels much better, I must say.  But better is the soothing of the athelas, I think, after the evil dealt with today.”  He reached for the shirt and now was able to put it on by himself.

            Elladan held the green scarf.  “I think just for tonight you ought to continue to wear this, Estel.  It will keep you from reinjuring it.  And tomorrow--”

            “I know, exercises.”  The Man smiled.  He allowed his foster brother to replace the scarf, checked the movement of his fingers.  “They move more easily.”

            “The pathways are eased.”

            Aragorn stretched, and nodded in relief.  Then he looked first to Gilfileg and then to Prince Imrahil.  “There is a particular reason I wished you to attend on me tonight.  As you can tell, still another of my kin from Eriador has arrived in the capital, and in this case the arrival has perhaps more meaning than the coming of others.  Gilfileg’s father was Gilthor, grandson to Argonui by his younger daughter, Nienoreth, the youngest of five children he fathered.  Argonui’s oldest child was Aradorn, my own grandsire.  Gilfileg is closest in blood to the line of Kings after myself and Melian.

            “There is more.  You already know that many of the Dúnedain of the North have, as I did, served in Gondor’s armies and in the Rangers.  Before I came south to serve as Thorongil, Gilthor came south and served under his own name, and was, for a time----”

            “Arien?” interrupted the Prince.

            Gilfileg nodded.  “Yes, I am son to Gilthor of Eriador and Arien of Dol Amroth.”

            “Then he found her ere he rode north.”

            “Yes, although it took him over a month to do so.  Their stories of what happened during that time were fascinating.”

            “Grandfather was most upset, and wished after her leaving that he’d questioned Gilthor more closely, perhaps found a reason why he was suitable for her.”

            “I hope had he known my father’s circumstances he would have been relieved to find she married almost as well as one can among our kindred.

            “You did not come south as have so many of your brethren?”

            “Oh, yes, I did in my turn.  However, I was seen as an aberration among the forces of Gondor, and was not admitted to the regular army but to the Rangers.”

            “Why was this?”

            “I am left handed.”

            The Prince considered this, then smiled.  “I would have had no compunctions against taking you in my troupes, but most of Denethor’s folk would have looked at you as if you were moon touched.”

            “So it proved.  The only one who would accept me under his command was Captain Boromir, who was newly come to his rank.” 

            “So you became a scout, then?”

            “Yes.  I served under him for three years and had planned to take leave soon to come south to Dol Amroth, or perhaps to Minas Tirith if your family was there then, and meet you and tell you of my mother.  However, I was kept from this by capture.”

            “Capture by whom?  The Rhunim?”

            “Yes, by the Rhunim.  I was scouting for activity near the Black Gates when I ran into a patrol of Orcs and had to go to ground.  I was checking to see if all were clear when the slight movement was seen by an Orc who apparently could stand sunlight better than his fellows, and his arrow caught me in the side.  I fled east, pursued by a troupe of Orcs, until I finally crossed into Rhun.  This troupe was more intent on capturing me than most such groups were--they pursued me for three days before they finally let go.  I had not been able to remove the arrow’s point, and I am fortunate it was not poisoned.  As it was, I had become very weak, and after I removed the point the wound became infected.  I passed out near a small water seep, and was found by members of the d’Bouti tribe.  Ba’hastir of the d’Bouti recognized I was a scout from Gondor, and claimed me as a slave.  I convinced them that I had only been in the army of Gondor for three weeks rather than three years, and held to that story even during torture.  They finally believed me after they relieved me of two fingers on my right hand and a toe.”

            “So, they sought to maim your sword hand.”

            “Yes, not realizing that was not my sword hand after all.  I was fortunate they did not realize the import of the reversed hangers on my sword’s sheath.”

            “How long did you remain with the d’Bouti clan?”

            “Eight years.”

            “That was a long time to remain enslaved!” Elphir said, his eyes wide with surprise.

            “Yes, far too long.”

            “Could you not have escaped?”

            “I could have done so within eight months of my capture, I believe.  However, before I went south to Gondor, as I went to get the permission of our chieftain to do so--” he gave Aragorn a sidelong look “--he had one of his moments of foresight, and told me that if I were given the care of children I needed to keep care of them until they chose the warrior’s way.  Ba’hastir decided he wished me to serve his grandsons, and to teach them of our ways so they would be better able to deal with us should they come up against the soldiers of the West one day.”

            Imrahil asked, “His grandsons?  And his grandsons----”  His own eyes widened.  “His grandsons are now----”

            “Moritum, Ifram, and Shefti b’nto Agharan of the d’Bouti tribe.”

            “Do they know?”

            “Ifram and Shefti do, although I do not know if Moritum does as yet.  It was almost as much a shock to recognize them and learn they were the ambassadors to Gondor as it was to see a Hobbit of the Shire riding easily in their company along a road in southern Lebennin, or to realize an Elf was watching over the company.”

            Faramir smiled.  “I remember you now, when you came back, begging my father to allow you to rejoin my brother’s troupes.  He took your report, and then dismissed you, forbade you to go back to Osgiliath or Ithilien.  Was going on about how a scout needed to be able to handle bow and sword, and you could do neither, and would not listen when you tried to explain there was no impediment.”

            “I am not certain how much of that was real concern, my Lord, and how much of it was his suspicion of those of us who were from among the Lost.”

            Imrahil sighed.  “After the leaving of the Lord Captain Thorongil,” he said, giving his King his own sidelong look, “he did become extremely suspicious of anyone suspected of having come from the Northern Dúnedain who did not immediately follow orders.”

            Aragorn looked down.  “So I understood from the reports of those who returned North, many of them before their usual term of service would have been expected to be finished.”  He looked to his Steward.  “He was becoming a difficult person to deal with by the end of my own service.  He had divined who and what I was, and was certain I would take the throne ere he had any chance to serve as Steward.  Yet we were friends of a sort when I first came, before envy took him.  It grieved me to lose his friendship, for we had much in common.”  He sighed.  “I had a brief glance of him in the Palantir as I wrested it from Sauron, and was shocked at how much he had changed.  His Dúnedain blood was strong enough he ought not have looked so much his age.  You and I look and, I think, feel more of an age than he did at his ending.  He ought not to have looked that much older than I, as he was but a year older than I to begin with.”

            “Even I appear older than you, my Lord Aragorn,” said Imrahil, “and yet in actuality I am the younger.  The Dúnedain blood of the South kingdom is not as pure as that in the North, I deem.”

            The King shrugged, then suddenly straightened, looked distant, and then bowed his head, his face paling.  “It is done now,” he whispered, “for Abdurin.”  Both Elladan and Elrohir came behind him and each put a hand to a shoulder, while Arwen knelt before him and took his hands in hers.  All remained so for some time until at last he said, “That was the third.  It is over.”

            Armanthol looked shocked into Ruvemir’s face.  The King noted his look.  “Yes, I feel the deaths I order--in a way.  I cannot tell you how.  Perhaps that is one reason why I order so few, why I hate this part of what I must do as King.  I felt your father’s death, also, but not so strongly--he was not one of mine, and he did not die on the soil of my lands.  Yet, I had a part in his end, and so I was aware.  But I cannot allow such as he to believe they can run rampant through the lands under my protection, assassinate those they please to meet their ends, for those deaths I also suffer.  Do you understand?” 

            Armanthol shook his head.  “No,” he whispered, “I do not fully understand.”

            “Had I allowed Marcipor to take you, I would have felt that also.”

            “Why has it taken so long for them to do the executions?”

            “Do you think such is done all in an instant?  This city is large, and first they must get the proper spears for the doing.  To get the weapons, to wend the way down through the streets of Minas Tirith, to be brought to the proper place, to prepare the condemned, for he who does the execution to prepare himself--all these take time.  And now there is the need to do what must be done with the bodies.  Already those who prepare for the morning’s work are waiting, impatient, for them to move from the place so that they can set up the gallows beams.  And I must feel that, also, and more strongly still as these I have directly ordered.  Know this, when you know a death is necessary, be ready to accept the consequences, and be certain it is necessary before you order it.  Otherwise it will come back to haunt you, one way or another.”

            “I did not know.”

            “It is part of what made what your father and Varondil and Abdurin did so heinous--they felt no responsibility for the deaths or actions they committed or ordered, much less for those who would suffer and most likely die as a result of their callousness and selfishness.  When torture and death become merely part of policy to achieve ends, then the person who commits and orders such becomes hollowed and eventually quite spiritually empty.  In the case of Sauron and eventually Saruman as well, they had lost the ability to feel save when others suffered, and so they must in time order more and more suffering, more and more deaths, for otherwise they had no indication they yet had any substance at all.”

            A servitor entered with a pitcher of wine and goblets, and Legolas began to pour out for all, looking with an unreadable expression into the eyes of his friend as he presented a cup to the King.  “Drink and be comforted, Aragorn.”

            After a long time, the King spoke again.  “It is part of why I so wished to restore Frodo, if I could.  The burden of the Ring scoured his soul, and his was not the nature to survive such evil easily.  Every death caused by he who created that thing Frodo felt as I do, and he had no idea at first what it was he was experiencing.  The Ring delighted to allow him to suffer with those who suffered at the hands of Mordor; It delighted in showing him the torturers at their work, the callous taking what they desired from the joy of others, the diminishing, the twisting, the destruction.  It is no wonder to me that his health began to fail, that the memories would fell him on the anniversaries of when he was most deeply wounded.  The wounds of the spirit will weaken the body if there is no time given for proper recovery.  To arrive home and find that the echoes of what he knew in Mordor were still occurring in his own land, to know his own were suffering--the healing tissue of his spirit was torn asunder by it, and that wound bled afresh.  He was my brother of the spirit, a great King born in the body of a Hobbit in the land of the Periannath, one who felt each joy and each sorrow, who in the end was so hollowed he could no longer feel the joys echoing in his heart strongly enough to balance the pains.

            “We must balance the joys with the griefs, we must, or it will destroy us.”  He sighed, and looked again to Faramir.  “Perhaps that was what drained your father so badly, for he did not appear to seek the pleasures of life along with the responsibilities as our Adar insisted I do.  He told me that if I did not do so, I would be lost in the end. 

            “And so I attend births, perform marriages, watch performances of plays and pageants, walk through the markets when I can, watch with pleasure as folk come to present my wife with flowers, hold my daughter.  I feel the joy when the bridegroom comes to the bride.  I know when the artisan looks with delight and awe at the product of his imagination, his hands, the inspiration given to him.  I feel the pride as parent looks at the success of the child.  I feel the satisfaction of the healer who sees his patient recovering.  I feel the joy as the youth or maiden rides across the Pelennor on a likely steed and knows that moment of oneness with the horse.  I rejoice with the singer, the teller of tales, the ones who lighten the darkness.  All these help me to recover from the horrors of realizing just how destructive Men can be, and the need to order what I ordered this day.”

            Prince Imrahil examined his liege carefully.  “You truly feel that the spirit of a great king was given to that one?”

            Aragorn’s grey eyes smiled into those of the Prince.  “Yes, my Lord Prince, I do.  His Light was the twin to my own, and when I met him his shone far brighter than mine.  He sparked my Light, set it shining as brightly as his own.”  His expression became more solemn as he looked down at his goblet, then he looked back up.  “It seems we had much the same conversation before, in Casistir.”

            “I remember.  You said that he helped you shed the habit of hiding yourself, your identity and your nature.”

            The King nodded.  He thought for a time.  “Always Frodo was driven to serve, to help build.  It was what he was born to do.”  

            Ruvemir considered.  “His kin say the same, my Lord King.  He was early born, and as a child he was subject to whispering in his heart, they tell me.  When he was overcome with fear or grief it would become notable, and they feared for his life.  After the death of his parents his cousins who fostered him sought to protect his health, but did so by restricting what he was allowed to do.  He would be allowed to do nothing that might cause stress to his heart, and in the winters especially he would begin to fade, worse and worse each year.  Only when he was allowed to serve others was he truly happy, when he was allowed to go out and see life as it was.  After he went to Bag End and was made Bilbo’s heir where he was no longer restricted in his activities, where he was actively encouraged to aid others however he could, both openly and secretly--only then did he begin to know good health and full happiness at last.”

            “Did they show you his will?”

            “No,” Ruvemir said, “although they told me somewhat of it.”

            “It was a marvel of complexity.  It appears he had secretly been aiding over half the Shire most of his time since he came to Bag End.”

            “All hoped so he would one day become Mayor; but once the Ring came to him, even when It still slept, he never chose to run.  He’d have made an excellent Mayor, I think.  All spoke well of the time when he served as Deputy Mayor after the Scouring of the Shire, and did not understand why he gave up the post when he did.  Mayor Whitfoot has not truly recovered from what he experienced in the Time of Troubles, and will not run again, I fear.  You can see in his face he was weakened by what he endured.  But the Lord Frodo realized, I think, that his own health was fading, his heart failing at last.”  Ruvemir thought for a moment.  “He told only his cousin Fredegar Bolger what he felt at the Fords of Bruinen during their return, that the memories of that last ride and the stabbing at Amon Sul were lapped over what was really happening as they left Rivendell to return to the Shire, that he felt weakened and ill, that the coldness felt as if it were coming into his shoulder and arm again as if he’d just been stabbed, but that he had real pain at the same time.  Budgie Smallfoot believes he might have had a seizure of his heart at that time, and that might have sparked much of the rest of his decline.”

            Aragorn, Elladan, and Elrohir exchanged looks.  Finally Elrohir sighed.  “Adar foresaw his health would not remain,” he said quietly.  “But he feared the scarring of his soul more than the weakening of his heart.”

            The Lady Arwen put her hand on her husband’s knee.  “Body and soul were scarred by the Quest.  It was why I begged he be allowed to go with our father, why I gave him the pendant.  His Light was returned, but he was subject to such pain.  He deserved more.”

            The King nodded, placed his own hand over hers, looked up into her eyes.  “If only he could have found such as you, it would have helped him so.”

            She looked down, then back into his own eyes, shaking her head sadly.  “It scoured away that part of his being.”

            He sighed as he turned away, reached to his goblet to take another sip of wine.  “I know,” he said at last.  “I am grateful I never touched the foul thing, and grieve he could not give It up ere that happened.”

            “It happened very early on.  It could not be prevented by the time Its nature was known.  He and Bilbo both were robbed of the ability to know that kind of love by It almost as soon as It came to them.”

            Ruvemir nodded his agreement.  “Before Bilbo left It to him, the Lord Frodo had begun to look again at lasses within the Shire after his grief that the love he’d known from his Cousin Pearl had waned, but that stopped as soon as he found himself carrying It within his pocket.  It was years before Lord Samwise began to suspect the Ring Itself was at fault for that.”

            Aragorn sighed.  “And so it is that I have one more resentment against the works of Sauron, for the possibility of that kind of joy robbed from one who so deserved it, and who so desired it.”

Notes from the North

       Soon after the Queen sent for Elise, who came in carrying Melian, and Ruvemir saw that the King’s expression soothed at the sight of his daughter as earlier his body had been soothed by the scent of athelas and the ministrations of his brothers.  Gilfileg indicated he would remain some time yet speaking with his mother’s kin from Dol Amroth, and at that the King also smiled in approval.  Together the sculptor, his wife, and the now not-so-reluctant apprentice bade all a good night and went out of the Citadel to head down the ramp to the Sixth Circle and their own beds.

       “He is very different from Lord Marcipor,” commented Armanthol as they walked.  “I do not think Marcipor is all that different from my father, really.”

       “There is one thing Marcipor has realized, however,” returned Ruvemir.  “He has learned to rein in his tendency to be cruel and to loose it only on those who, like your father, have earned the fear and hatred of the people of your land.  He does not kill wantonly in the pursuit of his own polices and at the expense of the innocent.”

       “I suppose that is so,” Armanthol said moodily.  They descended much of the ramp in quiet.  Finally he said, “I have not met one who feels with others from afar off before.”  Ruvemir nodded solemnly.  “And part of why he brought me away was to spare himself the realization of my death?”

       “Apparently.  I know he is a most responsible Man.  Now we know part of the reason why.”

       “The cloak is the one he wore when I met him.”

       Ruvemir smiled.  “It was as Strider the Ranger he first introduced himself to me as well, in Casistir, as I told you before.  All of his kindred from the North, it appears, have served in the Rangers of Eriador.”

       “I pity the one named Varondil, although I cannot say why.”

       “I pity him also, until I think of the seven who destroyed themselves due to what he did to them, and the anger and fear and shame he has engendered in the others he abused.”  He noted that the youth with him shuddered.

*******

       As they made their way back up the steep ways of the city, Ivarnon of the Bedui asked, “Where does dwell the stunted Man who spoke today before the King?”

       Lord Shefti answered, “His name is Ruvemir son of Mardil, and he dwells across from the house of our embassy on the Sixth Level, in the house on the end.  Why do you ask?”

       “Earlier I saw my wife approach him and call him ‘Master’.”

       Ifram looked him over with interest.  “Your wife?  How did she come to serve as housekeeper to Master Ruvemir here in Gondor, then?”

       Abduleram said, “You cannot call her ‘wife’ any longer since you cast her out.”

       “Why did you cast her out?” the ambassador asked.

       “She denied me a son, and gave me a deformed daughter instead.”

       Shefti sniffed.  “Our father’s second wife wished many children, but has not been able to will herself to conceive any, while Moritum’s Garata wished to bear but three, and was unhappy when she found herself with a fourth, and moreso when she found herself pregnant with the fifth.  If a woman cannot will herself to bear or not to bear, how can she be believed to will whether the child will be son or daughter, deformed or whole?” 

       Ivarnon looked at the younger brother of the Shkatha by the lesser wife and shook his head.  “It is the woman who carries the babe--she must have some will in the matter as to what what it will be once it comes to be born.”  Ifram, Shefti, and Moritum exchanged looks.  “How did Liana come to be a slave to such a one as this Ruvemir?”

       “She is no slave--slavery is unlawful in Gondor.  She receives house space and food for herself and her child, and money for her services in the keeping of the house.”

       “Does she not share his bed?”

       “No.  His wife would not allow such.”

       “He is married?  Did he need to pay a high bride price to find a woman who would take him?”

       “I do not believe they have bride prices in Gondor.  No, it appears she sees beyond his seeming and came to care for his nature with little concern about the body.  They appear to be well pleased with one another, by the way.”

       “I do not care for the manner in which he spied on us today.”

       Abduleram shook his head.  “They already knew that Abdurin was conspiring against the Shkatha and the alliance with Gondor.  This Ruvemir was set to judge whether or not I was part of Abdurin’s treachery.”  His face hardened.  “And to learn he was stealing children and selling them into slavery....  He deserved death.  I wonder if he was the one who took Murem and Evalia’s son?  Both have been mad with grief since the boy was taken.”

       “The child was taken by a great cat.”

       Abduleram glared at him.  “Do you think my skills in the hunt have left me unable to tell the difference between the marks of the hooves of horses and the tread of a hunting cat?  The child was taken by horsemen, not by a beast.”

       “But Abdurin told us what he saw....”

       “And I am to believe my brother’s word after today?  As for you--where is your brother Martuk?”

       Moritum sighed.  “Martuk is dead.  Be glad, Ivarnon, that the King of Gondor was feeling generous toward you this day.  The resemblance between you and your brother is very strong, and he did not miss the fact you sought among the prisoners for someone dear to you.  Also he has known the names and clan of those of our people who took part in the assault on the estate of the small one’s father since shortly after the assault took place.  That all were from the tribe of the Bedui was lost on neither the Lord Elessar nor myself.  If I were like to this Lord Marcipor, it would be likely all the men of the Bedui would have been slain by now.  Know this--both his agents and mine will be watching you and the families of Bordig and Davit very closely.”

       Ivarnon felt himself go very pale, then red with shame and resentment.  “I have done nothing....”

       “Nothing in which you have been found out, at least,” the Shkatha amended.  “But that does not mean that in your heart you are true to our people, or even to the chieftain of your own tribe.  Believe me, you are being watched now by several different ones.  If you are found even appearing to be involved in treachery or intrigue it is likely you will wake up to find yourself facing the spear.”

       Ivarnon felt the fear growing in his heart, forced himself to be angry instead.  It was the fault of the stunted one, he thought to himself, the fault of the stunted one.  Well, at least I know now where to find him.

*******

       Most of the other apprentices were watching for the return of Master Ruvemir and Armanthol.  Those who had attended the judgment for Varondil had told those who had not what they’d seen there, and Celebgil had told what had been learned of the causes of the war, the intrigue from Umbar and with one from Rhun, the questioning of those from Rhun, the judgment by their own Shkatha.  All wondered what further had happened and hoped their master would tell them.

       As he finally entered into the house and sat in his own chair all waited with interest.  “What has happened with Gilfileg, then?” asked Gilmirion.

       “Lord Gilfileg,” corrected Ruvemir automatically.  “Lord Gilfileg is now with his mother’s kin from Dol Amroth.”

       “And which are they?” asked Gorondor.

       Ruvemir looked at him and smiled.  “Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth and the two of his sons who are here now.  Their cousin Arien was his mother.”

       “You mean that he is of both the Northern and the Southern kingdoms?” asked one of the younger boys, much impressed.

       “Yes, as well as being the closest to the line of Kings after our Lord Aragorn Elessar himself and his daughter.”

       All were most impressed indeed, and looked at one another with a level of delight. 

       As he’d removed his cloak he’d taken out the several letters given him earlier by Liana, and now he examined them and smiled.

       “Who are they from?” asked Marvilion.

       “They are from the Shire.  Ah, here is the one from the Lord Samwise!”  He set it aside, desiring the best for last.  He recognized the scholarly hand of Fredegar Bolger, and opened that one first.  Elise came out of the small parlor which had housed Samwise Gamgee when he lived in this house and which was now her private place where she worked on her own projects, as she had begun taking up embroidery herself, inspired by Miriel and the Queen, and she now leaned down to kiss him and then settled at his feet, her embroidery frame in her hand. 

       Realizing all intended to know the content of his letters, he made a show of giving a great sigh.  “All right,” he said, “this is from the Lord Frodo’s cousin Fredegar Bolger, who would not come away from the Shire with him when he left before, staying to make it appear the rest were still there in the isolation of the house in Crickhollow in Buckland, near the gate to the Old Forest.”

       Having heard this, the youths all sat quietly to listen to the letter.
      
Dear Master Ruvemir and Mistress Elise,

       Melilot and I send you greetings from the Shire, where we are doing very well since our marriage in April.  I read your description of your marriage with great interest.  Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin have, of course, described the Lord King Strider to me in detail, and I have read Frodo’s descriptions of their experiences with him in the Red Book as he wrote it, so I feel as if I know him myself.  I rejoice that he chose to wed the two of you to one another.  I only wish Frodo had been here to marry the two of us to one another as he did for Sam and Rosie.  No, I’ll be honest, I simply wish my dear cousin had been here to see it at all.  This was one time we chose to have Saradoc Brandybuck perform the marriage rather than Will Whitfoot--after all, he’s family.

       I now understand what Budgie means when he says the love of a good wife has strengthened many a weak heart, for I feel more hale than I have since the Travelers left me in Crickhollow.  I cannot believe how much happiness Melilot has given me.  Estella and Merry are happily saying “We told you so,” and Pippin was telling us that our wedding was so impressive no one would even remember to come to his own.  

       He was exaggerating, of course.  Paladin Took and old Orimbard between them gave a wedding party that almost rivaled Bilbo’s Party for grandness, although without the fireworks.  Pippin almost regretted having fired off Gandalf’s last firework when he came of age--almost, but not quite.  There’s no question the two of them are very happy.

       He did pull off two spectacular practical jokes, one on poor, long-suffering Sam, and one on Merry.  Shortly after Rosie-lass was born, Sam and Rosie took the children to Bywater to the Cotton’s farm to show them the new baby, and they came home to find a miniature house in the garden with a small garden of miniature plants surrounding it, smoke coming out of the chimney pot.  Elanor became convinced that miniature folk lived there, and kept trying to peek in through the windows to catch them.  Every morning they’d wake up to find smoke coming out of the chimney pot, and Elanor wouldn’t allow her father to remove it for fear of disturbing the wee folk whom she believed to dwell in it.  Sam finally caught Cyclamen Proudfoot dropping a lit smudge down the little chimney pot one morning, and got the story from her at last.  Pippin had built it and placed it in the garden, surrounding it with flowering plants that have small blossoms and don’t grow over an inch in height.  He’d also devised the smudges and had been able to convince Cyclamen to drop one in each morning, creeping into the garden through one of the places in the hedge where Pando used to lie to spy on the folk of Bag End.  However, Elanor is so enchanted with it she still won’t allow him to remove it, so he’s taken to planting more small flowers about it for her delight.

       Merry came into his study one day to find that it  had been emptied of its furniture and fitted out as a stall, and now contained a lovely pony mare and colt, which were actually gifts from Pippin.  His desk, chairs, and so on were found, of course, in the stables, all properly laid out on his study carpet, and with a steaming mug of tea and a plate of seed cakes.

       Both the little house and the ponies are quite delightful, really, and Sam actually likes the little house.  Cyclamen and Elanor have taken to making up stories surrounding it and its supposed inhabitants, and have more than half convinced themselves the stories are true.  Merry also loves the ponies, but isn’t yet certain how Pippin convinced Cousin Saradoc to allow him to bring them through the smial.

       Ferdibrand Took sends his best wishes, and said to tell you the light in the West is getting stronger, and that you would understand the message.  

       I am sorry there is more war for Lord Strider to have to fight, although from what I have been told of him, it appears he is well equipped to deal with such.  I only hope it does not last long, and that it does not cost too many lives.

       Our best wishes to you and yours, and I hope your anxiety proved no worse than my own.

                                   Yours always,
                                   Fredegar Bolger

       All were laughing over the house and the pony, and Meredin asked, “Did the Captain Pippin really do this?”

       Ruvemir shrugged.  “I have only the one report as yet.  Shall we see what the others say?”  He found the letter with Pippin’s scrawl and opened it next.

Dear Ruvemir,

       I am quite pleased, for I have managed to actually catch Merry totally off his guard.  I bred two of my mares to Stybba, the white pony King Thëoden gave to Merry, and decided I would give Firiel and her colt to him.  I had to do a good deal of convincing, but I got Uncle Saradoc to assist me in transforming Merry’s study into a stable, and a stall in the stable into his study, and we took the two ponies there.  It was well worth it to see his face as he walked in and found himself treading on straw and face to face with mare and foal.

       Sam never got his sunflowers planted this year--I put a small house I constructed in the portion of the garden where he usually plants them, and had Elanor quite convinced that fairies lived there.  All of the children in Hobbiton and Bywater make pilgrimages there to peer in through the windows, trying to see them light the fireplace.

       Our wedding was not so solemn as yours by the sound of it, although I’d have loved to have our King wed the two of us.  I so hope we can convince Diamond, Estella, and Rosie to come with us to Gondor and the capitol next summer.  They cannot truly imagine how majestic Minas Tirith is.  I can’t wait to introduce Diamond to Lord Faramir and Aragorn, and of course Merry wants to show them Éomer King and the Lady Éowyn and Rohan.

       So, you now live in the house in which we stayed in Minas Tirith, then?  Will you look under the carpet in the room in which we stayed, the one in the northeast corner of the house, and see if you can find a gold shirt stud that Merry lost there?  He has done nothing but grumble about having lost it every time he must dress formally.  Aragorn had a pair made for him, and he was very proud of them.  It has a horse’s head etched into it.  Perhaps Mistress Loren would have found it, or whoever cares for the guest houses at this time.

       I am so sorry our King has had to go to war again, for although there is no question he is the greatest warrior born among Men since the days of Elendil and Isildur, he nevertheless hates it.  He would far rather serve in the Houses of Healing than on the battlefield.  One needed only see him leaning over someone ill or wounded to know such was true.  And I would have been honored to witness the birth of the Princess Melian.

       As for your Elise being the most beautiful bride in Middle Earth--maybe on that day, but not on Midsummer’s.  But the most beautiful bride I ever saw was married to her Estel on Midsummers five years ago there in Minas Tirith.

       I’ve sent a letter to him as well, although he won’t receive it till he returns  from war.  Remember me to Legolas and Gimli if you see them.  And if you meet a lad named Lasgon or Mistress Loren, remember me to them as well.

                            Your faithful servant,
                            Peregrin Took
                            Guard of the Citadel and Heir to the Thain and the Took

       Lindorn, one of the younger boys, asked, “Who is Estel?”

       Celebgil smiled.  “It’s one of the King’s names.”

       Ruvemir nodded.  “I admit, the Lady Arwen is the most beautiful woman I’ve seen yet, although the picture I’ve seen of her grandmother indicates the Lady Galadriel was at least as beautiful, if not moreso.”  He laughed.  “Apparently the King of Rohan and the Lord Gimli the Dwarf got into an argument over this very question, for Gimli has declared the Lady Galadriel the most beautiful woman in the history of Arda.”

       Meredin urged, “Read another.”
      
Dear Master Ruvemir,

       I know I got it right this time!  I know I did. 

       I know Pando is brave.  Of course he is--he’s already faced the most frightening thing possible and survived--me!  Oh, I’m just teasing.  I’m so glad as he is doing well.

       He has written me once from Mistress Andurien’s house, and tells me he loves working with clay.  But he hasn’t told me of Raineth yet.  Bet he is afraid I’ll tease him about her.

       I’ve had the greatest fun helping Pippin with his trick on Sam.  He built a little house and put it in the garden at Bag End, and had a small smudge lit down the chimney to make smoke.  Then every morning I’d slip into the garden and put another smudge down the chimney--until Sam caught me.  Now he does it every morning, and Elanor and I make up stories about the wee folk who live there.

       One day I hope I can come to see Minas Anor.  It must be very beautiful.  Please send me a picture of the King and the Lady Evenstar.  Sam and Cousin Frodo say she is the most beautiful woman they ever saw, although Cousin Frodo said the same about the Lady Galadriel.  I’m not certain how both could be the most beautiful, but Cousin Frodo said you’d have to see them both to understand.

       Pippin’s and Diamond’s wedding was very beautiful, and everyone in the Shire who attended the Free Fair went to it as well.  I ate and danced with Landenthal Took.  He’s a North-Took, and one of Diamond’s younger cousins.  Now Jolly Cotton teases me about my beau.  He should talk--he has three lasses he is seeing--can’t make up his mind, my mother says.

       Give my love to your lady wife, and tell us when you come back North.  I hope you can do more work now on the figures.  My Da laughs to think the Big Folk of Gondor want to see figures of Hobbits, although he knows the Travelers did something special.  Hope to see you soon.
                                   Yours,
                                   Cyclamen Proudfoot

       “Who is she?” asked Mardilion.

       “A younger cousin to Lord Frodo--she lives in Number Five Bagshot Row.  The old smial that was there was where the Lord Frodo was born, although his family removed to Buckland not long after, and later somewhere in Tuckborough.”

       “This is a real place, the Shire?” asked Lindorn.

       “Oh, yes, it’s real.”

       The letter from Mistress Estella indicated the shield was back up on the wall, and the guard was relaxed somewhat; that by Mistress Rosie that Lord Samwise had become fascinated by the stories that Cyclamen and Elanor were making up about the house in the garden; that by Master Saradoc that he was so proud of the manner in which, during the spring’s alarms, his son had simply taken up his arms and arranged for patrols around the borders of the Shire, going to the Southfarthing and the Northfarthing himself to see to it while Pippin and the Tooks saw to the Westfarthing’s defense.  One Man had been found trying to enter the Shire, and he was handed over to the King’s Rangers who patrolled the outside of the borders.  Since then things had become better, and the Rangers reported less activity by undesirable sorts anywhere in Eriador, although there were reports from Dale that were disturbing.  That of Merry’s spoke of the pony and the weddings and the birth of Sam’s daughter, and the gladness that Melian had been born well and happy, and was surrounded by the love of her parents.

       Finally they came to Sam’s letter. 

Dear Master Ruvemir,

       I am so glad to have received your letter, but so sad to hear as old Strider’s had to go off to war and to fight again.  He’s had to do that almost all of his life, you know.  And what a time, just after his daughter’s born!  Not fair.

       There was reports of troubles outside the Shire in the Spring, but all seems better now.  Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin went out on patrols of the borders and saw to it that the new Shiriffs know what they’re doing.  Only heard tell of one Man trying to get into the Shire, but no details.

       My garden’s beautiful, but I had an unexpected addition as I suspect the others have told you in their letters.  It’s the dearest little Hobbit house, with a chimney that mysteriously smokes every morning, and Elanorelle dotes on it, she does.  She and Cyclamen make up stories of them as lives in it constantly, and I love to hear them told.  Lately, she’s been having her Uncle Frodo visit in the stories, only now he’s small enough to live in the little house, and he creeps into her room to watch over her of a night, then into ours to watch over us.  She says that when I wake up he takes the place of the figure you carved for me, and sits so still I think as he’s the little statue.  It makes me smile, it does.  Was a time such a story would make me weep, but now it makes me smile.  

       So I imagine him sitting on the bench by the door, looking down on the Party Field, with his pipe in his hand as he used to afore we went on our adventure, smiling at the Mallorn Tree, telling tales of Lothlorien, of Nimrodel and Amroth, the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn.  The hole is still there, and it waits to be filled one day; but I know now that day will come, when the time is right.

       I suspected Strider’d use that to look in on us, as he knew our bairn was due the same time as his.  Bless him and his Lady Wife.  The two of them are of them as makes the world to shine.  And he thinks my Rosie-lass is beautiful, does he?  Seeing his taste in womankind, that’s quite a compliment.  Yes, we named her for her beautiful mum, we did.  I hope that somehow Mr. Frodo finds out as well.  Maybe Gandalf will tell him.  I hope so.  I wonder--does the Lady Galadriel have her mirror there as she had in Lorien?  I would like that--maybe she can show him my dear lasses and my Frodo-Lad as is named for him.

       Sorry to hear of the troubles, but am so glad you wrote the rest as you did.  I know he’s eased--has to be eased by now.  And what you said of the King and the Valar, I am sure you have the right of it.

       Tell your Elise as how glad we are she is part of the family, as you are now, too.  And we hope to come see you in a year’s time, either here in the North or perhaps there in Minas Tirith--sorry, keep forgetting it’s Minas Anor, now.  My mind doesn’t like changing names, I find.  But we will see you, one way or another, if we can.  Where are the other two monuments to be done?  Will your apprentice come with you?  Take care now, and come when you can.

                                          Yours always,
                                          Samwise Gamgee

       “Is that really from the Lord Samwise?” asked one of the boys.

       “Yes.”

       “What would the King use to look in on them with?”

       Ruvemir smiled but shook his head.  “Not mine to tell you,” he said.  “You will have to ask the King.”

       “Does the Lady Galadriel live still in Lothlorien?” asked Gilmirion.

       Ruvemir became more solemn.  “No, she has left Middle Earth now and gone back to the Undying Lands.  She was standing beside the Lord Frodo on the Grey Ship that took them from the Grey Havens.”

       “I remember her when she came with the Lord Elrond and the Lady Arwen.  I’d always thought they were only stories told, until they came.  According to the old tales my grandsire read to me when I was a child, she was born in the Undying Lands before the time of the Trees.  Yet she is so very beautiful.”

       “Yes, so I am told.” Ruvemir sighed.  “I find myself jealous of those who were here to see them, the Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel, the Lord Elrond and the Lord Erestor and so many of the others who came for that wedding.”

       “The King himself looked almost an Elf the day they were wed.  His face was shining with blessedness and joy.”

       Ruvemir was truly amazed.  Gilmirion had been the most taciturn of all those who had served Varondil, yet now he was showing depths of feelings such as the mannikin would have never suspected in Gilmirion’s nature.

       “I know that when I have seen him look at his wife, you can tell his heart is lifted with delight, even when he is drawn and tired.”

       “He’s made so much better for all, our King Elessar.  I am so glad that we can serve him as he serves us.”

       Man and youth looked into one another’s eyes, and found each shared that same vision.  Ruvemir nodded.  “Yes,” he said, finally, “it is good to know that we serve him as he serves us.  He teaches us the nature of honor through his example, as do those who were with him and the Lord Frodo on their long journey.”

       Armanthol shook his head in wonder.  “I’ve never seen anyone like to him before, the King.  One moment he is grim and speaking of creeping upon others disguised as a Northern Ranger, and the next he is telling us of his awareness of the joys and sorrows of his lands, and the Light of Kings.”

       Ruvemir looked back to Aramanthol’s eyes.  “I know.  He’s a Man with many talents, many gifts, and is given to responsibility.  He has had to learn to be relentless in fighting the enemies of the Free Peoples, but his is the heart of a healer as well.”

       “And he honors the Lord Frodo?”

       “Yes, with all his being.”

       “What are the other commissions you are to do?”

       “The Steward of Arnor tells me the Northern Dúnedain wish a memorial done for all of the Fellowship of the Ring, for the King as the Ranger Strider, for our Lord Captain Boromir, for the great Wizard Mithrandir, for Prince Legolas and Lord Gimli, for the Lord Frodo and Lord Sam and Sir Merry and Captain Pippin, and for Bill the pony who followed them until they came to Moria.  I have yet to learn precisely where they wish this done--perhaps in Annúminas, or perhaps near Bree or near Imladris, where the Fellowship was formed. 

       “The other is for the Elves, and is to show the riding of the Elves who left with the Lord Frodo, and is to be placed near Mithlond, the one true remaining Elven city in the North.  Although from what Lord Samwise said in Brandy Hall it may be that there are few there left.”

       “How does he know?” asked Meredin.

       “He rode with the Lord Frodo at the last.  He saw the growing weakness in his Master, the realization that he would die if he remained here, the acceptance that he was too badly wounded still to recover.  The Lord Samwise rode by his side at the end, received his blessing, bade him goodbye--until they meet again.”

       “When will that be?”

       “I suspect after Mistress Rosie has died, then Sam will go to the Havens himself, take his own Grey Ship across the Straight Path to Elvenhome.”

       “And they will live ever there?” asked Lindorn.

       “No, only until it is their time to give up their lives at last.  Then they will go where the Elves cannot come until Arda is no more--if then.”

       “I don’t know I want to go there myself if there is no chance for Elves to come there, too,” said Celebgil.

       “We do not know the Creator’s mind regarding any of us, save that He loves us, His children.”

       “Well,” said Meredin, “as Elves are as much Children of Iluvatar as are Men, then there is a good chance that they will join us there, or we will join them wherever there is to go next.”

       Armanthol sighed.  “A few weeks ago I did not know there were truly Elves in Middle Earth, or Dwarves--much less Hobbits.  Now I have seen Elves and Dwarves, and have heard letters from the Pheriannath.  What other strange creatures are there in this world?”

       Ruvemir laughed.  “A year ago I’d met none of them myself.  Although the time of Mankind is now upon Middle Earth--Elves are leaving for the Undying Lands, and the Orcs are few now, probably won’t remain now that there is no Dark Lord to remember the way of their twisting.  I doubt that the Ents will remain where Men can see them easily for many more years--they will most like once more isolate themselves in Fangorn and become once more only a memory.  And Dorlin has told me how his people are dwindling as well.  How long it will be before there are no others of the Children of Iluvatar and the creatures of the Enemies than Mankind, who can say?”

       “I’m glad I won’t be here to see that,” Celebgil said, quietly.  “I hate that the end of the Eldar Days is now.”

       “I doubt the Elves will linger long beyond the death of our Lord King,” Ruvemir said, now sadly.  “He is the last King of the Eldar Days, the last to bring all the Children of Iluvatar together.  A great light will leave this world when he at last lays him down.”  He looked to Celebgil’s eyes.  “Like you, I hope I don’t live past him, see perhaps predominantly Men left in this world, the only memory of the diversity of the Children of Iluvatar in the tales from before our times.”

       The apprentices all nodded their agreement.

Healing and Anger and Healing Again

            Early the next day there came a pull at the bell, and Liana opened the door to find the King himself and his brothers were there with Gilfileg, Eregiel, Hardorn, the Lord Glorfindel, and the Queen and her child.  She allowed them into the day room and hurried to knock at the door to the chamber where Master and Mistress slept to tell them. 

            The master did not appear surprised with the coming, or, after a moment’s reflection, with the choice of the early hour for the visit.  “I suppose,” he said slowly, “it is his way of balancing what is happening outside the walls, then.”  He pulled on his threadbare robe, at which Elise gave a sigh of embarrassment, and went out to greet the guests of his house, asking Liana to boil water in the kettle which had been the Midsummer gift he’d learned after the letters were read had been sent as a Midsummer’s gift by Master Sam and Mistress Rose, along with a teapot and large tin of the tea he blended.  “Set water to boil in the kettle, then bring it with the pot and the tin and mugs, and we will enjoy the Lord Sam’s blending.”

            The Queen caught Elise’s discomfort regarding the robe and laughed.  She beckoned the smaller woman forward and whispered in her ear.  “You are certain it will work?” asked Elise.

            “It is the only thing that will.  It must resemble it as it was when new as much as possible, although I doubt even new ones will allow me to find an end for his old riding leathers.  There are too many memories tied to them.”  The women laughed at the vagaries of menfolk, and their husbands looked to them, then ignored them as they shared the understanding of the need for that which was familiar and comfortable in a world too given to throwing troubling changes at its inhabitants.

            Elise went up to waken and summon the apprentices downstairs.  All came down somewhat discomforted, uncertain what the King’s presence presaged.  However, as they saw him smiling at them, they drew courage and stood together, then bowed as one to their liege.

            “I will leave here and go to the Houses of Healing and then the First Circle, where I will meet with the others held there in the Children’s House and those who have returned to their families, who have been summoned there just ere noon.  But too many of you, even if Varondil did nothing to you, have been too deeply hurt by what you have come to know through him.  Physical love of this sort is not meant for children, and with good reason.  It brings together body and spirit in a manner intended to be awakened only when the mind is mature and able to understand fully how special the sharing is, how the one with whom the sharing is done is the one who helps complete the other.  Otherwise love becomes merely an appetite to be quenched, one that can become an overwhelming passion in and of itself, perpetuating the cycle of abuse you have already seen.

            “We will attempt to relieve the guilt and shame as well as we can, along with the compulsion to seek out physical intimacy divorced from love.  We cannot restore innocence, however--only hopefully help you find the hope to find at the right time the one with whom your love is intended to be shared.”

            The cook entered, surprised to find the entire household awake so early, then to realize the identity of those who had come to the house.  The King and Queen offered her courteous greeting, and admitted they would gladly share a dawn meal with those here; but they asked first that water be set to boil in quantity, and that basins of the boiling water be readied to be brought out to them when called for as they dealt with each apprentice.

            Suddenly the King straightened as if listening, and sighed.  Realizing what this must mean, Ruvemir turned to the cook and bade her hurry with the water, pour the water in the kettle in a basin and set it also boiling anew for the tea if necessary.  Again brothers and wife came to the King’s comfort, and the youths watched in confusion.  It was some minutes ere the King looked to the face of the Queen, murmuring, “They were rapid and sure.  The suffering was minimal.”  The cook came out with the first requested basin, and Elrohir again drew out leaves from a packet he carried, rolled them between his hands, breathed on them, then dropped them with a healing invocation into the water and held it before the King.  The room was filled with the odor of rushing streams and green hills, and all watched as their Lord breathed deeply and the tension flowed from his form, although the solemnity remained.  He and the Lady Arwen held one another’s hands, looked to one another’s eyes.  Finally he murmured, “It is well.  Let us continue.”

            They started with the youngest, each called to either King or one of the sons of Elrond, the Queen and Lord Glorfindel moving from pair to pair, adding to their easing.  Ruvemir and Elise went with Liana into the kitchens to speak with her and the cook about what was occurring and why, and the two women both found themselves looking back out to the outer rooms with more compassion.  Gilfileg would come in and indicate they were ready for a basin of water, and the cook would pour water into one of those gifted to the Master and Mistress by Celebgil’s family for him to carry out to one of the three directing the healing.  The cook set her breakfast cooking, grateful that Liana had been competent at setting the stove burning, for she’d been up early to start the baking of the bread set to raise the evening before.

            The King called for Ruvemir and another basin, making the sculptor sit before him as had the three apprentices he’d dealt with, then offering his special easing of the tension and frustration the mannikin had dealt with since he’d gone south.  The sculptor was amazed to realize just how tense he’d become, how much tightness had come into his body and spirit.  The relaxation was amazing, and he found himself wondering if he was going to fall asleep where he sat.

            The odor of the athelas was different this time, combining the scent of the stand of larches with the slightly sweet odor given off by the marble dust produced when he worked the marble of Casistir and another scent, one reminiscent of----

            The King looked at him closely.  “Sam?  You now find Sam Gamgee and his pipe soothing?  I knew that in some way we were brothers of the heart, you and I, but had not looked to that!”  The King’s hands were on his, and Ruvemir looked up into the King’s eyes, then felt a similar thrill through his body to that he and Elise had shared the day they wed, and saw that the King this time shared it with him, saw his eyes dilate and his mouth open just the slightest bit, his awareness focused on something slightly beyond....

            At last Aragorn looked once again down on Ruvemir, consideration in his eyes, a smile lighting his countenance.  “The act of healing,” he said, slowly and softly, “tends to tie healer and the one healed to one another in a unique way.  Very rarely, however, does it offer back as it has done just now.  Mistress Rosie suggested that you yourself are gifted as a healer of the heart, and I believe she is right.  Certainly these--” he indicated the youths in the room “--have known an easing of their hearts which has made the offering of the gifts of healing Elrohir, Elladan and I can give easier to administer, more easily accepted.  But just now--I have felt an easing, a surety that the one thing I desire more than almost all others will happen--at the appointed time.  I thank you, my small brother.”  And he rose and bowed deeply, while Ruvemir found himself flushing as strongly as ever did Samwise Gamgee.

            The cook had the dawn meal finished now, and all sat down to eat, the table drawn out to its fullest extent, all the extra leaves inserted.  A merry meal it was, going swiftly from the solemnity of the Standing silence to stories shared, jokes essayed, riddles asked and guessed.  Gilmirion seemed to sit amazed for a time, then began telling stories of what he and his brothers used to do to their sister, and her small vengeances on them.  Then the King began telling of the travails of traveling with Hobbits, the learning of their small quirks, the jokes they would play on one another to ease the tension and to bring laughter at times when things grew grim; yet they could still display their remarkable ability at the right time to simply do what needed to be done with no need for direction, their ability to sense when comforting was needed, whether through the offering a cup of tea or simply someone’s hand to hold when all seemed to be overwhelming.

            “It was so much beyond their experience, to be walking through the wilds like that, no comfortable beds or chairs or mugs of ale, many days when we dared not light a fire so they could not even drink the tea that Samwise had brought with him for their comfort, much less have a warm meal.  Yet they kept at it, day after day, tightening their belts, seeking out edible plants and roots as we came upon them, spying out the small beauties which were offered us for the easing of our hearts as we traveled.”  And he looked up, caught the eyes of Gilmirion, and smiled, receiving back the shy smile of the apprentice. 

            Armanthol watched with wonder.  Elrohir had called for him just after the King called Ruvemir, and Elladan had called first Elise and then Liana, and so all the residents of the house had been granted easing that day.  Armanthol was not certain exactly what had occurred, but he now felt certain that this was indeed where he was intended to be, what he was intended to be doing.  He was not certain yet why or quite how, but knew that all was well with and for him, and he felt grateful.  He’d felt similarly the preceding day when the grief for his father had been eased, when he’d found himself able to weep and then let it go.  He found himself catching the eye of the sculptor, and sharing a smile with him.

            At last the meal was done, and still the King and Queen and the two Elves and three Dúnedain lingered for a time, finally going out onto the balcony where the King and Gilfileg lit their pipes and they spoke with Ruvemir for a time, sharing mugs of light ale, while the Queen sat examining the work of Mistress Elise and speaking with her and Liana and Cook, and after a time looking at the work the apprentices were doing.  Elise held small Melian and Angara, one on each knee, as the Queen spoke to each youth, praising the work they’d done, discussing the small triumphs.  By the time Lord and Lady finally were ready to leave, all the apprentices in the house were in the Queen’s thrall.

            Lindorn had peeked out at the King with his lit pipe in his hand and asked, “What is that he has?”

            “It is dried leaves of sweet galenas, what they call in the Northern Lands pipeweed.  Many in the North smoke it, although our father felt it was not the healthiest of habits.  But it soothes him, and does not appear to cause him any harm, although some there are we have seen are open to its worst effects and ought not to smoke it at all.  It is good to see him feel free just to be, for a short time, at least, a Man among other Men, speaking of wives and children and work with no reason for concern for entire realms at a time.”

            As the King’s party readied to leave, he turned to Ruvemir and Elise once more.  “Will you agree to come tonight to the feast in the Citadel?”

            Ruvemir and Elise exchanged glances, then smiled.  “We will do so, Lord, at your request.”

            “Good.  It will begin at the tenth hour.  Until tonight, then.”  He turned to Armanthol.  “As your articles of indenture require you to be in attendance on your master, we expect you to attend, also.  You will find there are such compensations to the rules that surround you.  A good day to all of you.”  Bowing, King, Queen, Elven brothers, and the two of his kin who went with him turned and made their way toward the Houses of Healing.

******* 

            It was late afternoon in the Rhunish Embassy, and the three sons of Agharan were gathered in Ifram’s quarters on the third floor of the house.  Shefti was seated on the broad sill of the window that looked down at the house of the Healer Eldamir and his wife’s family and the house of the sculptor to the left, while Moritum watched the last of Ifram’s preparations for the coming feast.  Ifram examined the effect of the belt scarf he’d chosen, decided the color wasn’t what he wanted, then chose a different one and tied it about his waist.  “You are determined to stay behind again, then?” he asked the younger brother, watching his reflection in the mirror.

            “I told you the last time I do not enjoy feasts.  Too many people, too many agendas, too many intrigues and secret thoughts hinted at behind eyes.”

            “Plus,” Moritum smiled as he settled his headscarf properly and tied it with its golden cord, “then you could not keep an eye on the enchanting creature in the house on the end.” 

            Shefti turned on him with protest while Ifram laughed.  “Face it, younger Brother, the lady Liana has your interest sparked.  I must say she is a lovely one, and since Ivarnon of the Bedui has dissolved the marriage she is now open to courting, you know.  There is no need to merely content yourself to watching her always from the windows of this place.”

            “She never gives me any attention,” Shefti sighed.

            “Nonsense--she watches each time you go in and out.  Her window is almost opposite yours, and in the evening I see her at it, looking to yours.”

            “She does?”

            Ifram sighed.  “Why is it at home we would have to bring a winnowing fan when we sought you out to drive away the beauties, yet here you have not the courage to go out and speak with the one who has caught your attention?”

            “It is different this time--she is no flirtatious girl, but a woman and a mother, one who has been married before.”

            “Yes, to Ivarnon of the Bedui.  She must be ready now for a real Man this time.”

            “He got a child upon her--he was Man enough, it seems.”

            “But not Man enough to accept the child he received.”

            Shefti shrugged.  “I suppose you have the right of it.”

            “You still should come.”

            “I will keep the house here--who knows--perhaps someone will come with another trade offer while you are at the feast.”

            “Nonsense--the ones with trade offers will be at the feast.”

            “Go on, the both of you, and enjoy the evening.”

            Ifram shook his head.  “You know not what you miss.  The food last time was superb, and there was the singing afterwards.  The Lord King Elessar is truly gifted, almost as are the Elves themselves.”

            “It is tempting--but, no.  To be there with the folk of the Bedui would be more than I could take.”

            “There is that,” Moritum muttered as he caught up his light cloak from where he’d laid it earlier on Ifram’s bed.

            Shefti rose and came forward to offer a final straightening of his older brother’s headscarf, gave both a close examination.  “You both look fine.  I will see you when you come back.”

******* 

            The feast was indeed wonderful.  The Ghan and Moritum this time sat by the side of King and Queen, with the ambassadors just beyond them, Ifram finding himself seated by Peveset and Rustovrid by the Shkatha of Rhun.  Again Ruvemir sat beside Ifram, for which the young ambassador was happy, while Lord Gilfileg sat beside Rustovrid.  Learning that Gilfileg was high in the lineage of the Sea Kings had impressed the Haradrim mightily, and tonight he spoke at length with him about Eriador and the northern kingdom of Arnor.  Abduleram and his folk from the Bedui were not far down the table from Moritum, seated between Prince Imrahil and Lord Eregiel.  There were more of the high Lords of Gondor at this feast than had been at the last one Ifram had spent seated by the sculptor, and fewer of the guild masters and their wives, although there were still a goodly number.  Elise sat near the Queen on the inner part of the table, where she cared for Melian.  Melian had slept through most of the meal, but seemed content to spend most of her time with either Elise or in the arms of her uncles or those of the Dwarf Gimli, who apparently doted on her.

            After the meal again there was a time of talk, and Ifram found himself much at his brother’s side introducing him to this lord or that guild master, quietly reviewing trade agreements between interviews or anticipating bargaining tactics likely to be used with the one approaching now.  They watched the dancing, and even joined in it a few times.

            Abduleram and his closest folk were behaving well, and were discussing the produce of their olive groves with a Lord with holdings in Anfalas who had much in the way of salted fish to trade.  Ivarnon was not taking part in the discussions, however.  Of course, he was not yet a holder of property, for his father still lived and ruled his own lands and family.  Instead he sat and nursed his goblet of wine.  Except, had they watched him more closely, they might have noted he was not truly nursing his drink, but was actually drinking pretty steadily, if slowly.  When the servers passed, he managed to surreptitiously have it refilled, and only Ivarnon himself realized that he was becoming quite drunk, although he did not truly care. 

            Ivarnon was still smarting from the happenings of the day previous, and still working at being angered as an alternative to facing the fear engendered by the threat he was under observation by Moritum, Abduleram, and agents from Gondor.  He’d believed that Abdurin would one day become the Shkatha and would restore the glory of Rhun.  Of course, there had not been any true glory for Rhun for many hundreds of years, certainly not since Sauron became its overlord.  What its former glory had been truly like none could say.  But the words had made Ivarnon swell with pride for several years, and he had convinced himself that Abdurin would be the one to establish Rhun’s predominance in Middle Earth, and that the King of Gondor himself would bow down to him and would recognize Rhun’s greatness.  Instead, Moritum had offered alliance to Gondor and all groveled at the feet of the King Elessar with his strange grey eyes and his grim face and his long, straight sword. 

            Now he had found where Liana had gone, he found himself thinking of her obsessively.  Why had she left him? he asked himself.  He was more than Man enough for any woman, he was certain.  He was choosing to forget he had cast her out, instead weaving a story in his mind where he had merely reproved her for her evil will in presenting him with a deformed daughter instead of the strong son he believed was his by rights; and in this story she had left him of her own accord, shamed to realize how he’d found out the right of her and yet was inclined to be merciful.  Now he had found her, he would seek her out, would bring her to her senses.  The small sculptor was deformed--he could keep the girlchild; Ivarnon would claim his wife anew, take her home, get her with child again, with children--twin sons this time, and she would bow before his masculinity, before his mercy, and she would beg for him to love her again as before.

            When he left the feasting hall no one noticed--or much cared.  He had not become involved in any of the discussions going on around the hall, had shown no interest in the dancing, was not particularly important, and had been rude to the few individuals who had approached him.  That he had left escaped the attention of pretty much everyone.

*

            Venedor of Lamedon was a merchant of some note--and he was also experiencing loss of vision as he aged.  It had become rather a joke among family and friends.  That he had come to the capital just as the King returned from the war in Rhun was propitious, as he was in place to receive an invitation to the feast honoring the end of the war and Ghan Peveset of the Wainriders, allowing him to discuss the types of goods the Ghan’s people had that might interest the people of Gondor and the types of goods Venedor handled and would be interested in selling in Mundolië.  Venedor excused himself from his talks with the Ghan in order to obtain a couple goblets of wine, but on his way back failed to see the small woman being spoken to by one of those from Harad.  Not only did he run into her and manage to knock her to the floor--he also managed to spill both goblets of wine he carried over her as he struggled to keep from falling himself. 

            Elise was surprised when someone ran into her--the dress she wore was of a golden color that ought, in this company, to have been clearly seen by anyone, or so she had thought.  To find herself not only now lying on the floor but now covered in wine was a shock.  Almost immediately she was surrounded by aid and concern, and the Lord King Elessar himself was assisting her to her feet and checking to make certain she had taken no permanent harm. 

            Assured that his daughter’s nurse was well enough and even laughing through the wine, Aragorn sought out her husband to escort her home, finding him near the pedestal where still stood the model for the memorial to the four Halflings, deep in a discussion on the nature of honor, Armanthol by his side.  Ruvemir, learning his wife had suffered a minor accident and required his attentions, immediately excused himself from the discussion to go and assist her.

            Ruvemir recovered the Lord Faramir’s mantle which he had worn to the Citadel and gently wrapped it around his wife, after which he accompanied her to take leave of the Queen, who, having regained custody of her daughter from Gimli, was herself making the decision she would withdraw from the party as Melian at this point both needed changing and feeding.  The Queen was properly solicitous and assured Elise all was well and she indeed should go home and change, and so the two left with the blessings of their sovereign and his lady wife, accompanied by Armanthol, who was expressing his reluctance to leave.  

            “Oh,” Ruvemir sighed, “I, too, am reluctant, for it had been my hope to be there in case the King is coaxed to sing again.  Ririon is enchanted with his voice, and I must say I am as well.  Of course, any singing by the Elves is well worth the hearing; but the singing of the King is also well worth the hearing, as it appears to blend much of the best of his mixed heritage, as he is descended both from Men and Elves.”

            The Guards at the top of the ramp saluted them, as did those at the bottom as they turned toward their home.  As they came to the lane that led to their house, however, they could hear raised voices, one of a Man and one of a woman.  These spoke not the Common Tongue but the language of Rhun, but it was clear the discussion was not going pleasantly. 

            Ruvemir broke away from Elise.  “Stay here with Armanthol,” he cautioned, and he walked forward to find out what was the matter with Liana.

            He found her struggling to break the grip on her hand by the one who had been her husband, who was obviously very drunk and belligerent.  Ruvemir approached with concern for her and frustration with the one from Rhun.  Realizing Liana was in pain from the Man’s grip, Ruvemir raised his cane and brought it down on the other’s wrist, taking him wholly by surprise.  Ivarnon was shocked at the blow and the fact he was involuntarily letting go of Liana’s arm, and was pulling his hand to him, clutching at the right wrist with his left hand, staring stupidly at the determined figure facing him.

            “You have no right, first, to approach Liana at all as you yourself cast her out of your home when you found yourself angered not to get the son you wanted, denying yourself the child Iluvatar sent you to teach you delight and patience,” Ruvemir said.  “You have no right at any time to compel a woman against her will, even if your marriage were still valid in the ways of your people.  And, as I said yesterday, she is now a dweller within my home; and although she is not my wife, yet she is still under my protection.  Now, I strongly suggest you enter the quarters given you while you are a guest of the city, and that you take a very cold bath and sober up somewhat.  Liana, I suggest you go in quickly.”

            Liana nodded and hurried to the door.  She’d only come out to shake out the mat at the door before her master and mistress returned, and had found Ivarnon, reeking of the fumes of much wine, approaching from the street.  He’d called out to her to wait, and stupidly she’d done just that.  Oh, if she had only turned and entered in and closed and secured the door then!  But, no, she’d stayed to see what he wanted, and in a moment’s time he had grabbed her arm and wrist and had begun to pull her down the street, insisting she was yet his wife and should return to him, leaving the damaged child with the deformed man who so resembled it.  “I am magnanimous,” he’d been declaring against her protests at the moment Master Ruvemir arrived.

            Once in, she peered out.  Ruvemir was standing quite still, now between Ivarnon and the door, leaning now on his cane.  “Will you not seek to recover your honor, sir?” he asked.  “It is unbecoming to try to force a woman to compliance at any time.” 

            Perhaps if he had not spoken again all might have been well; but at the hint that Ivarnon had shown less than honorable actions the drunken Man was stung.  He’d been forbidden to take with him his sword to the feast, but he had carried his belt knife and several other weapons about his person.  “You--you abomination!” Ivarnon hissed between clenched teeth.  “You have no right to discuss honor with me!”

            “No right to discuss honor?” sighed Ruvemir.  “The King himself has laid it upon me to discuss exactly that.”  He turned his torso to assure himself that Liana was safe, and at that moment Ivarnon reached into his belt and drew a dart and threw it, catching the mannikin in the right side of his ribcage, then pulled out his belt knife and rushed forward.  He was felled when an ink bottle struck his head from the house opposite, thrown from a window above.

            The surprised guards from the gate and porch of the Rhunish embassy came running, and soon had Ivarnon secured.  Shefti was running down from his room and out the door to see to the condition of his neighbor as, with a word to Elise to remain where she was, Armanthol was racing back to the ramp to summon more aid.

            Eldamir had been invited to attend the feast, but had begged off, having had more than a full day in the Houses of Healing.  The day had been hot, even here in the Sixth Circle of the city, and all he wished was to spend some time this evening with his children and his family--particularly with his wife.  When they could hear the raised voices outside he’d begun to rise to see to the matter when he heard the voice of his neighbor and former patient intercede, and he’d relaxed again.  He had great faith in the skills of Master Ruvemir to calm others, so he’d resumed his tickling of his youngest son, only to have it interrupted again by the scream of shock by a woman.  Immediately the game with his son was forgotten, and barefoot he raced out of his house into the lane.

            The guards from the Rhunish embassy stood over a Man sprawled on the roadway, and beyond them a woman wrapped in a short blue cape was starting to kneel over the body of another in a blue shirt.  “Ruvemir!” she was crying, almost hysterical with fear.  Eldamir came to her side, and she looked at him with shock and supplication.  “He threw something at him, and it caught him in the side of his chest!” she said.  “Then he fell!” 

            The housekeeper was racing out now, followed by several of the apprentices, as well as Eldamir’s own from his own house.  His father-in-law was not there, working late in the Citadel due to the feast being held there, but he knew that he could count on Tergil, his older son, to assist as needed.  Eldamir was checking the pulse on the side of the mannikin’s throat--it was racing and erratic.  He was checking the side, found the dart.  He turned to Tergil.  “Bring me my bag, as swiftly as possible,” he said.  Tergil had retrieved it before he could blink.  “Now, open it and bring out the packing gauze,” Eldamir ordered.  Again Tergil complied, having begun to follow the order before it was fully spoken.  Gauze in hand, Eldamir removed the dart, lifted the tunic his neighbor wore, and pressed the gauze to it.  The lung had been punctured and was in danger of collapse.  Ruvemir was conscious, but overwhelmed by the insult done his body, his eyes wide and dilated with the shock he now experienced. 

            “It is well enough,” Eldamir murmured.  “We will be lifting you in a moment’s time and taking you to the Houses of Healing.

            Shefti of Rhun now knelt beside him, begging to know if there was aught he might do.  “I heard the noise from my room, looked out to see this one facing Master Ruvemir, saw him throw a dart.  I had a new bottle of ink in my hand I was starting to uncap when I simply threw it at him and managed to strike him with it,” he said. 

            Eldamir ignored him as best he could.  “He is being overcome with the shock,” he said, interrupting the scribe’s continued words.  “We must get him to the Houses of Healing.  I need to see to the other--let you hold this here against the side, and do not release the pressure if you value his life.”

            Shefti stopped his explanations, nodded his head, put his hand over the gauze and kept the pressure on it as Eldamir turned to the other sprawled Man.  He saw the shattered ink bottle, the rising bump on the side of the head.  He felt the pulse--knocked out, but no great likelihood of serious injury, the Valar be thanked.  “No need to bind him,” he said.  “But if you can carry him to the Houses of Healing we will put him in one of the secure rooms.  The alcohol he has consumed is of more danger to his health, I deem, than the blow to the head.”  The guards nodded, and as more of their fellows came out, two were detailed to take the place of the two now standing over the fallen Ivarnon while they carried him to the Houses.

            Shefti was white with shock himself, but knelt, ready to follow orders as they were given.  Eldamir knelt once more over the mannikin, felt his pulse.  It was becoming more thready.  He looked into the other Man’s eyes.  “We need to take him now.  Keep the pressure as steady as you can as I shift him to lift him.”  Shefti nodded, and carefully Eldamir rolled the sculptor to lift him, then, once he had him lifted in his arms he put his own hand over the gauze and took over the pressure on it.  “Go before me and alert them.  Tell them punctured lung and shock to the body.”

            The Rhunim nodded and hurried before him.  He nodded at Tergil to bring his bag, and followed after.

*******

            The King was laughing at a story told by Moritum of Rhun when suddenly he stopped, his face paling.  The young Shkatha was surprised, then saw a look of grave concern on the tall Man’s face. 

            “There is an emergency,” the King of Gondor said, his expression distant. “I am sorry, I must go, and at once.”

            “I will come with you, then,” said Moritum, at which the King nodded in distraction.  Together they hurried to the door, and others watched after. 

            A nod from Aragorn as he passed, and Faramir realized he was now in charge.  “The King has been summoned away by an urgent need elsewhere,” he announced to the party.  “Let all continue as before.”  The musicians continued, and the others turned back to their discussions, and soon most had forgotten the hurried exit of the King of Gondor and his guest from Rhun.

            Hardorn turned to accompany the King out of the hall and the Citadel.  “Something to do with Ruvemir,” the King was saying.  “He’s been seriously hurt.  Eldamir is with him, I think.  We must go to the Houses immediately.”  Hardorn nodded. 

            A figure was running toward them as they hurried toward the ramp--Armanthol of Umbar.  “The Rhunim--he was dragging Liana, was hurting her.  Master Ruvemir stopped him, struck him with his cane, told him to go in and take a cold bath.  The Rhunim threw something at him, caught him in the chest.  Master Ruvemir fell.”  Nodding, the tall figure of the King ran the rest of the way, pursued by his bodyguard and Moritum of Rhun.

            Elise was sitting inside the entrance to the Houses of Healing, her face white, Ioreth kneeling before her, her hands between the elderly healer’s.  She was surrounded by apprentices, the King noted.  Shefti of Rhun stood near, also, as did Tergil, older son to Eldamir.  The boy was pale but steady.  “Ada has him, my Lord,” he said.  “Punctured lung, shock.”

            “Thank you,” the King said in passing, letting his hand brush the boy’s head as he hurried.  A page met him, led him to a treatment room.  “Boiling water is being brought now,” he said.  The King nodded, entered in, still followed by Moritum.  They were cutting away the shirt--so much for Miriel’s work, he thought, sad for the loss of the garment.  But then he was leaning over, taking the cone offered by the healers that was often used to listen to the heart and lungs, setting it near the wound, placing his ear to it.  There was the soft sound of air escaping the lung, the indication blood was taking its place.  He looked at the site, looked to the face of the healer. 

            “I think it should be well,” Eldamir was saying.  “I was with him almost immediately, and I had gauze to put over the wound ere I removed the dart.”  He produced the dart from his pocket, and the King examined it.

            “Not too bad a wound, then,” Aragorn commented.  “You have kept the pressure steady?”

            “As steady as we can.  I believe it is the only wound.”

            The King set his hand over that of Eldamir, indicated he should remove his own hand.  He closed his eyes and let his hands see, feel the way of the wound, the breach in the tissues of flesh, muscle, and lung.  He began to sing the invocation to Manwë, Elbereth, Estë, and Ulmo, felt the strength of that invocation augmented by the green stone he wore, felt the strength he sought pass into him, through him.

            The door opened and the water was brought to him, and he accepted it with a gesture of thanks.  Nodding, he let Eldamir again resume the pressure as he took the athelas from the tray, bruised it while still singing the invocation, breathed upon it, cast it in, held it near the still face.  He placed one hand on the temple, feeling the pulse, then felt the invocation take him as it would at times.  The pulse slowed, began to strengthen.  The breathing slowed, steadied, still somewhat shallow, but stronger.  He felt the song reach deep into the wound, begin to knit the flesh, the small vessels which had been breached.  The bleeding slowed, the seeping of air stopped.  He smiled as he felt the awareness begin to return, awed and amazed to find the pain fading already.  A slight wound, yet serious--but so swiftly easing.  He let his own thankfulness fill the remains of the hymn.

            Ruvemir looked up sideways into the grey eyes leaning over him.  “It was Liana’s former husband.  Please, do not call for his death--he was drunk and my words provoked him,” he whispered.  “Do not give yourself that....”

            “Shh, rest now, my friend,” the King murmured.  “I will see to him soon, but not yet.  You must rest and allow the body to heal.  There is some blood in the lung--we must watch that you do not take the lung fever again.”

            There was a small nod from the mannikin, and the King felt the last of the healing virtue soothe him as he drifted into a light sleep.  He again let his hands feel deep.  “The breach is sealed,” he said quietly.  “You can let off.”

            With a sigh of relief Eldamir pulled his hand away, and the gauze was at last lifted.  Dipping a cloth into the cooling water, Aragorn gently cleansed the site of the wound, noted it was already showing the development of clean tissue.  He then looked down and saw that there were bloody footprints on the floor up to where Eldamir now stood, and several spots of blood showing where he had shifted his position during the time he’d been by the bed.

            “Your foot is bleeding,” he said.  “Sit you in the chair and let me check it.”

            “I must have stepped in the broken glass,” the healer said.  “I must have run through it as I carried him here.”

            Aragorn sighed, asked for the finest tongs, a clean knife with small, sharp blade, dipped another cloth into the athelas water, knelt and began to cleanse the bloodstained foot.

*******

            Ivarnon awoke with aching head and great nausea.  He was lying on his side on a bed of the sort slept on in Gondor.  A light blanket was over him, and a Man stood nearby holding a basin.  “Ah, awakening at last,” the Man said.  “You will need this, I think.”  Ivarnon was able to raise himself sufficiently to be over it as the nausea finally took over, and he began to retch.  Someone else was behind him, supporting him until the bout was finished.  Then it began again, and this time some splattered elsewhere before they got him lifted again.  Finally all seemed to be at an end, and a glass was being offered to him.  “Rinse your mouth with this,” the Man was saying.  He did so and spat into the basin.  The bile began to rise again, but he fought to hold it down, and managed to do so. 

            The Man was examining the contents of the basin.  “Mostly wine.  If you’d only eaten more perhaps you would not be as badly off as you are now.  Now, we must get you out of the bed so it can be made anew, then you can lie and sleep for a time.”  They assisted him to rise and brought him to a chair.  He realized the one who had supported him was one of the guards from the embassy, and the look the Man gave him was full of disgust and open anger.  He could not think what the guard had to be angry about, really.

            Others came in and changed the linens, pillow, and blanket on the bed, and finally he was guided back to it once more.  He sat on the side of it, leaning over, looking at the clean basin which now lay on the floor between his feet, contemplated the possibility he might need it.  His memories were beginning to return, and he wondered if he would do more, once he left these rooms, than to go down to the place where Abdurin had died.

            Then the door opened once more, and he looked up into the face of the King Elessar of Gondor.  The tall Man’s face was set, studiously neutral.  He gestured, and the chair was brought near.  He sat in it, took Ivarnon’s wrist, felt the pulse.  His hand went to Ivarnon’s temple, felt the pulse there, also; lifted the face so he could look into his eyes.  The King examined his eyes, his mouth, gums, hands, nails.  He leaned forward to listen to Ivarnon’s chest, then his roiling belly.  “An infusion of athelas, willowbark, and  mint,” he said to the other Man, the one who’d offered the basin before.  The Man nodded, went to get what was needed.  The King’s hand felt the bump where he’d been struck.  There was some crusting of blood in the hair, and he asked for clean water and cloths to wash it so he could examine the wound.  Then a razor was brought so he could shave around the wound to protect it from infection. 

            “It will need but a single stitch,” he told the Man, who’d returned with the draught.  The King held the cup while Ivarnon drank, and then the door opened again, and Moritum entered as the other left.

            “They have the sculptor settled in a bed, and the healer’s son has gone to bring his father clean coverings for his feet,” the Shkatha reported.

            “Thank you, my Lord Moritum,” the King replied.

            Moritum looked at Ivarnon glumly as he stood behind the King’s shoulder.  “I grieve, my Lord Elessar, that we must deal with this one after all.  It had been my hope that, with the example of his brother, Abdurin, Davit, and Bordig before him he would at least demonstrate a level of discretion.  However....”  He let the sentence hang.

            “Master Ruvemir has indicated he desires we be lenient still with this one,” the King sighed.  The door opened again, and the other Man returned with a tray on which lay a basin of steaming water, a green leaf, a needle strung with silk thread, and some clean cloths.  The King thanked him, gently rolled the leaf between his fingers and with whispered words committed it to the water, then held the basin before Ivarnon’s face.  The scent was that of the desert air at dawn, clean and dry.  After a moment the King replaced it on the tray, took one of the cloths, and dipping it in the water washed the wound once more, then picked up the needle and thread.  He turned to Moritum.  “Please hold his hands while I do this,” he asked, then rose to stand beside Ivarnon, leaned over him. 

            In but a moment it was done, and with remarkably little pain.  Then, as the other removed the tray, King and Shkatha both looked at him, their faces again going neutral. 

            At last the King broke the silence.  “You are extremely fortunate,” he said quietly, “that Ruvemir turned when and as he did, that the dart struck his side and not his heart; that you did not reach him with your drawn knife; that the bottle of ink cast by Lord Shefti hit you and knocked you unconscious when and as it did; that the healer Eldamir was in his house and thus at hand when Ruvemir was struck and his wife cried out.  I will tell you this--had my sculptor died, it is very likely that you would even now be sitting in a cell in the Citadel,  the prospect of the rope at dawn before you.  Do you understand?”

            Ivarnon nodded shakily.

            “He tells me you were drunk, and that his words provoked this violence in you.  I would have you tell me what words so cast doubts on your manhood that you must seek to kill him.”

            “He said that my honor should keep me from trying to compel a woman to follow me against her will.”  Even as he said it, he realized that these were true words indeed.  He turned his head away and closed his eyes.

            Moritum gave a sniff of contempt.  “Had you entertained any honor, first you would not have carried more in the way of weapons than your belt knife and eating knife and spoon to the feast; second you would never have offered violence to one armed with no more than the staff on which he must lean to walk with comfort.”  Ivarnon felt himself nodding dumbly in response.

            The King sighed.  He looked at the Shkatha.  “I ask for right to judge this, my brother,” he said quietly.  Moritum nodded his agreement.  “I will spare your life, but you will enter servitude in the North Kingdom for a period of two years.  You will labor on the roads now being built and paved.  You will receive some pay for your work, which will be granted to you when your period of servitude is ended.  You will go north with my kinsman Eregiel when he leaves after our return.  Until then, once those here have determined you are well enough to bear it, you will be removed to the cells in the prison of the Citadel until Eregiel goes forth.  You will be well treated there, but will not be in any position to offer further violence to any.  Do you understand this?”

            Ivarnon raised his head, looked into the keen grey eyes.  “Yes, Lord Elessar.”

            The King’s examination of him went on for some minutes.  At last he gave a small smile.  “You have more honor, it appears, than Abdurin had, at least.  Perhaps you will find still more within you as you work.  So be it, then.  This is well with you, Lord Moritum?”

            “Yes, although I suspect Abduleram will cast him from the tribe of the Bedui for this.  It will be more than he will be able to accept, coming so close on the heels of the treachery of his son and his brother.”

            “When he is done, he may remain in Arnor, come back here, or return to your people as he pleases.  However, for now he remains in custody.”

            “So be it, then, as you have said.”

            Ivarnon sighed, found himself saying, “I am sorry to draw you from the feast.”

            The King looked at him, a hint of approval in his eyes.  “It is not the first time I have been called to the Houses of Healing from such a thing.  Rest now.  I see no signs of serious injury to the brain, no signs of the swelling or bruising.  You will recover quickly.”

            With that the two rulers withdrew, and Ivarnon was left in isolation for the night.  His weapons had all been removed.  Sighing, he lay down, and after lying there thinking for some time, he fell asleep.

******* 

            It was familiar, somehow, waking up, propped almost upright in a bed not his own, that same presence beside him.  “How do you feel?” the voice asked.

            He opened his eyes to find himself as before in the Houses of Healing, the King beside him.  The Lord Elessar wore riding leathers, but this time not the worn greens with which he was familiar, but new, rather formal looking leathers dyed a clean blue-grey, embossed and inlaid with the signs of White Tree on the left breast, Seven Stars in a circle on the right.  “It appears,” he said in a whisper, “that the Queen seeks to replace the old ones.

            Aragorn laughed.  “Yes, it does appear that way, and that the leather workers she has approached feel the same.  But, once again, you have not answered my question.  How do you feel?”

            “Well enough.”  He looked to the window.  “It is not long after dawn.”

            “True enough.  I must away soon.  However, I first stopped to see to your condition, which appears far better than we’d hoped.  Let me listen to your chest.”

            After several moments of listening, first with ear pressed against Ruvemir’s chest and then through a tube he’d brought with him, he smiled.  “Well enough indeed.  There is no sound of gathering fluids or phlegm, although Eldamir will keep you here for at least three days more to assure such does not occur.  I fear it will be three days of boredom, breathing fumes and vapors, and drinking a variety of draughts intended to assist your body to expel any remaining blood from your lungs--and I will warn you several of those are most vile.”

            “Ah, you would warn me, then.  Now I will know to hide from them.”

            “Best not to do that, or Ioreth will find you and will regale you with the doings of each child within the Houses during the time of the pox in great detail as a penance.”  Ruvemir found himself laughing, and felt the catch in his side where the muscles still felt the pain of his injury.  He quieted, then had a thought.  “He who was husband to Liana....”

            “He is well enough.  He is still in the Houses this morning, but will most likely be removed to the prison this afternoon.  He has been granted two years servitude in Arnor, and the promise of a new start after.  Where that will be I don’t know, for Lord Abduleram has expelled him from the Bedui for his foolishness.  He may choose to remain there, or perhaps even to return, clanless, to serve Moritum.  I find there is a core of honor in his heart which may serve him well.”

            “I see.  Thank you, Lord, for your leniency for my sake.”

            His King smiled.

            “I had some letters the other night, by the way, from the Shire.”

            “So did I.”

            “Did Fredegar Bolger write to you, or Ferdibrand Took?”

            “No, but so far I’ve met neither.  It is hardly surprising.”

            “Ferdibrand entrusted Fredegar with a message to me, one which is of interest to you, my Lord Aragorn.”

            “Yes?”

            “He said to tell me that the Light in the West grows steadily brighter.”

            The King’s face itself glowed.  “Did he?  Send him my greetings, and my thanks and blessings.”

            “I will, my Lord King.”

Resuming Work

            The Healer Eldamir completed the examination of his patient and smiled.  “Well, Master Ruvemir, you are well enough to return home today.”

            The small sculptor sighed with relief.  The last three days had been not quite as boring as the King had predicted, but had been bad enough.  He’d spent much of it drawing, and prowling the halls of the Houses as often as he could escape the fumes and vapors.  He’d been shocked when he’d begun coughing up bloody matter out of his lungs, and relieved that by the second day what little he brought up was clear once more.  His side was healing quite quickly, but he was being reminded on all sides that the new tissue was still somewhat fragile and he must not tax it too much.

            “It’s well past time,” Ruvemir said, thinking of the work he could now resume.

            “Perhaps,” the Healer said.  “Ioreth will be bringing you the masks.  You will remember you are to change them at least once an hour when you work?”

            This was one of the conditions laid on him--that he must wear masks when he worked the stone or had anything to do with dust or smoke, that he not breathe anything into a lung possibly still vulnerable to irritation.  “I have promised,” the mannikin sighed.  “For the next two weeks.”

            “And if the Dwarves or the King seek to smoke around you, make them go out of doors to do so, and you are to stay upwind of them.”

            Ruvemir nodded.

            “If you have any congestion in the lungs in the next month, you will at the very least send one of your apprentices to fetch me--or have them bring you back to the Houses.”

            “Again, I have promised.”

            “Good enough, then.  Well, you may finish your dressing, and I grieve that we had to damage your shirt as we removed it, although it was already badly torn by the dart.”

            “It could not be helped.  And, if I know my sister, she will have another to me before I realize this one is quite well and truly gone.”

            Eldamir smiled.  Then he looked at the sculptor thoughtfully.  “There is one other thing I would ask of you.  It is at the suggestion of the King, by the way, who says he has found you have helped in the healing of hearts from time to time.  There is one here I would wish you to meet with ere you leave us today.”

            “One here?”

            “Yes.  Will you allow me to bring you to her?”

*

            The woman in the cheerful room on the upper floor of the second House had once been a great beauty--this was plain.  Her bone structure was still beautiful, but the skin was still too pale and fragile in appearance, the eyes now deeply shadowed.  She was sewing a small shirt, but looked up as Eldamir knocked upon her door. 

            “Master Eldamir?  How wonderful for you to see me today.  And who is this?”

            “A friend, one the King thought you might wish to meet.”

            “Welcome, then.  I am sorry this is not my home where I might show you proper hospitality, but I welcome you nonetheless.”

            “Mistress,” Ruvemir said respectfully, “it is an honor.  I am Ruvemir son of Mardil of Lebennin.”

            “Mirieth daughter of Lindeth and Mablung of the city, Master Ruvemir.  Have you been in Minas Tirith long?”

            Ruvemir gave a quick glance at the healer, who shook his head.  “I arrived last fall, so it has almost been a full year now I’ve spent in the White City.”

            “And what work do you do?”

            “I am a sculptor.”

            “I see.  My late husband was a sculptor.”

            He knew now who she was.

            “They found him, you know, my son.  Varondil told me he’d run away, but he was only trying to spare me.  But I can’t go to him yet.”

            “No, my lady, you can’t--not yet.”

            “You are the mannikin sculptor, then.  They tell me you have met the Pheriannath.”

            “Yes, Mistress, I have, save for the Lord Frodo.”

            “Why not him, then?”

            “He has gone to receive healing, my lady.  He cannot return.”

            “His esquire, he doted on the Lord Frodo.”

            “Yes, the Lord Samwise loves him very deeply.  They were like brothers.”

            “He did not go with him?”

            “No, for he had to remain to care for his wife and child.”

            “Does he grieve?”

            “He certainly has grieved, and does at times still.  But he knows they will meet again when the time is right.”

            “When the time is right....”

            “Yes, when his current commitments have been met, he will go to be with the Lord Frodo again.”

            “When his commitments are met....”

            “He was meant to be whole for a time, and to do that which the Lord Frodo could not any more, and this the Lord Frodo told to him, laid it upon him to live the more, for the both of them.”

            She smiled, a dazzling smile.  “Live for both of them?”

            “Yes, live for both of them.  The Lord Frodo will live in the Undying Lands and learn the ways of beauty to share with the Lord Samwise, and the Lord Samwise will raise his family for both of them, and bring that experience to share with his friend when they are reunited.” 

            She nodded.  “Yes, for when they are reunited.”  She looked down at the small shirt she worked upon.  “A little boy is here, one whose parents are no more.  His mother died a year past, and his father in the war.  His cousins have left the city and could not take him.  I sew this for him.”  She sighed.  “I started it for Varonion, but then he left us.  Young Borogil will wear it well enough, I trust.”  She looked on him.  “He is not my son--cannot ever be my son.  But if I can explain to him how important it might be to do as Lord Samwise does, to live the more for the both of them--it will be well, will it not?”

            “Yes, my lady, I think that would be very well.  Are you willing to do the same for his mother?”

            “Do you think she would like that?”

            “Oh, I am certain she would like that.  If you are willing to bring her word of how it was to watch her son grow for her--it would fill her heart with joy, I think.”

            She smiled again that brilliant smile, and he saw fully how beautiful she had been, and was still.  “Then I will do it.  And she can care for my Varonion for me.”

            “That would bring you joy?”

            “Oh, but yes.”

            “It is a good bargain, then.”

            As they left the woman’s room, Eldamir murmured, “It is the first she has admitted Varonion is no more.  But that she is now willing to live and to aid young Borogil to do the same--it will be well, I think.”

*******

            On the evening of his return home, Ruvemir noted that Liana was working in the small garden of flowers that grew under the front windows of the house.  Opposite Shefti sat upon the porch of the embassy, one leg elegantly resting against a support column for the roof, as he worked on a poem. 

            By the third day, the two of them were beginning to take breaks from their work and ambling to the wall at the end of the lane, looking out at the road to the north and the northern reaches of the Ephel Dúath.  There they would inexplicably meet. 

            By the fifth day they were giving up pretense of working, and were simply meeting at the wall and talking.  On the seventh day, Angara accompanied her mother out the front, and Ruvemir noted the gentleness with which Shefti lifted her to sit on his shoulders as he spoke with the child’s mother.

*******

            Master Iorhael’s shop had been closed for three weeks, and today, the first after his return, it was still closed.  He walked on by it to the workshop. 

            He looked on Gilmirion’s practice piece of the face of a woman and smiled.  He’d used the face of his own mother as the model, and had done a superb job of  doing it in stone.  “Excellent!” he told the young Man.  “It is very good.  Now, for the next one try the face of one you do not know as well. 

            He went along.  Young Lindorn had done a cat, and had done a creditable job.  Not excellent, but creditable; yet, as he was youngest among the apprentices, that was good enough.  Meredin, on the other hand had perfectly caught a hunting dog, yet he was not happy.  “Yes, it is a hunting dog, and is representative of the breed.  But it is not the particular dog I wanted to do.  It is not Fetcher.”

            He was just finishing up his evaluations when he saw a client had entered the room, carrying several packages in his hands.  Gorondir went to greet him, and after a moment came over to where Ruvemir was doing his last evaluations and explained, “It is you he particularly wishes to see, he says, Master Ruvemir.”

            “Explain that I must finish here and will be with him in a minute,” he answered, and completed his discussion with Marvilion before turning to the newcomer. 

            He was not someone Ruvemir recognized, yet he appeared familiar somehow.  “How may I assist you this day?” he asked the Man.

            “I am Firvidion son of Iorhael,” came the answer.  “He held the artists’ shop here in the Fifth Circle.”  Ruvemir nodded his recognition, and the Man, heartened, went on:  “My father spoke well of you and the work you do, and wished to be remembered to you.  You see, he had a brainstorm about three weeks ago, and died two days past.  It is sad to have him gone, yet at the same time it was not unexpected.  He asked if you might be patronized to do his effigy for his tomb, for he said he believed you would do an excellent job of capturing his seeming.  I have brought some studies I have done over the years of him.  He also asked that I bring you certain things, which he felt you particularly would appreciate.”  He gave the packages into Ruvemir’s hands.  Ruvemir carried them to an empty worktable and set them down, and began to open them.  The first contained folders of pictures of Iorhael as he’d been at various stages of his life.  “You did all of these?  You are an artist of note, sir,” he commented.  There was one in the packet, however, which made him stop, and then he smiled.  “Ah, here you have one done by the King’s Friend,” he said, “when he visited your father’s shop.  The Lord Frodo was, as I think you’ve noted, a superb artist.”

            The Man smiled.  “Yes, he was, and he and my father, he told me, spent some hours together, doing pictures, discussing art and books, discussing his home of the Shire, discussing the nature of the King.  Adar did one picture of the King’s Friend for the King, who ended by giving it to his friend’s Esquire, who had expressed appreciation for it, saying it was the only one done within the city that caught his Master’s nature.”

            Ruvemir nodded, the memories of Bag End filling him.  “Yes, I am aware.  It hangs now in the Lord Samwise’s study and is greatly honored by him.  It is an excellent piece of work.”  He looked at the picture a moment longer, and found the signature sign.  “Ah, there it is, the dragonfly.”  It was done as if it were a brooch in the artist’s cap.

            “Oh, you know the significance of it?” asked Firvidion.  “The actual brooch was of a fisher bird, and I did not understand the changing of it.”

            “It is his signature sign,” the sculptor explained.  “He came to make a game of working it into the pictures he did.”

            Firvidion smiled.  “Oh, so that is it, then.  Very clever, I must say.”

            “He did one picture of your father found among his possessions in his room, of your father drowsing in his shop.  I saw it when I was visiting in Bag End, and Lord Samwise and I examined it together.  I recognized your father in it, the first day I came to his shop.”

            They went through the other pictures, and Firvidion indicated the ones he favored, which included the one done by Frodo Baggins.  At last they were done with that folder, and Ruvemir began to open a second packet, whose contents he recognized immediately.  “The book of verse he wrote out and bound,” he whispered.  “Your father let me read out of it to my son--my ward, actually.  Ririon and I were both moved by it.”

            “That and this one Adar wanted you to have.  He said that you truly loved the King’s Friend.”

            “Yes, I have come to do so.  I cannot tell you how much this means to me.”

            “He said as much, and of this one as well.”

            Ruvemir did not have to open this one to know what it was.  “The picture of the old White Tree and the Citadel?”

            “Yes.  He said you were the one who saw the Queen’s image in it, caught in the branches of the Tree, when no one else did, although once you’d shown it to him he could ever see it after that.”

            Ruvemir nodded, tears gathering in his throat.  “This is greatly generous of you, sir.”

            “I will tell you a secret--I copied it for my own home.  It is a marvelous piece of artistry.  However, my Alna prefers to hang my own work on the walls.”

            The two artists smiled at one another.

            The last packet contained another, larger folder, filled with several pictures, most of them done by Iorhael, but a few done by other artists who had given him samples of their work.  One more picture he found done by Frodo Baggins, this time again of Bag End, and a rare piece in color.  “He gave my father two pictures of his home.  I kept the charcoal drawing,” Firvidion said, “and it will hang in my studio.  I will have to look to find the dragonfly now.  It took me several hours to decide which of the two I would keep.  There are a few others he did I will keep as well.  To have work done by such a one who did so marvelous an act--it is of deep meaning to me.”

            Ruvemir nodded.  “I understand,” he said quietly.  “And for me as well.”  He carefully placed the cover sheet over the painting Frodo had done of Bag End.  “I will frame this and it will hang in my room, where I can always look at it.  I have been into it, into Bag End, have slept there in what was the Lord Frodo’s own bedroom, have seen his circlet of honor and that of the Lord Samwise.  I hope that I might visit it again, and in the spring or summer to see the flowers blooming in the garden the Lord Samwise has grown for Lord Frodo’s delight for so many, many years.”  He looked up at the taller artist.  “There will be no fee for the making of your father’s memorial,” he said.  “It will be the tribute I will offer in memory of such an artist as your father.  He gave to Elise and me at our marriage the picture he’d done of the Elves facing the Dragon, and it hangs in the day room.”

            “He told me he’d given it to you.  I am glad my father’s work has found such a home.”

            An hour later a new block of marble lay on the worktable where Ruvemir had most of the effigies done now.  He set the plans paper on the floor and did a study of what he wished done, of the artist lying with a smile on his face, that gentle smile he had even when drowsing as caught by Frodo Baggins.  The apprentices looked on it with approval, and the next morning they started the rough cutting.

*******

            Several days later a couple and their son came to the workshop.  Ruvemir recognized the boy as one who had come frequently to the work site in the months he’d been working on the King’s Commission.

            “Our son wishes to be apprenticed as a carver,” the father explained.  “He has become enamored of the figures you do on the level of the Citadel, and desires to learn to do such work.”

            Young Owain was yet but ten years, which was young to become an apprentice.  “Are you certain?” asked Ruvemir, tugging at the mask he’d pulled down to his throat.  He’d been interrupted in the midst of work being done on the figure of Master Iorhael.

            “Oh, sir, please allow me to at least try,” begged the boy.  “I’ve watched you at work for so long now, and it is the most marvelous thing I can imagine doing.”

            “As he is not yet fourteen I may not have him full time,” Ruvemir explained to the boy’s parents.  “However, I can begin to school him, if he is truly interested.  He might not show much talent now, yet that will often come in time to those as young as he is.  But I can offer only a limited apprenticeship until he comes of age for full indenture.”

            His mother smiled.  “It will be well enough.  I don’t wish him to leave us fully as yet.”

            “His name is unusual.”

            “I am from the north, from Dale.  It is not as unusual a name there.”

            “Ah--then perhaps that is where his draw to stone comes from, then.  Many from that area seem to have the gift of artistry.  My own father’s mother’s family is from there as well.”

            And so there joined the group yet one more apprentice.

*******

            On the High Day Ruvemir took one of the ponies now housed in the upper stables and rode alongside Elise to the Second Circle where they joined her family for dinner.  He was not surprised to find Celebgil already there in Dorieth’s company, that Master Faragil joined them for the meal and stayed after he and Elise must leave, or that he saw a letter written in a familiar hand lying on the writing desk belonging to Mistress Lisbet.

            On the twelfth day after the last riding forth of the King came word that the King was returning, that he paused with his party in Osgiliath for the night.  Early in the morning of the next day the apprentices of the workshop, accompanied by Ruvemir and Elise riding on ponies, went down again in the train of the Queen to the great Gates of the city to be among those greeting the King’s return.

            Two hours ere noon the King’s party could be seen.  First came the King’s guard of mixed mounted soldiers and Rangers from both realms, including Gilfileg; then the King with the Lord Prince Faramir on his right and Captain Beregond in the white and silver of the Steward’s livery to his right; with Éomer King of Rohan and his guard to his left, Elrohir, Legolas and Gimli following behind.

            Moritum and the others he’d brought from Rhun had gone with the King when he rode East with Ghan Peveset.  Now behind the King rode a party of Rhunim to fill out the staff of the embassy, both men and women with wagons of furniture and supplies common to the folk of Rhun.  Last came the single light supply wagon used by the King, driven, Ruvemir noted with amusement, by Lord Hardorn.

            Again the King dismounted before they reached the gate, and the horse was sent in ahead of them.  He embraced and kissed wife and daughter, greeted many come forth to meet him, took daughter in one arm, put the other around his wife, and together they walked up through the city, the populace of Minas Anor delighting to have their King home once more.

Arrivals

            The figures continued to progress.  By mid-September Gilmirion was polishing the figure of Peregrin Took, that of Sir Meriadoc was all but completed, Sam’s face was clearly visible, and the figure of Frodo was ready to be moved at last up to the work site.  As he worked on the hair of his figures, Ruvemir was now using the portable scaffolding he’d brought back from his father’s home atop the carriage.  Now a couple of the other apprentices were accompanying their master, Celebgil, and Armanthol to the site as they worked more intensely to finish the figures.

            The arrival of Mardil and Ririon with Joy lifted the hearts of all.  Ririon was to work on the surround, and he sat down with the uniform blocks found in the storage area of the smaller workshop and began doing his intricate designs, Lindorn and Owain assisting him in this, the three of them soon close friends.

            The King came often to the worksite, and would sit nearby, sometimes smoking his pipe, often singing the song of shaping, occasionally doing a little of the shaping himself.  And each day they worked on the project all came closer and closer to the final structure.

            In early September the engineers came to work on the foundation for the memorial, assisted by folk from the Guild of Masons.  Master Dorion came to see progress about once a week and appeared very pleased, both with the work done and with the progress of the former apprentices of Master Varondil.

            Just before Yule the King performed another marriage at the Inn of the King’s Head, as Faragil of Lebennin took Idril of Minas Anor as his second wife.  In mid-January there was a wedding performed in the Embassy of Rhun, when Shefti and Liana were joined, Angara standing happily with the two of them. 

            Letters went between Minas Anor and the Shire, between the capital and the farm in Lebennin.  In February there was a second trip to Mardil’s farm, and the Prince of Dol Amroth married Mardil of Lebennin to Lisbet of Minas Anor.

            Early March, and the four figures were completed.  Mid-March, and the foundation and the surround were also completed and the figures placed, and Folco and Miriel came from the farm with Pando, Lorieth, and Lanril in company with Mardil and a glowing Lisbet.

******* 

            The twenty-fourth of March a party arrived from the North.

            Halladan, Steward of Arnor, arrived with folk from several parts of the northern realms.  Once again Lord Celeborn came to the city with many of his folk of the Galadhrim, and accompanying them also were several from the Shire.  Those of Gondor who came out with the King looked with interest at Sir Meriadoc and Captain Peregrin in their livery, riding by their wives; but with them was a stouter figure in typical Shire attire, that of Samwise Gamgee, escorting a relatively slender Hobbitess who held a small child before her as she rode her pony. while watching carefully over the two others who rode before two of the Northern Dúnedain.

            With them were more.  Fredegar Bolger alighted from the coach that accompanied the party, and with him was a Hobbit who carried a walking stick in his hand and walked with his hand on Fredegar’s elbow.  Behind them came a Hobbitess that Ruvemir did not recognize--and Cyclamen!  Dorlin, Gloin, and several other Dwarves were also come to see the unveiling of the memorial.  Eregiel stood behind his cousin Halladan, once again in the silver and grey of the Northern realm, nodding his recognition, Artos and another hound following at his heels.

            Ruvemir stood by the side of the King at the great Gates to greet these guests.  The Lord Aragorn Elessar was quite still as he waited, yet the small sculptor could feel the barely contained excitement that, in this Man, manifested itself in stillness and Light.  The Queen waited above at the top of the city, while her husband had come forth here to the gates, Melian in his arms, to be there when his friends at last arrived.  They watched as the Hobbits dismounted, handed their ponies to the grooms awaiting them, as Sam and Rosie gathered their children, Sam lifting Frodo-Lad into his arms, Elanor between her parents.  There was a moment of pause, as the three Travelers found themselves looking at the city in recognition for what they remembered and awe at the work done in the restoration, a smile of delight shining on Sam’s face as he murmured into his son’s ears, Rosie, Diamond, and Estella looking simply stunned and overwhelmed, Fredegar with a look of recognition on his face turning to describe things to Ferdibrand Took.  Then the coachman slipped from his seat and stretched, his place taken by Lasgon, who saluted a glowing Pippin as he turned the coach to take it to the outside stable where the luggage would be transferred to a pony cart to be taken up into the city.  Ruvemir smiled to recognize Budgie Smallfoot as he came to stand by Fredegar and Ferdibrand. 

            At last the party of Hobbits stopped looking up, and looked down at the gates.  Before the gates and behind the King, Gimli leaned on his axe, Legolas stood straight and proud, Elladan and Elrohir sharing a smile with Tharen Thranduilion to see the happiness of the others.  The smiles of recognition were there on both sides, Ruvemir saw, and he saw the three who were returning begin to move forward, sweeping the rest with them.  The smile on Sam’s face had faded into that look of intense pride and caring that Ruvemir had come to treasure; Pippin was walking straight and tall, Merry self-possessed as he yet fought down tears sparked by memory and love.  The walk was deliberate, a holding in place, a last thrill of delight of anticipation before the meeting.

            “Oh, Strider, are you looking fine,” Ruvemir heard Sam say as he suddenly hurried forward as the King knelt, his free arm held out to embrace him, the tears suddenly flowing from the tall Man’s eyes.

            “Sam, oh dear, dear Sam,” he was murmuring.  “It has been too long, too long.”  There could be no question in the minds of the newcomers as to whom this must be. 

            Ruvemir smiled to see at last the greeting of the Hobbits.  Folco and Miriel had finally been able to stand it no longer, had moved forward to embrace the rest.  Pando had darted forward and taken his sister in his arms, was dancing with joy to see her.  But Ruvemir waited for them to have done with the others.  Elise waited with him, as did the apprentices. 

            “They do have that native dignity,” Ruvemir heard Celebgil saying softly.  “Oh, I can see it!”

            Armanthol stood watching the King kneeling in the midst of the Hobbits, who were introducing the newcomers, wives, children.  Suddenly Frodo-Lad was being held by the Man, Melian was in the arms of the Master of Bag End, Gimli was bowing before a fascinated Elanor, and Legolas was caressing the hair of small Rosie-Lass as he gave Sam’s wife his greetings.  And the King was turning to Ferdibrand Took and Fredegar Bolger and greeting them with grave courtesy, giving them every indication of great respect. 

            Suddenly Pando and Cyclamen broke from the others, ran forward on their bare, hairy feet toward Ruvemir, Elanor noting their hurry, looking to see their goal, and with a shriek of delight running after, her dress fluttering in the rush of her passing, holding out her small arms to Ruvemir.  He knelt this time, was embracing a familiar form.  “Elanorellë!” he was murmuring into her hair, which smelled of daffodils, he thought.  “Oh, Elanorellë!  Welcome to Minas Anor at last!”  She looked up into his eyes, her own shining with pleasure of recognition and reunion.

            Sam was looking at him, he saw, still with an arm about Aragorn’s chest as he knelt in the midst of the Hobbits.  Then the young Hobbits were drawing Ruvemir forward, bringing him into the group, to Sam, to Merry, to Pippin.  Ruvemir looked up into their eyes, smiled.  “It is so wonderful to see you in the flesh again,” Ruvemir said. 

            Sam shared a quick look with Aragorn, then finally pulled away, held out his arms to the sculptor.  “You are looking mighty fine, too, Ruvemir,” he said as he pulled the mannikin into his embrace.  “Marriage suits you, I think.”  All Ruvemir could do was laugh with delight, catching the approval in the eyes of the King, who at last rose to his full height, an amazed Frodo-Lad looking down in consternation from his arms, which he was sharing now with Melian.

            Sam looked up and caught the concern in his son’s eyes, smiled.  “Just don’t you worry none, Frodo-Lad,” he said.  “You’re safe enough, you know.  He’s the King, after all.  He won’t let nothing hurt you.”

            The small lad looked up into the King’s eyes, then smiled.  “King Strider?” he asked.  At the Man’s nod his smile grew brighter.  “Da!” he called down.  “The King!”

            At last Ruvemir returned to his pony and took its reins from Owain and mounted.  He reached down to take Elanor before him, and with Elise at his side they began going up the steep ways of the city.  Merry was walking by him carrying Melian now, and Ruvemir remembered, slipped his hand into the shallow pocket of his surcoat, pulled out a small item.  “Sir Merry,” he said, “Captain Pippin said you had been missing this.”

            Merry took it with curiosity, then looked at it and laughed with pleasure.  “My shirt stud!” he called to Pippin.  “Did you tell him to look for it?”  At Pippin’s satisfied nod, he looked back to the mounted sculptor.  “All the years I looked after him, finally he’s returning the gesture.”

            Ruvemir laughed.  “I understand your study became a stable one day.”

            “And a stall became my study.  He even got the carpet out there.  But Fíriel and the foal are doing well, in spite of the fact the foal thinks, like a dog, he can come into the smial whenever the door is opened.”

            “Does he really?”

            “Oh, yes.  Of course he’s not a foal any more.  He can lift the latch of the gate, clever thing that he is, and heads for the door to the Hall every chance he gets.”

            Throughout the city the people had turned out, flowers in their hands that they offered to the Pheriannath as they passed.  There was singing and many calls of greeting as they walked up the steep streets, and now and then bows from people they recognized.  As they passed the King’s Head and the Dragon’s Claw the folk there called out their welcomes, and the cook from the Claw came forward to hand Pippin a bag and to press a tureen with a lid on it into the hands of Diamond.

            As they entered the Third Circle a Man came forward, bringing with him a woman and a child.  He looked at them with hope, then disappointment.  Ruvemir found him familiar somehow, then saw the King stop, turn toward him.  “You are well, then?” the King asked him.

            “Yes, I am, but I’d hoped to show my wife him.”

            “He cannot return.  He was hurt far worse than you.”

            “He said you helped him find himself.”

            “Yes, I did--but he was still hurt far, far worse than you.  His health was failing him.  You heard he went to the Undying Lands?”

            “Yes, but I didn’t quite believe it, not a mortal as we are.”

            “He is receiving the healing there that was beyond our power, Men or Elves, to offer here.  But we all rejoice to see you once again, to see you are doing so well.  And he knows, I think, how much you honor him, how much we all do.”  The King held out his hand, held the Man’s shoulder, and Ruvemir saw that small shiver run through him, a smile from the heart break through as he looked back into the King’s eyes, as he drew himself straighter, drew his wife and child to him with pride.  The King turned briefly to woman and child, gave them his attention, accepted the flowers they held out.  After giving them his blessing he turned at last and went on up through the city.

            A woman stepped forward out of the market stalls on the fourth level, carrying strings of glass beads, and offered them to each of the Hobbit ladies and to Miriel, and again Ruvemir felt recognition, realizing she also was one pictured in Frodo’s portraits from the clothes press.

            Pando and Cyclamen were walking now with Ririon, Joy, Celebgil, and Dorieth, chattering eagerly with one another, Cyclamen looking about her with delight.  The Hobbitess Ruvemir didn’t recognize looked about abashed.  She did not walk with Fredegar, and obviously wasn’t Melilot.  She seemed, he thought, to favor Folco----

            Suddenly Ruvemir knew.  He leaned down to Merry, asked, “Is that Narcissa?”

            Merry nodded.  “Yes, she is.  Why she decided to come we have no idea--had no idea, in fact, she realized there was a group of us heading for Gondor.  I think it may be due to the Proudfoots, really, for Sancho was concerned about letting Cyclamen come, for all she was insisting no one would leave her behind if she could come to Minas Tirith and see you and Pando and the monument and all.  I think they only agreed Cyclamen could come because Narcissa indicated she wanted to do so.”  He gave her a surreptitious look.  “She’s needed this, I think.  She needs to realize it’s not her fault that he couldn’t return her regard, and that he was indeed too ill to remain.  I saw her expression back there when the King was speaking to that Man.  Am not certain what it was all about, of course, but plainly it was someone Frodo met.”  At Ruvemir’s nod, he said, “You know of it, then?”

            “They met in the Houses of Healing, once when he went with the King.”

            “Oh, I see.  Black Breath?”

            “No; the memory of horror, though.”

            Merry nodded.  “The night of the feast, then.  He was pretty thoughtful when he came back the following morning, and slept much of the day.”

            Ruvemir dropped back to ride beside Narcissa Boffin.  “Miss Boffin, I am Ruvemir son of Mardil.  I am sorry I didn’t greet you earlier, but it has been an overwhelming welcome, I think.  Welcome to the capital.”

            “Thank you,” she said, looking at him and then quickly away.

            “We would be pleased if you would agree to stay with us, my wife and I,” he said.  “For the others there is the reunion with those they came to know so well and the introductions to friends of husbands and family.   But it appears you are almost alone.  Folco is staying at the King’s Head, but is coming  up to our house with Miriel this night for dinner.”  She looked up at him again, and he saw the look of loss in her eyes.  “Will you consider it?”

            She thought, and answered, “Yes, I’ll consider it.”

            “Good.”

            They continued up through the city.  She looked about, then up at him.  “How many levels are there?”

            “Seven.  We are in the Fifth Circle now.  Soon we will reach the gate to the Sixth Circle, which is mostly quieter, for it is primarily the level of the Guest Houses and the homes of those who serve in the Citadel or the Houses of Healing, with the barracks and butteries on the north side, not far from us.  It was in the Houses where the Man from the Third Circle met the Lord Frodo.  He was in the last battle before the Gates of Mordor, and it left him in the grip of terror.  The Lord Frodo helped him calm again after an evening of horror relived, until the King could finally reach him with his gift of healing.”

            “Why couldn’t the King heal Frodo?”

            “You heard him--the scarring left on his spirit was too great, had been going on too long.  What the Lord Frodo went through--few could have survived a tenth of it, much less all of what he endured.”

            “You sound as if you know.”

            “I know how deeply Lord Samwise, Captain Pippin, and Sir Merry were hurt, the depths of the memories they bear, the extent of the physical scars.  They’ve told me, showed me.  It was far, far worse for Lord Frodo.”

            “Why couldn’t he just tell someone about it so we’d understand?”  He heard the deep anguish in her voice.

            “He was never one to speak his pain--he always held it inside him.  It used to worry Master Bilbo terribly, how he could not let it out into the open.”

            “You are a stranger.  How can you know or understand?”

            “The King himself sent me to learn of Frodo Baggins, my lady.  He sent me to ask questions, to probe, to seek, so that I could reproduce his seeming here in Minas Anor.  They didn’t always wish to tell, and were horror-struck when I came into the bathing room in Brandy Hall and could see their scars.  I can understand--I am not particularly happy with my body, mannikin as I am.  But they told me, finally, let me hear the stories not just of the pleasures and the triumphs and the easings, but of the horrors and the losses, the fears and the hurting.  And Sam let me read the Red Book, where at last I could see what Frodo himself said, what he remembered and what he was told afterwards of that which was beyond memory during the worst times.  He almost lost his soul, and came close to losing his life many times.  He lost all vestiges of innocence, and almost all his dignity for a time.  The last part of his journey he barely remembered after.  The device of the Enemy sought to destroy him, and took him in the end.

            “He wanted so to be able to love, to marry, to father children--but it has been denied him by the Ring.  He was but a shadow of himself when he was found, then truly at the Gates of Death.  And afterward there was too little of himself left to begin to reach out.  Only in the Undying Lands can he find true healing for what was done to him.”

            “But he cannot come back.”

            “No, he cannot come back.”  They were silent for a time as they came to the sixth gate.  Finally he said, “You are not alone in your grief for him, my lady.  It has torn great holes in Master Samwise, his cousins there, and the King.  They bear it, knowing they can do nothing else; but the grief never fully is gone from them.  Enough healing has reached them to know that there will come the time of reunion for them, and they are able to deal with the joys of life as well as the griefs.  But they all have times when they miss him terribly, as I find I do, too, though I have met him only through them and his own writing.

            “Part of what sustains Lord Samwise is the knowledge that the King remains, that he can find the same Light in him as in Frodo.”

            “You know about--about the Light?”

            “Yes, I know about it.  I’ve seen it in the King, and saw it flare with great joy this day as he held his friends to him.  I’ve seen it shine when he looks on his wife and his daughter, his foster brothers, his brother lords, the Elves who sustained and taught him.  I’ve seen it glow as he looks on the peoples he cares for.”

            She sighed.  “I fell in love with Frodo when I was but a teen, saw during my tweens he cared for Pearl Took and saw no other, then saw her pull back, the pain it left him.  I so hoped, especially after Bilbo’s party, he could possibly come to care for me.  I saw his Light then.”

            “At the party he could have--not after, though.  Then he carried the Ring, and It destroyed that part of himself as It had destroyed it in Bilbo before him.”

            “You are certain?”

            “I am certain.  It was nothing to do with you--if he’d not received the Ring, it is likely he would have seen and recognized the love you bore for him--perhaps he had already begun to, but had not yet spoken.  But with the Ring he could not.  It was all he could do to retain himself while he carried It.”

            He felt a certain easing in her with the knowledge that Frodo had not just refused to see her, but had not been able to do so.

            They came at last to the ramp to the level of the Citadel, and once more they looked up.  Ruvemir handed Elanor down to Narcissa, then dismounted and a groom was there to take the pony.   He gave him thanks, and then, with Elanor between them, holding a hand of each, they went to climb the ramp at last.  “One level at a time I can bear,” he told her over Elanor’s head.  “But the entire way destroys me, I fear.  Not built for climbing through this great city.”  She found herself smiling at him. 

            He looked ahead.  “Ah, my beloved wife is coming under the spell of Lord Samwise.  And Mistress Rosie already has it in mind to take her over and see her coddled.  She doesn’t yet realize that I already know she’s quickened.  I’m going to let her amaze me with the news.”

            “How do you know?”

            “I’ve seen the looks the Queen and the King give her.  They know.  And I know them well enough now to read some of what they don’t say.”

            She laughed, perhaps the first free laugh she’d given in six years or more.  He smiled back.  Folco looked across at them at that laugh, and gave Ruvemir an appreciative look, and Ruvemir winked in return.

            They finally came up to the level of the Citadel, and she stopped, amazed, looking at the shining White Tree and the Citadel behind.  “Oh,” she said.

            “Yes, oh indeed,” he said.  “I have been up here so many times working on the King’s commission, and I still say ‘Oh’ almost each time I come up again.”

            She watched as Peregrin Took marched up to the Captain of the Guard who waited there and saluted, saw the salute in return.  “Captain Peregrin Took reporting for duty, sir,” he said.

            “Your duty is accepted.  You will serve before the throne tomorrow morning at the first hour.  Until then you are dismissed, Captain.”

            “Thank you, sir.”

            “And you will attend weapons practice on the sixth level tomorrow afternoon.”

            “Yes, sir.  A good day to you, my Lord.”

            “And to you, Captain Peregrin.  And welcome back to the White City, sir.”

            She looked to Ruvemir.  “He is truly a soldier of Gondor?”

            He smiled at her confusion.  “He never lied about that--he is a Captain in the Guard of the Citadel--a junior captain, to be sure, but a Captain.  And his duty has ever been to guard the King’s person.”

            Diamond was watching the return of her husband with surprise and a new level of respect as well.  Other guards saluted him and he saluted back properly--there was no childishness in his manner, no unwarranted lightheartedness.

            “You will find they haven’t embroidered their experiences here--if anything, they have understated them, made light of what at the time was deadly serious.  Many here who serve the Citadel and in the Court of the Tree fought at the Black Gates, remember Captain Peregrin’s courage there, the finding of him beneath the body of the troll he slew, his ribs broken, his hip out of its joint, very near to death ere the King could call him back.  He fell saving others from a horrible end.  They remember the horror of the Nazgul flying overhead, and the way in which Sir Merry and the Lady Éowyn between them faced down their chieftain and destroyed him.  Most here saw the bodies of the Lord Frodo and Lord Samwise as they were brought from the ruins of the Mountain when all thought them dead, how they lay unconscious for two weeks, a good part of that time hovering between life and death.  Those four are honored here for great cause, my Lady.”

            “I didn’t know.”

            “Seeing how hard it was for these three to tell even their own families what they experienced, or for their families to believe it, are you surprised?”

            She shrugged.

            The Hobbits were beginning to come together around the King again.  Sam was checking on the location of his children, then to see all others were accounted for.  All had now paused once again.  Before them, between the Court of Gathering and the Court of the White Tree itself with its fountain, stood a new structure, not very high, covered over with a light white tarp that billowed in the mild breeze.  Pippin looked at this critically.  “So, that is it, then?” he asked.             

            Aragorn, holding Frodo-Lad protectively in his arms, looked down and smiled.  Pippin and Merry were at least half a head taller than the rest of the Hobbits, yet they still barely reached the Man’s chest in height.  He would give no answer, but his eyes sparkled with enjoyment.  Merry looked up at him, then to Pippin.  “I see it’s rather like the wedding again, Pip--he wants to let us find out when the time is right instead of coming out and telling us, knowing that our Hobbit nature will drive us mad with curiosity.  Now, if I remember correctly, he is ticklish behind his knees....”

            The King laughed aloud, turned and walked around the structure to where several people sat beneath the White Tree, the light sifting through the gently swaying branches and early buds and leaves to fall on them almost like bright rain. 

            The Lady Arwen sat, embroidery in hand, singing as she worked, the Lord Glorfindel and King Thranduil singing with her, a song of growth and richness of life.  Around them early flowers bloomed, young plants strengthened and reached for the light.  At the back of the structure it could be seen rosemary had been planted, already reaching up evergreen branches toward the Sun.  The Hobbits once again paused, not wanting to interrupt the Elven song, Sam’s posture erect with honor and delight, obviously at one with it, though his voice did not join in, Merry’s and Pippin’s faces soft with memory, the others simply amazed.  They had heard Elven singing before, Ruvemir remembered, but could not have heard much of it.  Narcissa’s eyes began to close as she listened, her expression rapt, something in it easing even more, starting to smile again.

            At last the singing was finished, and all felt the regret that this was so.  Pippin stepped forward gently to stand before the Queen, bowing.  “My Lady Arwen, Lord Glorfindel, Lord Thranduil, we bring you greetings from the Shire and rejoice to see you once again.” 

            She set down her work as she rose, came forward and knelt, held out her arms, and he moved into them.  “Oh, my Lady,” he murmured.  “Six years is indeed too long.  Even the four years since we saw Aragorn is too long.”

            “Yes, Pippin,” she said gently, “it has been long and long in the ways of mortals, has it not?”

            The other Elves and those with them rose and bowed, and the group of Hobbits bowed or curtsied deeply.  Merry came forward to take Pippin’s place in the Queen’s embrace, then withdrew, and she looked at Sam, who looked back, walked forward slowly, then embraced her with a fervency that was moving to see.  At last he drew back, looked up with tears in his eyes as she rose to her feet, then sat again.  “It is good to see you so well, my Lady, and your daughter is a marvel.”

            “Let me see yours, then,” she said, her eyes shining with the light of stars. 

            He smiled, and held out his hands to the King, who finally relinquished Frodo-Lad to him.  “Our son, Frodo-Lad.”

            She took the child, looked deep into his eyes.  He gazed back, his eyes wide, his mouth open in awe.  “I understand,” she said softly, “that this one and his elder sister both teethed on their father’s circlet of honor.  From what I can see, he will be filled with that same honor.”  She looked into Sam’s eyes--he was blushing, but stood firm, his chin high with his native dignity, his gaze steady.  She continued, “One day he, too, will serve to make the Shire shine with growth and light, following your example.”  She set Frodo-Lad on his feet, and he stood looking up at her still, his hand on her knee as she caressed his curls.

            Sam held out his hand to Rosie, who came forward, suddenly shy, holding her younger daughter to her breast.  Rosie gave a curtsey, and then flushed almost as deeply as could her husband.  Sam smiled encouragingly at her, then turned to the Queen.  “My wife, Rosie,” he said, perhaps unnecessarily, “and our youngest, Rosie-Lass, as was born the same day as your Melian.” 

            Arwen examined Rosie, then bowed her own head in great respect.  “We welcome you, Mistress Rose, you who were born to be mother to many, both those born to you and those who will simply need your nurturing.  Yes, you are indeed the right mate for this one, and I see you understand his nature perhaps even better than he does, although he has been learning it.  May I hold your daughter?”

            “Yes, my Lady,” Rosie said, never taking her eyes from the face of the Queen.  She held Rosie-Lass out, and Arwen took her, looked at her with gentle delight. 

            “Small Rose,” she said.  “Yes, a small Rose indeed, one who will delight ever in beauty, who will encourage others to find and seek it, both for her delight and for their own.  Welcome, little one, and I rejoice to know you and my own daughter will share so much.”  She kissed the tiny lass softly, and at last returned her to her mother.

            Sam was beckoning to Elanor, who let go the hands of Ruvemir and Narcissa, walked forward to stand first just behind her father’s knee, looking at the Queen from that vantage point for a moment, then moved forward to stand by her younger brother.  She smiled, gave a wobbly curtsey, and straightened.  “Hello, Lady Evenstar,” she said.

            “Hello, Lady Elanor,” the Queen returned.  She held out her hand, and Elanor took it.  The delicate Hobbit child stood before Arwen, her face rapt, as the Queen examined her closely.  Finally she said, “You were named for the Elven flowers that grow in Lothlorien, where my grandparents ruled for an age of Middle Earth.  I see you were aptly named indeed.”  She looked at Sam.  “You chose her name?”

            He shook his head.  “No, Lady.  No, it was Frodo as named her, for we couldn’t think of a name beautiful enough to do her justice, Rosie and me.”

            She gave a soft laugh.  “Ah, I ought to have known.  Yes, he would have known the right name after all.”  She looked again at the child.  “Tomorrow is your birthday, I understand.”

            “Yes, and I brought you a birthday present, but I can’t tell you, for it’s to be a surprise.”  She leaned forward to whisper, and the Queen inclined her ear.  The whisper carried to more than its intended recipient, though.  “I brought the Lord King a present, too, but he isn’t to know.”  She straightened and nodded solemnly. 

            Arwen suppressed a laugh, and assured her, “Then he shan’t learn it from me.”

            Elanor continued, “Mistress Miriel made me a doll for Yule when she and Master Ruvemir came to visit us.  She is the most beautiful doll I’ve ever seen.  I named her for you--Evenstar.  I hope you don’t mind.”

            “I am honored, Elanorellë.”  The girl flushed with pleasure at the usage of her dear-name.

            “I left her in the coach, for Sam-Dad said they would fetch her after, and she wouldn’t be so hot as if I carried her all the way to the top of the city.”

            “That is probably just as well.  Are you hungry?”

            “Oh, yes, for it has been a very long way.”

            “We shall go in for luncheon as soon as the bell rings.  They are just finishing it now.”

            “Very good, then.  But I think that Frodo-Lad and Uncle Pippin are probably more hungry than I--they are always hungry.”

            “Yes, I know about your Uncle Pippin.”  The Queen smiled.  At a nod of her head, both Elanor and Frodo-Lad stepped back to their father’s side, and he set a hand on each one’s shoulder in approval.  Elanor smiled up at him delightedly, then set herself to watch the rest of the introductions.

            Pippin and Merry presented their wives, who gave well-practiced curtseys, and the Queen welcomed both with gentle and discerning words.  Fredegar Bolger stepped forward and bowed as he was introduced, and she paused, giving him her attention, and then bowing her head again with deep respect.  “So, you are the one who was fearful to leave the Shire before.  I rejoice you have overcome that fear, for it is an honor to have one here who has developed such a great appreciation of the outer world simply from the reports of others.”

            “I vowed I’d not let fear stop me again from seeing somewhat of that outer world, my Lady,” he said.

            “I see, and see also that you learned to school that fear ere these returned to the Shire.  And I see that because you did so, others were able to know some relief from the Time of Troubles, and that you encouraged others also to school their fears.”

            He swallowed.  “I tried, my Lady, but couldn’t do much for long--they captured us and imprisoned us, after trying to humiliate us before the Shire.”

            “Your people honored you instead, did they not?  And with reason.  You, too, paid the price for that honor, and are full worthy of it.”

            He could not answer further, merely bowed deeply again.

            “Welcome, Master Fredegar, and know that we, too, appreciate your sacrifice.  We rejoice the cost was not as great as that which others had to pay, though.”

            He nodded, his face now sad.  “I know.  They went through worse than I, and it cost the Shire the best of us all.”

            Budgie was then brought forward.  Again she looked at him long and deeply, then smiled.  “Estel will be glad to get to know you, Healer Smallfoot,” she said.  “You came for the sake of Master Fredegar?”

            “Yes, he’s my friend, my patient, and my employer--and, now, my brother of the heart as well.”

            “Your caring is well given.  And we thank you also for what you did for Frodo while he remained within the Shire.”

            “It was little enough, my Lady Queen.  I could do little for him, and did not fully appreciate how I might have used the kingsfoil to assist him more.”

            “You did more than you realize, I think; and his last letter to us gave praise for your help,  both to himself and to his cousin.”

            “Thank you, my Lady.”  He stepped back.

            Then it was Ferdibrand Took who was led before the Queen.  She set a hand on his shoulder, examined his features.  “It is an honor,” she said, “to meet one who has learned to see with the heart.  You, too, sacrificed much for your people, and we would have you know it was not in vain.  Welcome indeed, Master Ferdibrand.”  He gave her his thanks and stepped back, embarrassed yet grateful.

            The Queen next looked to Cyclamen, who still stood with her arms about her brother.  Pando loosed her, gave her a push forward, and she came to the Queen suddenly shy and flushing and gave a weak curtsey that made her flush the more.  The Queen laughed and held out her hand, took one of the lass’s in her own.  Cyclamen looked down in embarrassment, then back up at the Queen’s eyes and was caught by them.  The flush ended, and she started to smile in delight, a smile the Queen returned in kind.  “So, you are young Pando’s sister, are you?  How glad I am to see you at his side today.  He has told us of you while he has worked.  I understand you have been studying Sindarin.”

            Cyclamen lifted her chin and answered in flawless Sindarin, “Yes, my Lady, I have.  Master Perhael has been teaching me.”

            Arwen’s delight deepened.  “Ah, to hear my own language spoken so well by you is a pleasure indeed.”  She looked to Sam.  “You said that you thought she has the makings of a teacher in her, and you are not mistaken.  But it is her imagination that will win her fame, I think.”  She turned back to Cyclamen.  “You are a weaver of tales now, are you not?”

            This time the flush was of pleasure.  “I like to make up stories, Lady Queen.  Cousin Frodo taught me to love them, you know.”

            “Yes, I know.”

            Finally she looked to Narcissa.  Ruvemir led the Hobbitess forward.  “My Lady,” he said, “this is Narcissa Boffin, a cousin to Folco here.”

            Again the Queen looked deeply into the eyes of the one before her.  “You came not, however, to see your cousin primarily.”  Slowly, Narcissa shook her head.  “I see,” the Queen said gently.  “You came to try to understand, because you loved where it was not returned.  You know now that it could not be returned, that he was unable to love in that way after the Ring came to him, do you not?”

            “Yes, my Lady, so I have been told.”  Narcissa’s voice was low.

            “I am sorry, for I think had he been able to continue to love in that way, he would indeed have rejoiced to share his love with such as you.  And you would have been good for him and to him.”  The Queen sighed.  “It was one of his deepest sorrows, to have lost that ability.  It was lost even while the Ring still slept.  The type of power it was created to augment could never accept a partner, never accept caring for another in that manner.  It understood only domination, not sharing.”

            Narcissa looked deeply into the Queen’s gaze, then nodded her understanding.  “Thank you for your understanding of me, my Lady Arwen,” she said, simply.

            “His leaving left a hole in many hearts, tithen nín,” Arwen replied.  “You are not alone--no, not at all alone.”  She reached forward and wiped away the tears that had begun to fall from Narcissa’s eyes.  “Know this, that not all tears are an evil.  Often they bring great healing.”  Narcissa nodded.

            The Hobbits now moved aside that the Lady Arwen could greet the rest who had come.  “Two hounds now at your heels, Eregiel?” she asked.

            “Gwynhumara would not remain at home with my mother this time, not when her mate and I came away again.”  She laughed and fondled the ears of both dogs.

            “Halladan, it is always a joy when you come.  Gilfileg will be glad to allow you to take your own seat now.”

            “Master Gloin, Master Dorlin--to have you return is an honor indeed.  Your son, your cousin continues to give so much in his service, his leadership, his friendship.  And how does your son do, Master Dorlin?”

            “Very well, my Lady.  He is already practicing to swing his own hammer on the stone or anvil one day.”

            At last, after she’d greeted all others, she rose to face her grandfather.  “Daeradar, I rejoice to have you returned again.  Oh, how much I have missed you at my side since you went north.”  The two embraced, the silver-haired Elf and the dark-haired Elf-turned-Queen.  For several minutes they exchanged that conversation of the mind that the Firstborn could share, then he kissed her brow as the bell began to sound.  Aragorn, now stooping low to take his own daughter by the hand, came to his wife’s side to lead the way into the Citadel to the hall of Merethrond.

            “The feast hall?” asked Pippin.

            The King laughed.  “Where else could we hold enough food to satisfy such a party of Hobbits?” he asked, and the Hobbits all found themselves laughing with him.

Unveiling

            During the meal Aragorn asked his guests where they would prefer to stay.  “We have had one of the older barracks buildings refurbished for your use.  We accepted that the guesthouses are not truly suitable, as all have two stories with the bedrooms on the upper floor.  However, if you would be more comfortable in the lower city, several of the inns have rooms prepared specifically for Hobbits.  I have been assured by Master Ruvemir, Mistress Miriel, Master Folco, and by Pando that they are indeed suitable and comfortable.  Indeed, Master Folco and Mistress Miriel are staying in one such, in the Inn of the King’s Head.”

            There was discussion among the Hobbits as to what would be preferable--to avoid the long walk up the city at the cost of being high on the mountain, or to feel more comfortable at the lower elevations with the long way to go in coming days.

            Narcissa finally decided.  “I don’t wish to do the long walk, and Master Ruvemir has informed me he and his wife wish me to stay with them--I believe I will accept their offer.”

            Pippin and Diamond looked at one another.  “I have duty in the morning, so it is best I stay here in the upper city, if you can bear it.”

            She smiled.  “I find it does not bother me unduly, and I am becoming accustomed to sleeping where I am not accustomed, am I not?”

            Merry and Estella followed suit.  Sam and Rosie looked at one another.  “I was fine there in the Sixth Circle afore, dearling,” he said.  “Do you think as you could stand it?”

            “If it’s on the lower floor I ought to be able to do so,” she answered, “and I doubt as the bairns will care that much as yet.”

            “That’s settled, then,” he smiled.

            “At what hour will the unveiling occur?” asked Fredegar Bolger.

            “An hour ere noon,” the King replied. 

            Fredegar, Budgie, and Ferdibrand conferred.  At last Ferdibrand announced, “We’ve decided we would be more comfortable lower down in the city, if it causes no one else upset.”

            “I suggest you try the Dragon’s Claw, then,” Ruvemir advised.  “They will have two rooms available while the King’s Head has but one free, what with Folco and Miriel and the children there.”

            Ririon smiled.  “It is a good inn to stay in,” he said proudly.  “I served there as a child, and am glad to recommend it.  And Evamir Cook will be proud to serve you.”

            “He already has,” Pippin said.  “The bag he gave me had seed cakes in it, you know--and they are all gone.”

            “He did share a couple each with Diamond and me,” Pando smiled, “and one each for Frodo-Lad and Cyclamen and Dorieth and Ririon and Folco.”

            “You selfish one,” complained Merry.

            “Well, as I endowed the inns to serve them, shan’t I be able to eat as many as I want?  Although actually, that left me with but one myself.”

            Aragorn laughed while Diamond sighed.  “At least we have all been able to share the tureen of mushrooms,” she said.

            “Yes, a spoon each.  We shall have to descend on them together to get a proper share.”

            Gimli snorted.  “Hobbits!” he said, shaking his head.

            “You had your spoonful as well,” Merry pointed out reasonably.  Dorlin looked at his cousin and smiled.

            “I am surprised,” Legolas commented, “that Éomer King and his Riders did not ride escort to your party.”

            “They had intended to,” Merry said, “but the King changed his mind when he heard the Queen’s news.  Instead he was intent on arranging the use of a carriage for her.  They should be here by evening.”

            Aragorn sat up with interest.  “So, she has finally told him, has she?”

            The Master’s Heir and Holdwine of the Mark peered up at the King of Gondor suspiciously.  “And how long have you known?”

            Pippin smiled.  “Has your foresight told you whether it will be a lad or a lass as yet?”

            “Don’t you think that such knowledge should come in it own way, Pippin?”

            Ruvemir laughed.  “And who was it sat in my room in the King’s Head and announced his own awaited child would be a daughter lovely enough to make the stars sing?”

            “But she was my own.”

            Pippin looked down at the small girl seated in a high chair by Elise on the inside of the curve of the table.  “Will she follow after you as Queen?”

            Aragorn looked at her, and his expression softened.  “She has that right, for I have had the law changed that has restricted the succession to sons, in keeping with the laws of our ancestors on Númenor.  However, I will say again, what I have foreseen, unless I die first in battle, which is ever possible, is that she will choose to forego that option in favor of the brother to come.  Arwen has foreseen his face; I have foreseen only that Melian will prefer to allow her brother to accept the burden of rule.”

            “She has the option to choose, but he has not?” asked the Hobbit softly.

            “Unfortunately, this is true.  However, if that is what happens, I have also foreseen that her daughter shall marry her cousin and that they shall be co-rulers of the two realms, bringing the succession fully back into line.  But I suggest you not tell them, that they feel not forced when the time comes.”  Ruvemir saw that the King’s expression had become very serious--he did indeed mean this suggestion.

            “Well, you have little to fear from any of us,” Merry said quietly.  “We shall have gone on our way long before that time, I suspect.”  Aragorn gave him a deep look, which softened into a gentle smile, and he gave a single nod.

*******

            At mid-afternoon a party arrived from the East, and an hour later one from the Southlands.  Then, two hours before sundown Merry and Pippin went with the King and his guard and many of the Dúnedain to the stables in the First Circle to ride out to the Rammas Echor to greet the Rohirrim.  Again there was a large meal in the Hall of Merethrond for the gathering guests. 

            Afterward, Moritum of Rhun looked at the gathering of small beings about the King and shook his head and turned to his brother.  “I had thought the Periannath would be more similar to the small sculptor,” he commented.  “Yet they are very unlike him.”

            Ifram nodded.  “Yes, very unlike.  Yet they are good hearted folk, all courteous, and very lively.”  He looked up as Lord Gilfileg came to bring them glasses of wine.  “Thank you, Staravion, although it is not your place to wait on us.”

            Moritum smiled up at his grandfather’s former slave and shook his head.  “I am yet amazed to find you were not but a dream of our youth, that you live indeed, and are so close to that one,” nodding across to the King Aragorn Elessar, who sat now with Elanor on one knee and Melian on the other, Cyclamen before him, listening closely to the older child’s chatter, his eyes shining with pleasure.  “Why did you stay with us as long as you did?”

            Gilfileg shook his head.  “I could have escaped much earlier than I did, but had been warned there were children who needed my presence.  I do not regret those years, not now that I have seen what you have become.”

            Shefti looked up from where he had been cutting meat for his wife’s daughter and gave the King of Gondor an appraising look.  “I have never seen him look so light of heart.  These Periannath are good for him, I think.”

            Gilfileg smiled.  “Frodo Baggins helped his own Light to fully kindle.  For years it had been beaten back with care and the constant facing of the Enemy and his creatures, by envy and rejection from those who ought to have welcomed him with open arms, and by the growing concern that the promise of the future might never come.  His hope never fully waned, but was constantly pushed down, ever and ever.  Frodo’s coming forth made him realize the time for concealment was over, that the moment of doom, for good or ill, was finally upon us.  Frodo’s determination rekindled Aragorn’s faith and trust in the Creator and the Valar.  The others gave him trust, rekindled his humor, showed him love of family among mortals.”

            Elrohir had been passing and had paused to listen to Gilfileg’s words.  “There you have it, Little Bird.  After his father’s death, what did he know of family among mortals?  Yes, his mother was there, and our father stood as father to him, and we as brothers, Elladan and I.  Yet it was not as a family among mortals should be.  What can those of us who live always in the surety of tomorrow and the day after, even if those tomorrows are spent in the Halls of Mandos, teach of living in the moment?” 

            He looked to where Aragorn sat with small child on each knee, Cyclamen standing before him, her head thrown back in unbridled laughter, the Man’s own face full of simple joy and shared pleasure.  Nearby sat Éomer, King of Rohan, his hand about the waist of his wife, rejoicing in the knowledge of the new life she carried and the promise for the future it presaged, laughing with his friend.  Faramir sat with his own head thrown back, laughing as loudly and fully as the Hobbit lass, Éowyn behind him, her hand on his shoulder, her eyes full of joy for her lord husband, lord brother, Lord King.  Arwen sat laughing beside her husband, cuddling Frodo-Lad to her.  Rosie-Lass sat on her father’s lap, Sam sitting with eyes that approved of the relaxation of the all-too habitual solemnity in his friend.  Merry and Pippin were to one side, discussing whether they should sing a drinking song or a comic ballad; Lorieth, Elise, Estella, Diamond, and Narcissa examining something shown to them by Miriel; Fredegar Bolger, Folco Boffin, and Ferdibrand Took talking animatedly with Rustovrid of Harad and Ruvemir, who was holding Lanril on his lap, Mardil and Master Faragil standing, smiling, nearby among Ruvemir’s apprentices, who were competing at telling unlikely stories while the Prince of Dol Amroth listened with mock shock on his face.

            Elrohir looked at them with what Ifram realized with amazement was envy.  “What do we Elves, with our surety of the future, know of the adventure of life you mortals face?  Even your future life you must approach through faith.  It is no wonder it is called the Gift of Iluvatar, for where is the pleasure in knowing precisely what a gift holds?”

            Gilfileg looked at his royal cousin.  “The Hobbits have shown him how mortal families should be ordered, have shown him how to love, openly, freely, as they do.”  He then looked at Ruvemir, and smiled.  “And there is another one who has helped him learn to live, another who has shown him a new way of healing, who has strengthened his trust in the Creator and the Valar.  So many have been helped by Ruvemir to find peace in their hearts, to learn to honor those who deserve it.”

            Ifram nodded his agreement.  “We have learned much of honor through example here in Gondor.”

            He who had once been known as Staravion smiled down at him.  “You have always held far more honor than you realized, youngling.”

*******

            Afterward Narcissa Boffin accompanied Elise and Ruvemir to their home along with Folco, Miriel, and the children.  She was tired, overwhelmed by what she had experienced that day, all she had seen, all she had met.  She was ready for some level of peace and quiet.

            “You are fortunate that many of the apprentices will not spend the night with us, will be instead with their own families, either in their homes or in the city’s inns,” Elise said, watching the small party of youths that walked before them, singing a song whose words had been changed somewhat so as supposedly not to offend the adults’ sensibilities.  “Even Ririon is staying with my mother and Adar Mardil this night.”  She gave the youths ahead of them a fond smile.  “They are a good group, really, and ready now to go to new masters, most of them.  We will miss them, Ruvemir and I, but rejoice they are ready for this now.”

            “Why do they go to new masters?” their guest asked.

            “I have two more commissions which need to be completed now,” Ruvemir said, “both in the Northern kingdom.  I cannot take them all in any case.  Most were with me only because they lost their former master and needed special tutelage and gentle treatment, and so it was laid on me, with the assistance of my own former master and Master Orin of the Dwarves of Erebor to serve instead.  Now most are ready to go to new places, and two----”  He began to smile, and said in a lower voice, “Two are going to be surprised tomorrow.”

            As they reached the house, Anorieth, who had taken the place of Liana after her marriage to Shefti, opened the door and invited them inside, smiling to see the Small Master and his wife return with their guests.

            “I do not know if you were told this,” Ruvemir said as he took Narcissa’s cloak and gave it to Anorieth, “but this was the house in which the Lord Mithrandir, whom you know as the Wizard Gandalf, stayed with Captain Pippin on their first arrival in the city, just before the siege by Mordor.  After all was over, the others of the Fellowship joined them here.  Mistress Loren, who served as their housekeeper during their stay, is to this day still aghast that the Hobbits would not sleep in the upstairs rooms as was right and proper.”  He pointed.  “The small parlor that way was where the two knights slept, while Lord Samwise and Lord Frodo slept on the other side of the day room.”  He led the way. 

            Anorieth smiled as she followed.  “I did as was asked in the message sent down, Master Ruvemir--the couch in the Mistress’s parlor has been made into a bed.  It is very comfortable, Mistress, and will serve you well.”

            Ruvemir looked at Narcissa with a look of apology.  “The only drawback is that this was the parlor that led to the house’s study.  I do not care for stairs, and when at last we build our own home, if we do, there will be none--if I can manage that, of course.  Stairs are very difficult for me.  So it is that Elise and I have taken the study as our bedroom, which means that when we go out into the rest of the house we must pass through the room in which you will sleep.  The study was also favored by the Lord Frodo, and the room in which you will sleep was used by Lord Samwise.  He preferred to be close at hand when the nightmares disturbed his Master’s sleep, which was all too common, I fear.” 

            She nodded her understanding.  She went in to find a comfortable looking room, the furniture only slightly too high for her usual comfort.  The couch was relatively low, and laid out with clean linens and coverlets and several pillows.  A table was covered by diagrams for stitchery and a holder with a variety of threads for embroidery.  She smiled at this, then looked to her hostess, who had followed behind.  “I think I will be comfortable enough here,” she said. 

            Elise smiled in return.  “The wardrobe is there, and your chest has been placed there at the far end of the couch.  Would you like to bathe before the late meal?  We’ve ordered one for you and the apprentices--youths eat as much as any Hobbit, I assure you.”  Again Narcissa laughed.

            Some time later Narcissa, now changed into clean clothing, sat in one of the low chairs in the day room, brushing out her hair.  Ruvemir was on the balcony with Folco, working on a small figure by lantern light while they talked, three of the four apprentices remaining with them for the night were playing some dice game she did not recognize, and the fourth was sitting, reading stories to Lanril and Lorieth.  Elise was in the kitchen with the cook and her husband’s sister while Anorieth set the table.  It felt peaceful, she realized, and this chair was made to her comfort.  She sat back and thought of when this house was lived in by Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin.  What must it have been like at that time? she wondered to herself. 

            Her understanding of what their journey had entailed had grown over the journey south.  She had ridden mostly in the coach with Fatty and with Ferdibrand Took and with Cyclamen.  Cyclamen had ferreted out the information that Fatty had read Frodo’s book about the quest and had demanded he recount it to her.  At last a bargain had been struck--he would recount, as best as he could recall, one chapter each morning and evening if she would not pester him between times.  “Otherwise,” he’d warned, “I will not be able to have any time to myself or to speak with my cousin here to tell him of what we pass.”  There were times when Narcissa had slept through these chapters, but she’d heard enough to realize that things had often been terrifying for the four of them.  He’d recounted almost exclusively, however, the chapters regarding Merry and Pippin’s experiences, saying only that Frodo had left the Fellowship at Amon Hen above Rauros Falls, which she understood was the border between Gondor and the former North Kingdom here on the eastern side of the Misty Mountains, and that he and Sam had set themselves to walk the rest of the way to Mordor.  She knew that somehow the two of them had entered in, but not precisely how it had been done, nor exactly what had happened to them there.   When Cyclamen asked about their part of the journey, he’d only shaken his head.  “I still cannot easily discuss it,” he said.  “It was a terrible time for them is all I wish to say about it now.  Believe me, you will undoubtedly learn more in Gondor--more than you wished to know, I fear.”  Thinking of this, Narcissa sighed, and having finished her hundredth stroke she slipped the brush into the pocket of her full skirt and rose and went out to join her host and her cousin. 

            She found the small Man fascinating, the oddly shaped body, well developed if still uneven shoulders and arms, the breadth of his chest, his short arms and legs, his beard and almost straight hair, his shoes.  He sat on a low bench, deftly working the stone he held, the glint of the lantern somehow warm and comforting, smiling down at what he crafted while Folco leaned on the railing, looking out at the night, puffing at his pipe.  Ruvemir glanced up and nodded at her approach, paused to indicate she should join him.  “I am working on a model for one of the figures I’ll be doing for the Dúnedain’s commission,” he said, “Captain Pippin.  I find I enjoy doing figures of him.”

            “How do you know how to show them?” she asked.

            “After getting to know them, I then imagine them in the circumstances in which they are to be portrayed.  I’ve been doing this sort of work now for twenty years, and it has become natural to me.”

            Folco smiled and commented, “I’ve been amazed at how good he is at it, Narcissa.”

            Narcissa looked from one to the other.  “Fatty was telling the story to Cyclamen of what the Travelers went through as we traveled, but would not speak of what happened to Frodo and Sam after they broke away from the others.  I know somehow they went to Mordor, but don’t even know where that is.”

            Folco looked at Ruvemir.  “You should tell it then, for at this point you know the story better than I.”

            Ruvemir’s face became serious.  “You saw the black mountains there, across the River as you came south from Anorien?”

            “Yes.”

            “Those are the Ephel Dúath, also known as the Mountains of Shadow.  They were the west wall of Mordor.”  He straightened.  “It is a long story, but I will try to be brief.”  And quietly he recounted, in as few words as possible, how Frodo had broken away from the rest, been followed first by Sam, then by Gollum, how they’d captured the creature and wrung from him his vow on the Ring, the trip through the Dead Marshes to the ridge looking down on the Black Gates, the decision to find another way, the trip through Ithilien to the Morgul Vale, the climb up the stairs of Cirith Ungol, the betrayal by Gollum.  She was horrified to hear of the attack by the great spider, the bite to Frodo’s neck, the assault on Sam by Gollum and then of the spider by Sam, the retreat by Shelob, the belief Frodo had died, the use of the Ring to get past the Orcs, the realization Frodo yet lived.

            “Sam must have been so relieved,” she whispered.

            “He was horrified,” Ruvemir sighed.  “He couldn’t get to him for a time, and so Frodo finally awoke to find himself imprisoned by the Orcs, suddenly aware that he was no longer in possession of the Ring, and in despair that it must be already on its way to Barad-dûr and Sauron’s hand once more.  Did they tell you about the mithril shirt that Bilbo gave him?”

            “Something about it, although I don’t understand it completely.”

            “It was the one the Dwarves gave to Master Bilbo during his own adventure.  He gave it on to Frodo while they were in Rivendell.”

            “The one that was in Michel Delving?  Oh, I saw that when I was a child--it was beautiful.  Frodo was wearing it?”

            “Yes, under his clothing.  The Orcs took it and began to fight over it, to the point almost all killed one another.  The Lord Samwise fortunately did not need to fight them himself.”

            He quickly described the rescue, the lack of food and water, the need to find the way in the desolation of Mordor, the thorny bushes, the rocks, the being taken for deserting orcs and the forced march toward the Morranon.  When he told how they escaped she shuddered.

            He paused as he found himself facing the description of the last assault on the Mountain itself.  He looked at her, saw the shining of tears in her eyes as she sat, waiting to hear the last of it.  Finally he said, softly, “It was very hard at the end.  Frodo was weak almost to the point of death, and I suspect that only pure determination allowed him to continue on the last steps of the journey.”

            “Baggins stubbornness,” Folco sighed. 

            “He fell once when he felt the Eye of Sauron searching the lands toward the Mountain, was in a fit of horror that Samwise can barely speak of.  The Ring was trying so hard to take possession of his will, and Sam had to hold his hands.  At last Samwise carried him on his back up the Mountain, for Frodo could not do more--he’d crawled when he could no longer walk, and now he could not even do that.  Then Gollum, who had found them once more, attacked them there on the Mountain’s side....”

            She bowed her head as he described the final strength that had come to Frodo in the wake of that attack, the fending off of Gollum by Sam, the realization that, after all he’d been through, there at the very end the Ring was taking Frodo anyway, the final struggle with Gollum, the loss of the finger and the fall....

            Her face was white, and tears of grief for him ran down her cheeks.  “No wonder,” she whispered, “no wonder he couldn’t speak of it.  It must have all but torn him apart.”   Folco closed his own eyes and swallowed.

            Ruvemir nodded.  “Sam carried him out of the chamber, and when he came to his senses convinced him to crawl to what little safety there was.  The fumes and heat were overcoming them.  They lost consciousness on a hillock, and were found there by Mithrandir and the Eagles of the North, were carried to safety.  They did not awaken for two weeks--or almost two weeks, at least.  They seemed on the way to recovery--but they had been through so very much, especially the Lord Frodo.  It was hard for him to stomach his food, to fight the shame of what he saw as his failure, to deal with the recurring nightmares.”

            “So that is what Fatty couldn’t tell us.”

            “Yes, that is what Master Fredegar could not speak of.  It has taken years for Merry, Pippin, and Samwise to tell of their ordeals, and even now there are details they will not speak aloud.  Lord Frodo spoke of it only in his writing, some with Master Fredegar and Master Budgie, and at the last with the Master and the Thain and their wives. 

            “The King has said he was so scoured by the effects of the Ring and all he’d been through that he could no longer feel the pleasures of life strongly enough to balance the griefs and the pain.  He was very ill, in body and spirit, ere he went away, and probably only a few days from death.”

            “Could he have survived the journey, then?”

            “They believe he has done so, those whose awareness has been most closely tied to Frodo’s own.  The King is certain he would have felt Frodo die, but has not felt such; nor has Sam.  What--what has been perceived is that his Light is strengthening in the West, in fact.  It is believed he will do his best to wait until Lord Samwise goes to join him, although Sam has sworn not to do so until Rosie is gone before him.” 

            Folco asked, “Then you think one day Sam will go there, too?”

            “Yes,” Ruvemir said, “I do.  Frodo asked him to live for the both of them.”

            Elise was just inside the room, where she had stood waiting and listening.  “I am sorry that you were denied this part of his story so long, Mistress Narcissa,” she said, gently.  “Knowing would undoubtedly have helped you in your own grief and confusion.”  The Hobbitess indicated her agreement.  “I came to tell you the late meal is ready.  Do you think you can eat it, Mistress?”

            “I think so.”  Narcissa rose and followed after Elise into the dining room, where Miriel was lifting Lanril into a high chair while the apprentices took their places.  She noted the picture of the Citadel and the White Tree that hung on one wall, looked at it with admiration.  “Again, I must say, ‘Oh!’” she said.  “But the Tree is different.”

            Gilmirion explained, “It was the old White Tree that died when the line of Kings failed before.  It was removed when the King found the new one growing on the mountain and brought it back to plant it in the old one’s place. 

            Narcissa examined it with pleasure, then suddenly looked more closely.  “But the Queen’s face is there, in the branches!  Oh, how beautiful!”

            Ruvemir nodded.  “Yes, and no one can quite understand why he did that, for he seemed surprised when the Lady Arwen came to Gondor to marry our Lord Aragorn Elessar.”

            “You know who the artist is, then?”

            “Oh, yes, for it was the Lord Frodo himself.”

            She looked at it with her mouth open for some moments, then turned back to him.  “I’d forgotten he used to do pictures--I’d not seen any in so very long.  He did that after they came here?”

            “Yes, and gave it to an artist whom he met here in the city.  I met the same Man after my own arrival, and he showed it to me.  He died last summer, and left it to me.  He left me two other pictures by the Lord Frodo as well as one of the books of poetry by Master Bilbo that the Lord Frodo had given him.”

            “Oh, Master Ruvemir, will you show the pictures to me?”

            “Yes, after the meal if you wish.”

            After the meal he took her to the parlor he used as his own studio and showed her the picture of Master Iorhael he’d done, then took her to the study where he and Elise slept to show her the picture of Bag End.

            It was in examining this painting with her that he realized a detail he’d noted several times but had not been able to determine precisely what it meant.  In the flowers surrounding the door he’d often felt he was seeing faces--and now, suddenly, they focused for him.  Yes, there were faces there, four faces, four faces of Hobbit women:  Rosie Cotton, one of Pearl Took much as Frodo had drawn of her dancing, one of Primula Baggins, and one--one of Narcissa Boffin.  He looked quickly to her face, wondered if she would see it, too.  Her face was shining with wonder and gladness, looked at him.  “He put me there, Master Ruvemir--put me there alongside Rosie, Pearl, and that other one.  Do you know who she is?”

            He nodded.  “Yes, I do--the third was his mother.”

            “But he barely even spoke to me, except at Bilbo’s party--he danced with me several times that night.”

            He smiled through the tears he felt gathering.  “I think he did notice your regard, and treasured its memory, Mistress Narcissa.”

*******

            The next morning much of the population of Minas Anor, the Pelennor, and nearer Gondor came up to the Court of Gathering for the unveiling of the memorial to the Pheriannath.  An hour before noon the song of Elves, accompanied by harps and drums, began--a hymn to Manwë and Elbereth.  A procession came out of the Citadel of Lords and Ladies from all over the two realms, from Rohan, from Rhun, and from Harad, of Elves, Dwarves, and Men.  Finally came the party of Pheriannath, followed by Peregrin Took  in uniform; and at last their King and Queen in formal robes, their trains carried by Cyclamen and Pando Proudfoot.  They paced solemnly around the court of the White Tree, coming before the white tarp, before which stood the small sculptor, Ruvemir son of Mardil of Lebennin, his wife Elise and ward Ririon beside him, the dog Joy by the youth’s side; behind them those who had stood as apprentices to him, along with Master Faragil, and Orin and Dorlin of Erebor.  Nearby were Master Dorion and the engineers and masons and gardeners who had assisted in the construction of the base and the erection of the surround and the plantings about the feet of the figures.

            When at last the song was completed, the King stepped forward.  “Six years ago this day a great evil at last was purged from Middle Earth; and Sauron was destroyed through the results of his own vanity and greed when the work of his hand, into which he poured the greater part of his own power, finally came back to Mount Doom and perished there.

            “Many were the hands and wills of those who over much of three ages of Middle Earth fought Sauron and he who preceded him; but in the end it was not might but Endurance and Hope which freed us at last.  Evil there is still to face, but now it is the evil that we bear in our own hearts, not the overwhelming evil of those who were meant to be Powers and Servants of Creation who gave themselves instead to the gathering of power over others, knowing envy and hatred while seeking the destruction of what they could not control.

            “Three of the four of the Periannath whose coming aided in that great victory are here with us today.  The fourth, the Ringbearer, Frodo Baggins of the Shire, has been granted by the Valar themselves the chance for healing offered in Tol Eressëa for his easing, for of all who fought Sauron at the last, his was the greatest burden, the most difficult sacrifice.  Three and a half years ago he accepted that grace, and so cannot return to us again.

            “That we remember always that the Creator can choose the weak to confound the might of the Enemy as well as the strong, that we remember that those who have not fought for survival for many generations of any form of mortal life can yet show the example of courage and perseverance and faith to the inspiration of all, and that we never forget that Evil still must be fought every day of our lives, in one form or another, we dedicate this memorial.”

            He nodded to Ruvemir, who in turn nodded to the apprentices.  Each moved to his appointed place, reached down and lifted a peg.  Ruvemir took the linked lines fastened to the tarp and pulled it away, and all could see at last the finished work.

            At the back stood Meriadoc Brandybuck dressed as Holdwine of the Mark, leaning on his Dúnedain sword in honor, his head held erect, his face solemn but with a hint of great, overwhelming joy and overwhelming grief at the same time.

            Before him to his left stood the figure of Peregrin Took, Guard of the Citadel, standing with his feet slightly apart, Trolls Bane held at the ready, the blade lightly resting against his left hand, his expression determined. 

            Slightly more forward and to the right was Samwise Gamgee, bent slightly forward, dressed as he had been on the long quest, shirt with placket buttons only partly done, the cuff of one sleeve falling away from the wrist, vest partly rucked back to show where the brace buttoned to the left front of his trousers, pack on his back, looking up under his brows in defiance of an unseen foe, holding Sting ready to use it against spider or Orc.

            At the front, buttons torn away, shirt partly ragged, cuffs of the Hobbit trousers torn and uneven and the left knee ripped, stood Frodo Baggins, his Elven cloak pulled back from his left shoulder, Phial of Galadriel in his left hand pressed to his breast, his left foot stepped slightly forward as he held his right hand outstretched, the circle of the Ring lying on the open palm, the missing finger obvious, his face stern and sad, chin lifted in challenge and defiance.

            All wore their Elven cloaks, pulled back behind his shoulders in Pippin’s case, hanging about them in Merry’s and Sam’s, half forward and half back in that of Frodo. 

            On the lip of the surround in front of the figure of Frodo Baggins was carved the inscription, ...or would you destroy it? 

            The name and titles of each in Westron, Sindarin, Quenya, and Dwarvish was inscribed on the base of each statue that stood partly above the earth which filled the surround, in which athelas, elanor, niphredil, and white Elven lilies had been planted.

            The bard who had written the Lay of Frodo of the Nine Fingers stepped forward with the Lords Elrohir, Elladan, and the King himself; a harp was struck; the lay begun....

            When at last it was done, all turned to the West, in honor of the Valar and all others who dwelt in the Undying Lands, including Frodo Baggins; and of the realm beyond and the Creator who ruled all.

Time Passing

            When the time of honor was finished, Arwen stepped forward to place a hand each on the shoulders of Sam and Rosie; Éomer knelt by Merry and drew him into his embrace, his own tears flowing freely; and Faramir came behind Pippin, placed a hand on each of the small Captain of the Guard’s shoulders as Pippin continued to stand at attention while tears rolled down his face.  The King’s eyes were closed, and his lips moved in what Ruvemir thought was a prayer; finally he opened them and turned to look down at Ruvemir.   Together they turned toward Ferdibrand Took, who stood with a gentle smile on his face.  Again, they looked to one another, and a similar smile touched the eyes of the King.  Lord Celeborn approached Fredegar Bolger and Narcissa Boffin, both of them weeping openly, knelt to offer them comfort.

            At last all quieted, and tears finally dried as mutual smiles were shared.  At a nod from the King, Guild Master Dorion came forward.  “It has been an honor to watch the shaping of this memorial over the past year and a half,” he said, “and to see how many have come together to bring it into being, sculptors and apprentices, engineers, masons, gardeners, those who have delighted to serve those who labored.  Men, Elves, Dwarves, Pheriannath--all have contributed.

            “Two of those who have labored as apprentices under Master Ruvemir are this day granted acceptance into the Guild of Carvers as sculptors of stone, both having been presented by their Master as ones who have shown mastery in their artistry and in their ability to shape stone to the needs and desires of patrons and selves.  Gilmirion son of Gildorn and Gorondir son of Maldos, please step forward.”

            The two apprentices were taken by surprise, and looked at their master for assurance this was real, and he nodded to them to do so.  He, Faragil, and Orin together stepped forward with them.  All applauded as each was presented with the pendant of a mallet that marked their acceptance to the Guild as full members, and each stood proudly as Faragil placed the chains about their necks.  At last the ceremony was done, and King and Queen led the way, Pippin again walking before them as guard, back into the Citadel with their guests, while the populace formed its own procession to walk about the memorial so each could see it.  Most brought a single flower or green branch lay around it, and many reached out to touch one or another of the figures as they passed. 

            The rest of the day was one of carnival and celebration, with an area of the Pelennor set up with booths for the selling of food and small gifts, with acrobats and singers, races and trials of strength and agility, stages set up for the presentation of pageants and tableaus and other entertainments here and there throughout the city.  When his duty was over, Pippin watched from the walls with regret, for he had not time to go out before he must go to his weapons practice.  Ruvemir brought him a dish of stewed mushrooms he’d asked Cook to send up to him, and the Hobbit was heartened, smiling.  “And to think,” he said as he lifted the spoon to mouth, “I don’t need to share this with Merry.  I must say your cook has a way with them.  I may try to steal her away from you.”  Ruvemir laughed. 

            They shared news of what had occurred in the life of each since Ruvemir had come to the Shire, and spoke of the coming trip that Ruvemir and Elise would soon make to the North.  “I think now it will require only Aragorn’s agreement, Ruvemir, and you and yours alone will have the freedom to enter the Shire pretty much when you will, as long as you are accompanied across the Bridge by one of us.”

            “That is heartening,” Ruvemir said.  “I don’t think we will want to come back south in the coming winter, for it will be so soon after the trip north.  It would be good to visit with you during it, although I suspect we might take a house actually in Bree, for we will have two apprentices with us, and the babe to come.”

            “You are expecting?  When?”

            “I’m not certain, for I have not yet been advised by Elise this is to come.  I’m not certain when she plans to tell me, in fact.”

            “But you know she is expecting?”

            “Our Lord Aragorn and Lady Arwen have been giving her looks that tell me of it.”

            Pippin laughed.  “She might not wish to tell you for fear you will call off the trip in concern for her before it is any danger.”

            “I’ve considered this might be true.”

            After a time, Pippin put down his spoon and looked down at the crowds of people below, then turned his head to watch the line of folk still passing by the memorial.  “Narcissa has been shining with happiness.”

            “Yes, I know.”

            “Can you tell me why?”

            “Do you have time to come down to our house, do you think?”

            “I think so.  It will give me the chance to woo your cook.”

            As they made their way past the line of people still in line to go up past the memorial, Ruvemir explained, “I’ve tried to honor the Lord Frodo’s desire that the King not know of his artistry, at least until Lord Samwise has given me leave.  But I wish you to see two more pictures he left here in the city and which have come to me.” 

            Pippin paused as they approached the house.  “It looks different now.  All seems more--settled, more comfortable.” 

            Ruvemir explained as they entered in that he and Elaine slept in the study as had been done by Frodo, and Pippin nodded.  The sculptor led him into the dining room and indicated the picture on the wall.  Pippin smiled to see it as he set the bowl on the table.  “The old White Tree, before they laid it to rest,” he said, smiling--and then he stopped, his eyes widening as he saw the image of the Queen in the branches.  “Oh, my,” he said.  “I’d not seen another he did in that manner.  The Lady Arwen?” 

            Ruvemir smiled.  “I wanted you to see that one before we look at the other picture, for this image is the more obvious.  Now, Master Iorhael said that this was given him about a month before the new White Tree was planted, before any of you had any idea that the marriage was coming.”  Pippin nodded.  Ruvemir led the way then into his own room, and indicated the painting of Bag End.  “Look with open eyes,” he suggested.

            Pippin examined it for several minutes, then looked at Ruvemir and shrugged.  He looked again, and finally saw one of the faces.  “Pearl,” he said.  “He put Pearl into....”  And then he paused, looked again, went closer.  Finally he looked at Ruvemir with a smile.  “So, she saw this, then.”  Ruvemir nodded.  “The women whose regard he had come to care for most at the time, Rosie, his mother, Pearl, and Narcissa.”  He looked at it long.  “I rather hope Aunt Esmeralda and my mother don’t see this, for they’d be heartbroken, I think, not to find themselves in it.”  Again Ruvemir nodded. 

            They went out onto the lower balcony, and Pippin checked the sun and determined he had time for a pipe.  Lighting it, he asked, “When will you come north?”

            “In about six weeks.  I am finishing up another figure, using one of the blocks gifted me by Lord Gimli.”

            “Who is it of?”

            Ruvemir laughed.  “Oh, it is of the Ghan Peveset of Mundolië,” he said.  “He was intrigued by my work, and found himself wishing to have a figure of himself done to place before his people.  His request was relayed here a few weeks past, and it appears he wishes it to be as tall as our Lord Elessar’s height.  This block when it came to me showed me it held the image of someone who thought of himself as tall.  In actuality the Ghan is not much taller than you, but he wishes to be seen by the world as equal in majesty as our own Lord King.  Yet this block is very happily accepting his shape.  We are almost finished with it, and the King has promised to see it carried to him.  He also is heartily amused.

            “After the figure is done, which should be in the next few weeks, Elise and I will go to Bavarin in Lossarnach to see to the fitting out of our new travel coach, and to purchase horses to pull it.  We will then return here briefly and then begin north.”

            Pippin smiled.  “We will be not that far ahead of you, I think, but enough to ready things for your arrival.  Which of the apprentices will remain with you?”

            “Celebgil and Armanthol.”

            “I can’t wait till you tell me the promised tale of how he came to be among your apprentices.”

            “It is a complicated one, and best told when all who may wish to hear are there together.  Perhaps tonight in the common room for your quarters?”

            “Good enough.”  Again Pippin checked the sun and then the watch he carried beneath his mail.  “Well, I must be off.  And again, the memorial is far better than I’d dreamed it could be.  How did you get Frodo’s feet so well, by the way?”

            “The Queen did a drawing of them for me.”

            “She, too, has the soul of an artist.  She did the King’s banner, by the way.  Did you know?”

            “No, but now that I do I have a mind to put a plan in action.”

*******

            A party was held shortly before the feast was to begin in the quarters set aside for the Hobbits, one which was attended by King and Queen and several amused high Lords and Ladies of several realms.  At it officiated a small, golden haired Hobbit lass, who with remarkable dignity greeted all and distributed presents.  The King received a book of poetry, one that had been written by Bilbo Baggins and copied and bound by Frodo Baggins, a gift he accepted with solemn pleasure the depth of which even he could not fully express.  Pippin, who had supplied this from the Great Smial, smiled with satisfaction.  The Queen received a table cover of lace work done by Marigold Cotton.  Miriel received a self-portrait done by Elanor herself, and Ruvemir a picture of the small Hobbit House that now stood in the garden of Bag End.

            As Sam accompanied Ruvemir to the door as he set out to dress for the feast to come, however, the Hobbit pressed a heavy leather satchel into the mannikin’s hands.  “I promised you it would take about a year, and that’s what it did,” he said.  “Marigold copied it for me.  She’s a treasure to have as a sister, you know.”

            The pleasure of the King for his gift was matched by that of his sculptor as he cradled the satchel holding his own copy of the Red Book to him with great tenderness.

*******

            At the New Years Feast that night a very small lass sat in the place of honor beside the King of Gondor.  The rest of the Pheriannath sat at places on the inner curve of the table, save for Merry who was serving Éomer that night, and Samwise Gamgee, who sat beside Queen Arwen.  Sam was plainly embarrassed, Ruvemir noted, but handled it well enough, particularly as his wife sat opposite him, and every time their eyes met his expression would lighten automatically, a reaction that Rosie appeared to be provoking deliberately. 

            Musicians played throughout the meal, and afterwards there was dancing and much talk between those in attendance; and at the end there was singing.

            Garata of Rhun was surprised to find herself enjoying the feast and the unaccustomed attention she was receiving, for in Rhun wives did not attend feasts nor speak with their husbands’ guests unless they were family.  Here she saw husbands and wives attending together, speaking freely to whomever they wished, even holding children from time to time, although she was assured that the attendance of children at a feast was not a common event even here.  Men, Elves, Dwarves, and Periannath were mingling freely; and folk from Northern and Southern kingdoms were equally courteous to those from Rhun and Harad as to those from Rohan and one another; Lords spoke comfortably with artisans, Ladies with merchants of note.  She saw an Elven Lord with a child of the Periannath in his arms, obviously engaged in conversation; a Dwarf with the daughter of the Queen and King of Gondor on his shoulders, both obviously comfortably familiar with the situation.  She herself was attended by a Lord from Arnor who served as interpreter. 

            It was confusing and overwhelming, yet at the same time highly stimulating as well.  Garata of Rhun found herself wishing the evening would not have to end.

*******

            A week later there was an audience in which the King officially recognized the work done by his sculptor and saw to the awarding of his fee.  Ruvemir accepted it with great dignity.  He’d come with his wife and Ririon, Miriel and Folco.  Miriel had come accompanied by a woman that was unfamiliar to the King, but who was being eyed with some interest by the Lady Arwen. 

            “As for the house you have dwelt in--I know that your own preference is to travel freely throughout the two realms to accept commissions, but it is our hope that you and Mistress Elise will agree to return frequently to Minas Anor, particularly during the winters.  We give the house exclusively to your use and that of your wife for the remainder of your lives, that there always be a place to return to.  The same with the smaller workspace once owned by Varondil--we have purchased it from his wife, and it is now set aside for your use.  The larger workspace we continue to lease from her, until another will take it, so that if, during your stays, you may wish to take apprentices you may do so.  All who have labored under you speak with great pleasure of your teaching and your patience.”

            “Thank you, my Lord King,” said Ruvemir with a deep bow. 

            Ruvemir was wearing this day the shirt Miriel had made to replace the damaged shirt she’d made for his wedding.  The design was similar, but was on a soft green silk, and on him it looked very well.  The King noted it with pleasure, and turned his attention to the Master Embroiderer.  “Your own skill shines, Mistress Miriel,”  he said.  Ruvemir smiled, for he had just played directly into Miriel’s hands.

            “Thank you, my Lord,” she said.  “And I wished to present you with the newest Master Embroiderer recognized by our guild.”

            The King looked with interest at the woman next to her, and the Queen suddenly straightened, her eyes amused but on guard.  Pippin, who stood before the throne, suddenly grinned openly, and Elise returned it, then looked back at the Lady Arwen.  Miriel continued, “My Lord, may I introduce Guild Mistress Morweth of the Guild of Tailors and Seamstresses?  On the basis of an item suggested for consideration, she and the rest of the guild have agreed to present this honor this day.”

            The King bowed his head, a smile coming into his own eyes.  He looked at Mistress Morweth and asked, “May we inquire who this person is?”

            “The Lady Arwen Undómiel, our Lord King,” Mistress Morweth answered, curtseying deeply.

            “But I have not presented a work for consideration to the guild for this purpose,” the Queen protested, yet smiling.

            “We know this, our Lady Queen; however, all have had the chance to see and review the King’s standard, which we have been given to know came from your needle.”

            “Yes, but----”  She looked at her husband.  “You have reviewed the guild charters.  Can they do this?”

            He laughed aloud.  “Ah, my lady love, yes, they can.”  He arose and took her hand, drew her to her feet from her chair beside him.  “Come, beloved, for this is one honor you definitely deserve.”

            “You’d best beware,” she said as they walked together down the stair, “for the folk of the Bard’s Guild have been looking at you closely, you know.”  His laughter rose again as they came down to stand before the Guild Mistress.  Rosie Gamgee caught the pleasure in the eyes of Miriel daughter of Elainen and Mardil of Lebennin as she watched her Queen formally inducted into the Guild.

*******

            Budgie Smallfoot found himself attending on the King and Queen several times as they made their regular visits to the Houses of Healing, and spent more than one evening in discussion with the King and Healers from that establishment on treatments of various maladies, surgical techniques, the uses of herbs.  He was amazed to find himself listened to with respect, and to be learning from those he was dealing with as well.

*

            Ferdibrand Took spent a good deal of time speaking with one of the Healers of the realm of Gondor, who examined his eyes but who also spoke with him on how he had come to use his walking stick to aid in finding his way, what other ways he had developed to do what he wanted to do since he had been blinded.  One evening he spent with Ruvemir’s sister Miriel, cooking a meal together in Elise’s kitchen, watched with growing respect by Ruvemir and Elise’s cook.  But it was the quiet talks with the King and the Elven Lords he found he came to treasure most, as they discussed the Light of Being and how it was perceived and expressed.  He realized he, too, was coming to deeply honor the Lord Aragorn Elessar, and knew he would miss him as he headed north once more.  But he found he now had several more points of Light he could follow, both here in Gondor, and he realized as they finally set back out for home, in Rhun and throughout Arnor as well.  He was finding the darkness lifted increasingly in the past few years.  And now, he realized, there was near to him along the way the golden Light of Samwise Gamgee that would always be nearby.

*

            Fredegar Bolger found himself enthralled with the White City, and with his sister and Diamond spent much time exploring it, visiting the archives, speaking with artisans and merchants and lords and ladies, even watching the weapons practice that Pippin must attend.

            The tall Man against whom Pippin was matched managed to best the Hobbit, but they saw that Pippin was not making it easy for him, and he even came away with a few bruises on his legs from the flat of Pippin’s foil.  Finally he managed to disarm the Hobbit, at which time said Hobbit rolled under his guard, tackled his legs, and brought him crashing to the ground.

            The King laughed as he disengaged himself, then helped his guard to stand.  “Stubborn Took,” he smiled, “even when apparently beaten you will keep on, and thus win through at the end.  I salute you, my friend.”  The King bowed deeply, and Pippin drew himself straight, flushed and proud.

*

            It was with deep regret that the Lord King Aragorn Elessar bade goodbye to the Periannath, seeing them mounted and back in their carriage, once again on their way back to the Shire.  “I must come north to Arnor in the summer, although not with a full court,” he advised them.  “Will you come out to Bree to meet with me, at least?”

            “You know that full well, Strider,” Sam assured him.  “You just make certain that you take care of your daughter.  That one is a treasure.”

            “And the same is true of you, my friend,” the King said.  He and his guards rode alongside them and the Rohirrim to the opening in the Rammas Echor, and watched with pride and the sadness of parting as they disappeared into the north once more.

            A month later he was bidding goodbye to Ruvemir and Elise as they set out in their special carriage for Arnor.  He was amazed at it, half house, half wagon, comfortably fitted with beds and table and benches which doubled for storage, even a small galley similar to one of those found in ships.  His grief at the departure of the sculptor was quite deep, he found, and he knew he would rejoice the more when the two of them returned.

            Ruvemir took him aside quietly before they departed.  “My Lord,” he said, “when her time comes, where should I look to find a competent midwife?  And when will that be?”

            “She’s not told you when the child is due yet?”

            Ruvemir sighed.  “She’s not yet told me it is due--I suspect she’s afraid I’ll try to remain here, although she knows I’m as keen as she is to head north.  She so wants to see Arnor as well as Gondor, you see.”

            Aragorn laughed.  “It will be due in September.  You can find competent help in Bree, in Annúminas, in Rivendell, or in the Shire.  You have the papers confirming your dispensation to enter the Shire with you, do you not?”

            “Captain Pippin gave them into my hands himself, and with great smugness, I will add.”

            “Bless him for it,” the King said, smiling.  “I would suggest you head for the Shire about that time, then.  They will delight to see your child born.”  His expression grew more solemn.  “Go well, small brother.  And I pray the Valar to protect and defend you.”

            “The Valar and Gilfileg,” Ruvemir said.  “I regret he leaves you now.”

            “His heart is of the North,” Aragorn said quietly.  “And I think at last he is considering marrying.  There was a lady some miles from Annúminas who captured his attention some years past, and I think that he will finally approach her, now that he is content with having finally made peace with his mother’s family.”

            “I look forward to meeting her, then,” Ruvemir said.  He looked up quietly, already regretting leaving this one, yet still eager to be away.  “You keep well also, my Lord Aragorn.  Keep well, and be happy.”

*******

            Two winters later the great coach returned to Minas Anor with the winds of November.  Armanthol was driving it, and it was noted he now wore a sword. 

            Celebgil opened the doors as grooms at the outer stable came to meet the coach, and already the pony cart was being brought out to carry whatever items Ruvemir might indicate up into the city to the house in the Sixth Circle, as well as the occupants of the coach. 

            Ruvemir swung himself out, and was saluted by Captain Beregond.  “Welcome home, Master Sculptor,” the soldier greeted him.  “The King is sitting in judgment and cannot come down, but he sends his greetings.”

            “Thank you, Lord Captain,” Ruvemir smiled.  “It is good to know the Lord Faramir is  here also.”  He turned to the doorway and called, “I will take Sam now, dearling.”  Elise appeared and handed down a small child into Ruvemir’s arms. 

            “Your father is also in the capital, arrived four days since, and is staying in the house of Mistress Idril with his wife.  Ririon is wild to see you, and has haunted the Gates, just went back up to the Second Circle not an hour since.”

            “And we look forward to seeing him, too,” smiled Ruvemir.  A basket was placed in the doorway, one that moved alarmingly.  “A gift from the Lady Elanor to the Lady Melian,” the sculptor explained.  A second one was set alongside the first.  “And that one is Sam’s, here.”  He looked up.  “Lord Samwise is now Mayor Samwise as well.”  They shared a smile.

            The Captain of the White Company laughed as he peered into one of the baskets at the kitten it contained and then set them both in the cart, assisted the grooms from the stables in loading chests and boxes and bags.  Finally husband, wife, and son were in, with a small dog the final passenger.  It appeared the house in the Sixth Circle was going to be active for the next few months.

            The storage room for the small workshop had been filled with blocks of marble from Casistir as well as local stone, and within days Ruvemir was once again engaged in sculpting within the city.  He produced several works in the next few months, including a figure of the King himself for the Hall of Kings.  He was often in attendance on the King, and the King frequently came to his workshop and even his home.  Celebgil was formally inducted into the Guild of Carvers as a sculptor of stone.

            In March sculptor and wife were away again.  They returned two years later in April, bringing word that both northern commissions were now complete and that Meriadoc Brandybuck was now Master of Buckland and Brandy Hall, introducing the King and Queen to their new daughter, Gwineth.  In May Celebgil was recognized as a Master Sculptor, and purchased the workshop that had once belonged to Varondil; and the city of Kings rejoiced at the birth of the King’s son, Eldarion.

            They remained in Minas Anor for three years, then set out north again to Tharbad accompanied by Owain this time, returning the next winter.  The following spring Ruvemir accepted a commission in Lamedon, then another in Dol Amroth.

            They returned two years later, and after working on several works for the city, Ruvemir asked Lord Gimli’s assistance in cutting the top of the great block.

            He labored on this between other works for six years, and when asked by his son why he took so long about it, he laughed.  “There is no hurry for this one,” he said.  But it was one block that was ever covered when people came into the shop to speak with him, and was never undraped when the King visited.  Then he let it lie, untouched and unfinished, for several more years while the family, including Master Carver Ririon of Minas Anor, worked once more in the North, in Annúminas, assisting in the completion of the Citadel there.  The Princess Idril was four years old when he returned to Minas Anor.