Yes, I'm joining a lot of other authors in creating a place for vignettes, ficlets, and other short stories.  LOL...Dreamflower is probably pulling her hair out!  I must thank her for assisting me with decifering which is what in the various categories of tales.

Not all the stories will be Pippin and Merry-centric; I love ALL hobbits, though I will try to keep my O.C.s to a minimum...oy. That will be hard!

Last, but definitely not least, thank you to Pearl Took, my mentor--and without whom I would never have lifted a cyber-pen.

Disclaimer: All Hobbits and Middle-earth belong to JRR Tolkien.

Characters: Pippin, Paladin. Pippin’s first impression of Sancho Proudfoot.

Tinderwood’s Pipe Shop

Hobbiton, Afterlithe, 1393, S.R.

Big houses….tall trees. To three-year-old Pippin, everything was either big or tall. Even hobbit-teens appeared larger than life to the small child. Pippin sucked on his forefinger while clinging to his papa’s big hand as they walked past the village square towards the door of Mr. Tinderwood’s Pipe Shop.

“Come along, Pippin,” said Paladin, smiling to his young son. “Up we go!” Paladin swept his little faunt into the air to make him giggle; with a firm hold on the boy’s hand, he then let Pippin land upright in his arms.

Pippin placed his finger in his mouth again, but also cackled as his papa found ticklish spots round his tummy.

Paladin planted a kiss on his son's smiling face as he opened the shop door with his free hand. “Be a good lad now, Pippin.” With that, Paladin set the child down, however, he soon found the little hobbit stuck to him like honey. “There’s nothing to be afraid of,” Paladin spoke gently.

Pippin wasn’t so sure about this strange place. He warily eyed the huge barrels stacked high against the wall. He pointed to them while trying to talk around the finger in his mouth, “Beew, Papa.”

Paladin laughed, crouching down beside the small faunt, “Not this time, Pip. That’s pipe-weed in those barrels.” Paladin went up to the counter and ordered three pouches of Old Toby.

Pippin decided to let the big people talk while he went off for a look about. He spied a crisp yellow leaf on the wooden floor not too far from his papa. Security-finger still in his mouth, Pippin crouched down to pick up the old leaf, turning it in his hand to better look at it. He next put it to his nose for the “smell” test. The leaf had the same fragrance as his papa when he held a certain pouch in his hands while filling his pipe. Still curious, Pippin stuck is tongue out to give the leaf a wee taste.

“No, Pippin!”

Pippin never got to taste-test the object in his hands; his papa took it away and then threw it off to the side. Pippin looked up at the tall hobbit, ever trusting.

“That’s a dirty old leaf, Pip. Nasty leaf.”

The old shopkeeper laughed, “That little one is a handful, isn’t he?”

“That, he is,” answered Paladin.  The adult hobbits continued their previous conversation in a low volume.

Pippin resigned himself to sit at his papa’s feet while listening to dull talk between grown ups.

“Hullo, Olo!” Pippin looked up. His papa wore a smile as he greeted another grown hobbit who just entered the shop. Behind the newcomer was another small child who seemed not much older than Pippin. When their eyes met, the other child stuck his tongue out at Pippin. Pippin stood up, hanging onto his father’s leg again, saying nothing to the mean lad. Sneaking a one-eyed glance from behind the safety of his father’s leg, Pippin stuck his tongue out in response.

“Is that your Sancho?” Pippin heard his papa ask the new hobbit.

“He’s a right strappin’ young lad, that Sancho,” said Mr. Tinderwood.

“That one yours?” asked Olo, sizing up the babe gripping his father’s leg. “When does he become a faunt?”

“He is a faunt,” Paladin replied firmly. “He’s actually a month older than your Sancho.”

“Not by the looks of him,” countered Olo. His fatherly pride ran as deep as Paladin’s. “Lots of folk think my lad is a hearty four year old!”

“Don’t forget young Master Pippin has had a hard time of it, Olo,” said Mr. Tinderwood in Pippin’s defence. “Bein’ sick an’ all when he was a wee baby--near to dyin’, he was.”

“He almost looks sickly now,” said Olo, “that is, compared to my robust Sancho.”

Paladin snorted a laugh, “Indeed he looks robust. I’d be careful if I were you--he may become a bit too robust around the middle as he gets older.”

Both father’s glared at one another until the high-pitched voice of Mrs. Tinderwood came singing from in the back room. She emerged through the barrier curtain to the front shop with a platter of apple slices. “I fancied I heard Mr. Paladin out here--and I know he doesn’t go anywhere without his wee shadow!” She looked over the counter and smiled at the small lad with honey-brown curls kissed by the summer sun.

“That is very thoughtful of you, Mrs. Tinderwood,” said Paladin. He lifted his son up then sat him atop the counter. Pippin saw the apple slices then reached over to take one. Olo also picked up his son, but only long enough for the child to grab nearly the entire lot then run into a corner to eat his plunder.

“What do you say, Pip?” Paladin gently prompted his son who now nibbled on his apple slice.

“Pippin apple.”

The grown ups laughed. Paladin helped his little lad along, “What do you tell Mrs. Tinderwood for Pippin’s apple, eh?”

Still nibbling, Pippin turned to the hobbit-matron with the large apron tied around her waist. “Tenk yoo.” More laughter followed.

“How is Mr. Bilbo and his lad doin’?” asked Mrs. Tinderwood. Frodo was one of her husband’s favourite customers, always polite and willing to listen to the proprietor’s tales of his youth.

“Both of my cousins are faring better today, although Bilbo had the worst of it, being up in age and all,” answered Paladin. “I’m staying only until tomorrow at elevenses, then my children and I will be heading back to Whitwell.”

“Crops won’t grow without tendin’ to,” put in Mr. Tinderwood. “The old Gaffer will tell you that as well.”

“Aye,” said Paladin, taking Pippin in his arms then grabbed his purchased items. Pippin finished his apple slice then began rubbing his eyes. “I best be going now. It’s almost time for his nap.”

“Good day t’ ya, Mister Paladin,” the Tinderwoods spoke in unison.

“Keep feeding that babe of yours, Paladin,” said Olo, “and maybe he’ll grow up to be like my Sancho.”

Sancho sat in the corner eating his fill of apple slices then spat out the apple skins he wasn’t able to chew onto the floor. Paladin eyed the child, shaking his head. The little lad stuck his tongue out at the grown-up. Paladin clucked his tongue and whispered, “Good heavens above, I hope not.” When he looked back, thankfully Olo and the Tinderwoods were already engaged in their own conversation.

As Paladin opened the shop door to exit, Pippin peered over his papa’s shoulder gazing at the mean lad, then stuck his tongue out at Sancho. Pippin wasn’t happy with Sancho sticking his tongue out at his papa, and such is the communication between three-year-olds.

The End 

Disclaimer: All Hobbits and Middle-earth belong to JRR Tolkien.

Characters: Pippin, Paladin.The title says all.

Just Us Lads

Whitwell, Astron, 1400, S.R.

Pippin sat upon his bed busying himself with counting and shining his ever-increasing marble collection scattered on the bed in his bedroom. Recuperating from a long nap to regain his strength from a recent head cold, Pippin poured himself a glass of water to clear his head. Something felt amiss. He let one of his newest shooters roll down the “hill” toward his leg as the growing silence demanded his attention, the other remained in his hand. He became more and more aware that the whole smial was filled with quiet. No laughter, no arguing…no lasses. This isn’t right, he said to himself. Leaving his colourful little treasures for the moment, Pippin rose up from his bed.

The ten-year-old lad walked deeper into the hallway looking into each of his sisters’ bedrooms. All the rooms were empty of their residents, however, the beds were made, and the clothes folded neatly and set inside their wardrobes. Then the scent of sweet-smelling roses on midsummer’s eve tickled his nose.

Pippin recalled that his mother and sisters owned a vast amount of the expensive rose water, purchasing a month’s supply at a time while at the market in Tuckborough, then dabbed it on sparingly at a moment’s notice. Each sister--and his mother--had their own reason to daub themselves with the rose-water, yet Pippin surmised that it all boiled down to ensnaring a lad. Except for his dear mother, of course; Eglantine had already caught her lad over twenty five years ago.

Not finding any of the lasses about, Pippin decided to stroll out to his father’s study--it was so quiet that he began to worry if his father was indeed home from the fields. Just before he reached the doorway, Pippin heard the ruffling of a page turning. He leaned against the doorjamb watching his father smooth out the page of a book in the soft candlelight. Pippin smiled when he recognized the familiar green binding: The Memoirs of Bandobras Took, written by Bandobras Took. The young lad and his father shared many interests, one of them being their distant author/cousin. Both admired his bravery and courage in the Battle of Greenfield.

Sensing another presence nearby, Paladin looked up toward the doorway, seeing his young son standing there. “Hullo, Pip,” he spoke softly in greeting. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Papa. Where did they go?”

“Where did who go?”

“Momma and the lasses.”

“It’s just us lads tonight,” said Paladin, then smiled lovingly at his son. “That is, until round nine o’clock or so. Your cousin Teasel Banks is having her first Ladies’ Tea. Dahlia left us a pot of stew on the fire--the lasses talked her into accompanying them.”

Pippin quietly smiled at the notion of ‘just us lads’. He also remembered the hasty invitations that arrived the day before from Miss Teasel Banks. “I like that.”

Paladin raised his eyebrows in wonder, “You like what? The idea of a ladies’ tea?”

Pippin smiled again, knowing his papa was having a jest. “No!” said the youngster. He sat down on the couch, snuggling up to his father. “I mean that I like it that the lasses will be gone until much later.”

Paladin kissed his son’s curls then draped his arm around Pippin’s slim shoulders. “They’re your sisters Pip,” said Paladin, reminding the young lad with a gentle squeeze. “But I do like to spend time with just us lads, Pippin.”

Pippin said nothing in reply--he didn’t need to. His facial expression gave away his true feelings in addition to nuzzling closer to his papa. At once, the aroma of Old Toby filled his nostrils; Pippin knew that the familiar brown leather pouch rested just underneath his nose deep inside the breast pocket of his papa’s waistcoat. The smell of pipe smoke always brought warm memories of his father that would last until Pippin took his last breath on this side of the Grey Curtain.

“What is that in your hand?” asked Paladin.

“My newest Shooter,” Pippin replied holding it up for his father to see. “I had a lucky game last Mersday and won it from Tom Woolfoot.”

“Old Rob’s youngest son,” mused Paladin. “He’s almost Merry’s age, isn’t he?”

Pippin nodded, basking in his papa’s attention. “He’s sixteen, Papa.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t luck, Pip. Maybe all the practicing you did with Merry this past month paid off.”

This night would be perfect if Merry was here, Pippin thought to himself. “Papa?” 

“Hmm?”

“Can we read about Bandobras together?”

“You’ve read this book countless times, Pip. Wouldn’t you rather shine your marbles?”

“No…I would rather sit here with you for a while--that is, if you don’t mind.”

Paladin smiled, “I don’t mind at all. Shall we start at the beginning? I’ve only read six pages so far...”

On into the evening the lads took turns reading passages from the adventures (and misadventures) of Bandobras Took. It was just the lads.

The End

Frodo’s first few days in Hobbiton are a bit stressful for him.

The New Lad

Late Halimath, 1389

Frodo sat upon the bench swing in the garden of Bag End watching the world pass by. “Go outside, lad,” he heard Bilbo’s suggestion echo within his head. “There are plenty of lads your age who stand about near the market playing games all day long.”

“I have been to the market everyday since I arrived four days ago,” Frodo answered to no one in the garden. “I am the new lad that nobody knows and cares not to be acquainted with.”

The first morning after he arrived to live with his cousin Bilbo, Frodo walked to Hobbiton market, taking Bilbo’s advice to heart. When he drew near to the village square, Frodo spied a group of young tweens playing Ponyshoes near the inn. He stood by and watched the game for a while, hoping to be invited to join a team of lads. One lad even laughed at one of Frodo’s remarks, though no one really addressed him throughout the event. Growing bored, Frodo moved on, eventually walking back to Bag End.

The second day, Frodo again walked to the village, noticing several lads sitting on the porch of the Green Dragon while smoking their pipes and talking amongst themselves. Frodo asked if he could join them. “Ye’re the new lad that old Mad Baggins adopted, aren’t ye?” asked one lad with sandy hair then pointed toward a distant building with a large turning wheel that churned up water from the river. “Name’s Ned--Ned Sandyman. My uncle owns the mill yonder.”

Frodo introduced himself, acknowledging the fact of whose heir he was. “I came to live with Bilbo two days ago from Brandy Hall,” he answered.

“Listen t’ him!” Ned snickered. “Ye’re not a Baggins--ye’re a Brandybuck if I ever heard one of’em!” The other lads laughed along with their leader.

“He talks like a proper hobbit from Brand Hall,” said another lad, mimicking Frodo’s pronunciation of his words.

“That he does, Bob!” Ned said, playfully whacking the back of Bob’s unruly curls.

“Good day, lads,” said Frodo, getting up from the porch. He got the point that he was no longer welcome in their little party.

On the third day, Frodo walked one more time to the market, jaw set in determination of finding a new friend or two in Hobbiton. As he approached the inn, he could hear the same lads he met yesterday, but could not readily see them. Then he observed them; loitering behind the Green Dragon. When they saw the newcomer, the lads darted off while laughing. “Brandybuck, Brandybuck!” called Bob over his shoulder as he followed his band of friends.

Frodo slumped his slim shoulders, decidedly walking back toward his new home. He didn’t regret his decision to come live with Bilbo, however, Frodo had not felt this lonely since after the death of his parents. Feeling friendless and humiliated, Frodo slipped his hands into his pockets, taking the long way round the market. Most of the hawkers were busy selling their goods and wares, however, Frodo gazed up just in time to see a lad a bit older than he looking in his direction. “Don’t pay them any mind, Mr. Frodo,” said the stranger-lad as he paused in hawking his ropes.

“Ev’rythin’ that lot does comes to naught but trouble, if ye get my meanin’,” said the second lad, standing beside the first.

Frodo gaped at the strangers, startled that the lads knew his name, but he did not know theirs. Still, young Frodo was heartened. He picked up his pace heading down the lane toward The Hill.

Upon returning to Bag End, Frodo went directly to the garden. He dreaded to hear yet another of Bilbo’s tales of how many tweenaged lads there were in Hobbiton, had he gone inside the smial. Frodo truly was fond of Bilbo, however, he would much preferably sulk at the moment.

The tweenager had occupied the swing now for more than an hour, lazily kicking back and forth using the ball of his foot as if the weather was the dog days of summer rather than a cooler day in late Halimath. He stilled the swing when he heard voices coming down Bagshot Row.

“Hullo, Mr. Frodo,” greeted the same lads that Frodo saw in the market. They walked in the lane as they passed by.

Frodo sat up straight, unsure of whom these lads were. He said nothing in return, merely gawking as they walked by the gate.

“Oof!” grunted one, though the tall sunflowers in Bilbo’s garden mostly hid the lad. “Hi, little brother!” the older lad laughed, “Next time be easy on me!”

“Did ye get to work with dad today, Sam?” asked the other lad. “Good!” Obviously the answer from yet a third lad was a “yes”. “Daisy!” he called again, “Tell dad we’re on our way t' supper!”

Frodo’s eyes grew wide with trepidation as he heard the gate creak open. He leaned forward in his seat, peering round the bend of sunflowers as if he were spying on his neighbours.

“Hullo, Mr. Frodo!” said the second lad, startling Frodo out of his skin. “Sorry--I thought ye were expectin’ us. We can leave if ye want.”

“We just thought it rude to walk by without sayin’ anythin’,” said the elder one, toting a small child upon his back. “My name is Hamson Gamgee, and he is my younger brother, Halfred. And this one,” Hamson gave a wee lift from his back as he laughed, “is Samwise, though we just call him Sam. Don’t we, Sam?” The child smiled, nodding in agreement. Ham continued, “We’re Ham, Hal, and Sam Gamgee--at yer service,” he bowed so as not to let his brother tumble from his back. “Mr. Bilbo has talked a lot about ye t’ our dad,” he added.

Next, Hamson, Halfred, and young Samwise stared at the new lad waiting for him to speak, to at the least introduce himself. After all, it was only proper after Hamson introduced them all to him.

Frodo feared this moment ever since earlier that day--actually, since the day before when the young rogues at the market jeered his Buckland accent.

“Wait!” Frodo jumped out of the swing, calling out as the group turned to leave. “I…I grew up in Buckland. That’s why I don’t sound like I’m from Hobbiton. I do not have any brothers…nor sisters. I have lots of cousins, though--and,” he looked at Sam, “a very dear cousin not much younger than you, Sam, that I left behind in Brandy Hall. I already miss him terribly; he is like a little brother to me.” Frodo hesitated, then bowed low in return, “And I at yours.”

“What’s his name?” asked Sam, instantly feeling a soft nudge from Hamson.

“Call him “sir”, or Mr. Frodo,” instructed the elder brother.

“What’s his name, Mr. Frodo?”

“Meriadoc,” answered Frodo with a smile, “though people rarely remember it. We call him Merry, because…he is.”

“He’s always merry?”

Frodo knelt down to be eye-level with the child, “He is mostly. Sometimes things make him sad, but never for long.” Just then, a feminine shout was heard down the Row.

“We have t’ go,” said Halfred, taking Sam by the hand. “Supper’s on and dad will have our hides if we’re too late.”

Rising up, Frodo smiled at the prospect of new friends that were his neighbours. “Thank you for stopping by, Hamson--and Halfred…,” then he shook the littlest one’s hand, “and you, too, Sam. I’d be pleased if we could all have luncheon together sometime.”

“Maybe one day we will,” said Hamson as he ushered his brothers out of the gate, “but I know Sam will be round mostly. He’ll talk yer ears off sooner than yer grandma!” The tween stopped in his tracks realizing who’s grandma he erringly referred to.

Frodo laughed. He had not laughed since before saying goodbye to his “little brother” at Brandy Hall. “Think not on it, Ham. I am so pleased to have met you and your family.”

Hamson gave the new lad a nod and a smile, though he wasn’t the “new” lad anymore.

The End

Storm at Sea

Early Forelithe, 1394

“Hoist up the main sail!” called the sea captain, standing proud and strong in the prow of his ship. Lightening bolts as big as trees flashed closer than he imagined possible. The young seahobbit thrust his sword high into the air, “No storm shall touch my ship!”

“Aye, Captain!” said the sea-maiden, shouting her response over the billowing wind and rain. “Up with the sail, sea-lad!” she yelled, repeating the captain’s orders.

From the rear of the “ship”, four-year-old Pippin took his duties seriously. He got to his little feet, raising a walking stick twice his height into the air; tied to the “mast” was an old bath towel. “Aye, cappin!” he replied enthusiastically.

Though the sun shone bright overhead in the Shire and the sky clear, Pippin unmistakably saw the dark storm his comrades described: Black, ominous clouds pelting hard rain upon the wooden deck while searching for a friendly port in which to moor. It was all happening just as his papa related in a tale of uncle Isengar’s adventure the night before.

At the same time, from down the lane, Paladin rode home early from the fields upon his pony, Fergie. He slowed the animal, seeing something strange and wonderful unfold in his own yard. When he saw his young son lift up the walking stick, he became very amused. Paladin recognized the walking stick as the one he himself used on an old “adventure” of his own long ago, yet over the years could never part with it. Paladin brought Fergie to a stop, dismounted, and then tethered her to a sapling near the fence-gate.

“The waves are so big!” the eight-year-old sea-maiden shouted to her captain. “How will we get home?”

Paladin smiled, watching his youngest daughter in her dress and apron row as if her life depended on it, fully in the moment of her lively imagination.

Without a sound, he crept near the rain barrel kept by the smial door. He dipped the water bucket inside, filling it full of the cool rain water--real rain water gotten mostly from yesterday‘s downpour. It was an unusually warm afternoon in Forelithe, so Paladin had no worry of the children getting sick--so as long as they quickly changed clothes afterward.

The great waves of the deep sea swelled high before the sea-captain; taller than the Misty Mountains cousin Bilbo described vividly in his own tales. “Even the Eagles should fear this storm! But you shall have no fear, Sea-maiden--I and my trusty sword shall get us home!” Merry swung his wooden stick into the air once more, stabbing an unseen foe. “There you are, Smaug, you wicked dragon! No more will you haunt the people of Lake-town!” It was a good thing he was wearing his war-helm, which normally was a wooden toy pail that Pippin would use to store his toy blocks in.

“He breathed fire on…on…my…sill, Cappin!” Pippin said angrily. Darn that Smaug!

Pervinca stopped rowing; turning to her little brother she whispered in irritation, “It’s a sail, Pippin, not a sill!”

“I shall put out the fire, my Captain!” shouted Paladin, now near enough to the children. He reared back and let fly the water--squarely over the children and down upon their heads.

Three young heads turned just in time to see their papa (and uncle) toss a large, heavy sea wave upon them.

“A sea-troll!” shouted a very soaked Merry, stepping out of the old cow trough they used as their ship. “Get him! Don’t let the troll get away!” The three wet sea-mates squealed and laughed as they chased their quarry around the yard.

Paladin also laughed, running in circles to avoid “capture” as the young warriors tried their best to pin him down on the sea of green. The “father” in Paladin rose to the surface, remembering that the children needed to get out of their wet garments. He let himself go down quickly. “Quarter! Give me quarter!” he laughed, feeling little hands tickle his sides. Of course, he got in a few tickles, himself.

From the doorway, Eglantine stood watching the entire affair. Through the kitchen window, she had spied her husband pinch the rain bucket and fill it. She knew then that he was up to mischief. Tina let the children pass by to get changed, but she halted Paladin. “Be quick and wash up,” she called after them, “tea will be on shortly.” She then turned to her husband with a mock scowl. “You’re incorrigible!” she smiled. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Come sail with me?” he said with a twinkle in his eye, then kissed her.

The End

Tea for Two

Yuletide, 1390

Pervinca, Frodo, Paladin

The common room at Brandy Hall was filled with the buzz of a multitude of voices after the Yule gifts had been passed out to everyone. Adults conversed, exchanged family news, and the elders told their embellished stories of old. The children were actually cooperative in their play; sharing their new toys and the sweets they received from the various aunts, uncles, grandparents, and other relations.

Having nursed eight month old Pippin in their family suite in the Hall, Eglantine returned to her seat beside her husband with their infant son in her arms. Their youngest daughter, who recently turned five, sat near the hearth watching the ladies rise from their seats to get a good look at the her little brother.

“Is he trying to talk yet?” asked Merry’s Aunt Berylla, his uncle Merimac’s wife.

“He’s finally cut his first tooth?” Pervinca heard her Aunt Essie inquire to her mother. “He’s coming along nicely!”

“How wonderful--sitting on his own! He is doing marvellously,” Vinca heard another lady say, but didn’t know her name.

Eglantine and Paladin fielded all the questions and comments as best they could, proud of their baby’s accomplishments; for every milestone this child conquered was indeed a victory.

Little Pervinca still wasn’t quite used to this wee upstart taking all the attention. Until he came along, she had always been the baby. Perhaps if they knew all the things she could do, they would be impressed with her as well. Vinca rose up from where she sat, going up to the first adult in her path who was fawning over her little brother.

“Hullo!” she said, tugging on the old matron’s skirt, “I know how to count to ten!”

“That’s nice, dear,” said Merry’s aunt Dellie, then turned back to coo the wee babe.

Vinca next pulled on the smock sleeve of a grey-haired gammer. “I can say all of my letters!” she announced, hoping the old lady would ask her to recite them. “My papa showed me…,” the child trailed off. This one didn’t even turn to listen to the child speak, intent on pressing Tina for more details of Pippin’s first few weeks in life. Vinca let out an exasperated sigh before making one more attempt.

She tapped the knee of yet one more lady. This one didn’t have grey hair; she looked to be as old as her momma, so Vinca thought she had a chance with this one. “Hullo,” she started yet again, “I know how to skip! Pimmie learned me. I’m five now!” She held up her small hand with all her digits extended. “See? And I can run fast! I can run…fast.” Pervinca sighed again, though this one was more forlorn. The child turned away sadly, getting the same lack of response as the previous ladies.

Pervinca made her way over to a darkened corner to sit and ponder her plight. Why weren’t they as interested in her own achievements as they were in Pippin’s? Pippin couldn’t count--he couldn’t even talk! Pippin this, and Pippin that, she thought dolefully. Then she saw the big furry feet step up out of the corner of her tearful eye.

The young tweenager got down on his haunches to better speak to the small lass. He smiled, “I heard that you could count all the way to ten!”

Vinca knew her dark-haired cousin from Merry's birthday party in Afterlithe.  She sniffed, “I can.”

“Not using any of your fingers?” he asked with a playful grin.

“Don’t need to,” she replied to the lad, “Papa showed me how.”

The tween remembered countless occasions here in Brandy Hall when he felt just the same as this little lass did at this moment; dejected and rejected. The few relations that did care for him were not enough to keep him here when opportunity knocked last year. Fortunately, young Merry was old enough to understand his move to Bag End, otherwise, he would have endured the crowded smial just for him.

Frodo held out a hand to his young lass-cousin, “Let’s sit over there--on the other side of the hearth.” He indicated to her newest toy, a child-sized rocking chair that her auntie and uncle had given her for Yule. Esmeralda delighted in indulging her nieces, as she had no daughters of her own.

Paladin had caught sight of his youngest daughter plying for attention moments ago. Both he and Tina had been through this phase twice before with Pearl and Pimpernel. He knew all Vinca wanted was someone to listen to her. Paladin scanned the room for the lass, spying her in the corner wiping her eyes. He whispered into his wife’s ear; getting a nod of agreement, Paladin then rose up from his seat, but before he could manage to get away from the inquisitive ladies, he saw that his young tweenaged cousin had already intervened--complete with teacups.

“…and I can skip all the way to the gate,” Paladin heard his young daughter declare in the distance with all seriousness to Frodo.

Paladin smiled, watching the five year old sipping her ‘tea’--more than likely apple juice--with pinkie extended, just like she did when playing ‘tea party’ at home in Whitwell.

Pervinca smiled at her cousin in spite of her pink nose, “I can sing the letter-song, too!”

“I can’t remember when I last heard the letter-song!” said Frodo excitedly. “Will you sing it for me?”

Softly, Vinca proceeded to sing for her cousin every letter in the Westron alphabet.

With a smile of satisfaction, Paladin sat down again. His Sweet Pea was in good hands.

The End

Disclaimer: All hobbits and Middle-earth belong to JRR Tolkien. In my dreams, they belong to me.

Fair-weather Friends 

8 Lithe, 1421, Crickhollow

The young lass stood by the partially open window in their bedroom staring out into the dark void beyond it. The light from the lantern inside the bedroom made the darkness outside impenetrable, much like the cloud of gloom that currently hovered over the master bedroom at Crickhollow, where newlyweds, Merry and Estella Brandybuck, were spending their honeymoon.

In spite of the tension currently in the room, this same bedroom would become their permanent sanctuary throughout their tenure here at the little house. Meanwhile, the other resident of the house, Pippin Took, was off on a month-long holiday to Great Smials so that his best friend and new “sister-in-law” could become better acquainted in privacy.

Sitting upon their bed, dressed only in his nightshirt, was her husband of just one week. He sat with his head resting upon the palm of one hand, eyes and nose red from tears.

“I thought you understood about the…,” he faltered, “the nightmares. I thought I explained it all in great detail…so that this…this…” he trailed off.

Without so much as taking her eyes from the window, Estella replied absently, “So that this wouldn’t happen? I thought I understood, too.”

Nevertheless, no matter how much they spoke of the Journey or how much they talked of the nightmares beforehand, despite how ready Estella thought she was, she was not. She was not prepared for what happened tonight. In reality, when she woke up feeling her husband thrashing about beside her, Estella froze with fear. He bolted upright in bed, his eyes darting here and there as if he were a trapped animal ready to spring. Estella became very frightened…and then gave a cry as she leapt from the bed to stand shivering beside the window.

“I am sorry,” said Merry, still wiping away tears. He spoke with deep sorrow, “I can make the arrangements if you want to sleep in a separate bedroom.”

Estella could not believe what she’d just heard…they were just married a week ago! Yet…Merry spoke the truth. If she was that uncomfortable with his terrifying dreams, then this was an issue to be considered.

However, this consideration, this craven thought endured for less than a fleeting moment in her mind before she took herself to task. Within the dark windowpane, Estella saw the reflection of her husband sitting on the bed. She gazed at the lad who at one time blushed a bright red when he first asked her to dance at a friend’s birthday party. Estella smiled to herself; she was barely a tween then. She remembered the day when he gave her his jacket as the night air became unexpectedly chilly one summer day. She never gave it back, and he never asked for its return, though she wore it on occasion merely to take in his scent. Estella again saw one of the Shire’s champions--part of the group of Travellers who raised the Shire to rid their land of Ruffians. But above all, Estella saw the lad she fell hopelessly in love with years and years ago--the same lad who could take her breath away with a single kiss. “How could I not be at my husband’s side--especially when he needs me the most?” she asked herself.

When Estella finally turned to look at her husband, she observed just how miserable he felt. “Absolutely not,” Estella replied aloud to Merry’s suggestion, “I will not be a fair-weather wife. It will take time, but I will adjust--you’ll see.” Estella walked over to the bed to sit beside Merry, her fingers combing through his bed-head curls. She looked into his deep blue eyes, “We will sleep side by side until I take my last breath, my love.”

Eyes and nose still red, Merry gaped wordlessly at his wife. He thought for sure that the life he had dreamed of had perished before it ever had the chance to begin. He took her hand in his, giving it a tender squeeze, “And I promise you--I will not be a fair-weather husband. I love you.” He leaned forward, gently pressing his lips against hers. Estella responded warmly…as they slipped between the bedclothes, nestling closer than ever.

The End

P.S. Happy Birthday, Anso!

To Choose with Courage

Buckland, 1382, S.R.

Bilbo gazed with wonder at the slight figure his eyes landed upon near the Brandywine river. A young lad stood alone on the bank, leaning with one shoulder against an old willow tree staring at the flowing of water.

The elder hobbit leaned over, whispering to his cousin, “How did you get him out of his room, Rory?”

“I didn’t,” replied the Master of Buckland, also transfixed at the sight before him.

Both hobbits sat beside one another on one of the many wooden benches along the river bank made specifically for Bucklanders to enjoy listening to the eddy of the river or to merely sit in thought. Strolling along the pathway that ran parallel to the river, Bilbo spied his cousin sitting upon such a bench and so stopped to sit and rest for a while.

Their tranquil scenic view was framed by the high, sheltering branches of green leaves of the willow tree to their left, other groups of trees to their right, green grass under their feet to keep them cool in the late summer heat, and above them, the open blue heavens. The sun had little problem shining her brilliant rays upon the Shire--in spite of the few sailing white clouds overhead. Likewise, her glittering sunlight danced upon the rippling brown water of Buckland, enchanting the gazer as it passed by on its way south.

“Then what--or who, in the name of great wonders, did?” asked Bilbo.

Rorimac shook his head slowly, his blue eyes remained fixed upon the young lad standing beside the tree. “No one, it would seem. The lad wouldn’t say much on the subject when I asked him,” he replied to his friend. “He simply came out of his darkened room at about ten o’clock this morning and asked me if I would accompany him to the riverside.”

“You don’t allow him to come here alone?”

“I’ve never forbade him to come here,” said Rory, “but the lad would never come here on his own--and I can’t blame him, really. However...who knows what a grieving lad will do?”

Bilbo took out his pipe and lit it while Rory answered his questions. So much pain for a child to bear, Bilbo observed, and then blew out a plume of smoke.

“Two years ago, after his parents drowned, he withdrew from life altogether,” explained Rory, his full attention given to the teen still gazing out over the water. “Every day he’d wake up, eat second breakfast, then go back to his room until called for at the next meal. Hilda or I would send him on an errand in Bucklebury once in a while--otherwise he’d have stayed inside his room as if it was a cocoon. Yet he was no butterfly. No--more like a moth drawn to his despair within rather than to light. That is, until today. ”

Finally, the slim figure turned and meandered up the path toward the Master and his guest. He hesitated when he spied the two hobbits on the bench rather than the one he invited on this outdoor excursion. He approached cautiously.

“Hello, Frodo-lad,” said Bilbo, squinting at the reflecting sunlight upon the water behind the teen. He gave the teen a warm smile, though the lad didn’t respond to it. To Bilbo, Frodo appeared a bit gaunt, his dark curls unruly, his skin pale; most likely from lack of sunlight. So, this is what a depressed child looks like, Bilbo thought sadly to himself.

“Frodo, you remember your...your mother’s cousin, Bilbo, do you not?” It was a weak introduction, Rory knew, but he didn’t know if hiding in his room for two years gave Frodo a short memory or not. “He’s been staying with us for a fortnight.”

Frodo stood with his hands inside his breeches pockets, his expression unreadable. “Yes, I do, Uncle.”

Bilbo smiled again. “Frodo,” he addressed the teen, “I have not posed this idea to your Uncle Rory yet, but...I have a birthday coming up soon and I happen to know that you and I share the same day.”

No reaction from Frodo; his blue eyes remained downcast while he stood listening to his elder.

Rorimac got the idea of what Bilbo was attempting and gave him a wink. If they could convince Frodo to take a holiday away from Brandy Hall--away from the dark confines of his room, then that would be an accomplishment, indeed. Perhaps a change in environment would be just what the young lad needed.

Bilbo went on when Frodo made no gesture to counter his offer. “As you know, I live away in Hobbiton where--,” Bilbo chose his next words carefully in front of the Master of the Hall, “where it is a bit more...peaceful. I understand you like solitude. You shall have plenty of it there. Rory here could see that you’re dropped off a few days before, so that you can get your bearings and then we’ll have a most splendid celebration on our birthday! What do you say to that?”

Every fibre in Frodo’s being fought the impulse to reject the invitation. It wasn’t supposed to be this way; he was supposed to grow up in the care and nurturing of his mother and father, not his uncles. He was supposed to grow up, marry at a respectable age and then give his parents grandchildren to dote on. Alas! That dream was not to be. Moreover, sitting alone all day in his darkened bedroom had come to serve as a constant reminder, to Frodo, of how much he missed his parents. Frodo had already made the decision this morning to break out of his shell--to leave behind the life that he so desired, but could no longer have. And now opportunity was knocking at his door. What shall I say?, he thought.

“I...I would like that,” Frodo answered, barely above a whisper.

Rory almost requested the child repeat his answer, catching only a snippet--but he caught the right one. Rather than provoke the teen to retreat again into his cocoon, he scooted away from Bilbo a little, making enough room on the bench for the three of them to sit together. “Come and sit, Frodo-lad,” he said, then waited for the lad to get comfortable. Rory slipped his one arm over the slim shoulders of his charge, giving them a gentle squeeze. “That is very brave of you, my lad. Very brave.”

Bilbo, too, was taken aback. It was then and there that he regarded the teen as the most spirited Baggins he had ever known. Indeed, he had found his heir.

The End

A/N: I was inspired by a verse my sister started using with her email signature:

“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” -Anais Nin

Disclaimer: All hobbits and Middle-earth belong to JRR Tolkien, but in my dreams, they belong to me.

Characters: Gandalf (ancient), Isengar 78, Paladin just turned 7, Adelard still 11. This tale is more or less *about* Bilbo; Bilbo sort of has a cameo at then end.

Summary: Gandalf visits Great Smials in hopes of finding the right hobbit for a certain task...

Burglar for Hire

Great Smials, Astron 1341, S.R.

The old Man ambled steadily up the long lane that would lead him to the huge, round red door of Great Smials. The grey-cloaked figure had stabled his white horse beside the ponies of the current Took and Thain, enabling him to pay a long overdue visit to a hobbit he was quite fond of. The old Man wore a grey cloak over his raiment, his long, white beard hung below his waist. He leaned heavily upon his staff as he walked forward, his enormous black boots thudded with every step. The only other sound to be heard on this fine spring morning were songs of twittering birds nesting in the tall shrubs within the gardens nearby.

Most folk in these parts only knew this Man for his fireworks, or merely as the old wizard that Gerontius took in as a friend. Gandalf laughed quietly to himself; if they only truly knew his purpose in Middle-earth. After this unannounced visit, one of these peculiar Tooks would come to know him just a little bit more closely.

Having left his thirteen companions back the Green Dragon Inn in Hobbiton, Gandalf finally stood before the round door then pulled on the cord to sound his presence. The soft jingle of the doorbell that rang behind the door met his ears. The wizard next imagined himself scratching a particular symbol on the outside of this door, and then shook his head. No...to scratch the symbol he thought to employ for his uses would only end in confusion. Although there was only one Great Door, there were, in fact, many other side entrances around the Smials. Something else would have to do. As he pondered his plight, the door suddenly opened up.

The young maid merely stood in the doorway stunned. She lifted her eyes to the tall Man who stood on the welcome mat. “Mornin’...sir,” she said, swallowing hard, “May I help ye?”

Gandalf barely contained his grin while he answered the serving lass. “I am here to visit my old friends here at Great Smials, although I should first like to greet my dearest of these friends, Isengar Took.”

“Aye, sir,” the maid answered with a curtsy. “If--if ye follow me, I will take ye t’ the parlour where ye can wait ‘til we’ve announced ye t’ Mr. Isengar.”

Five minutes later, the wizard could hear a breathless hobbit came trotting down the tunnel. “You kept him waiting in the parlour?!”

Gandalf smiled.

“He’ll turn us all into toads for that!”

Gandalf’s smile bubbled into a hearty chuckle.

Finally, a familiar jolly face came bustling into the parlour with additional little pattering feet. “Hullo, Gandalf! It’s wonderful to see you again after all these years!”

Gandalf smiled broadly at seeing his old friend, and then his gaze went to the smaller faces hovering round Isengar’s legs.

Isengar noted the shift in Gandalf’s grey eyes. “Dear me--forgetting my manners!” He gently pried the youngest child away from his leg, “Come along, now, children. He won’t bite!”

“Gandalf, these are my nephews, Adelard Took--Siggi’s son, and Paladin Took--Adal’s son. I’m looking after Adal’s lad for a bit while he sees to his father.” Isengar forced a smile. “Much has happened since your last visit ten years ago when my brother Isengrim died.”

Both wizard and hobbit ambled leisurely amid the gardens adjacent to the north-wing of Great Smials. The fresh, spring air revived their lungs in comparison to the heavy air of the smial tunnels from the long winter. Gandalf always enjoyed a turn in the gardens with this very hobbit‘s father, Gerontius. It indeed had been a long time since he last tread this garden path.

“You do not believe that Hildigrim has long, then?” Gandalf enquired, watching the two children caper about on the grass just ahead of them.

“He spent most of this past winter in bed,” answered Isengar. “I have a feeling he’ll do the same the next. He’s old, Gandalf--one-hundred and one years old. Belladonna did not go fast, either. She was ill for over a year before succumbing to the disease that plagued her.”

At hearing about Belladonna, Gandalf stopped in his tracks. “Belladonna is also gone?”

“Aye,” Isengar replied. “’Twas the autumn of 1334. And poor Bilbo--I know he misses her. Losing a parent is never easy at any age.”

Gandalf continued his walking, his thoughts going back to when Gerontius’ first daughter was born. The hobbit beamed from ear to ear when Gandalf blessed the infant before the entire family. Even then, the wizard saw something peculiar in the babe’s eyes; something that he had only seen previously in Hildifons, and later in Isengar.

Many times on his early visits to Great Smials, Gerontius’ children begged for stories of the Outlands, yet there were the three aforementioned children who did not consider the wizard’s tales as mere fantasy, but hung upon every word. There were occasions that Gandalf, with permission from Gerontius, would take Hildifons and Isengar on a short tramp. Belladonna had accompanied them on a few occasions, however, when she entered her tweens, Adamanta insisted her daughter stay at home and learn how to be a proper lass. Belladonna, however, managed to sneak out with them one last time before becoming Mrs. Bungo Baggins.

Truly, Gandalf sorry to hear about Belladonna--her predilection for adventure snuffed out forever. And of course, there was Hildifons’ ill-fated journey east of the Shire.

“All of this is sad to hear,” Gandalf finally spoke aloud. He now wondered if perhaps he ought to pose his question to Isengar at all.

“Well,” said Isengar, brightening up a bit after the depressing news he gave he wizard. “I suppose you aren’t here to just listen to me harp on about things. Do you plan on staying for a while?”

Isengar caught sight of the youngsters rough-and-tumbling on the grass. “Addie! Get off your little cousin this instant!”

“I am only passing through the Tooklands this time, funnily enough. I am sorry that I cannot stop longer.”

“I am sorry as well. Are you at least going to stay for elevenses?” asked Isengar. “Surely you don’t mean to traverse the countryside without a morsel in your belly!”

Another interruption as peals of laughter come from the lads while Addie dragged a weight firmly attached to his ankle across the lawn. Isengar inwardly groaned; the younger child arrived the week before with four clean white shirts, and was currently wearing the last one without jam or mud stains on it. “Paladin! Let go of Addie’s leg!” He muttered, “This shirt will undoubtedly bear the marks of green grass upon it.”

Isengar turned to the wizard, “Half a moment, please, Gandalf. Addie--run and tell the serving maid that we shall be taking elevenses out here in the gardens. Not you, laddie!” Isengar grabbed the braces of the seven-year-old running past him. “I fear it is your lot to stay here with me.”

“Let’s take our ease over there on the bench,” Isengar said, inviting the wizard along. He picked up the whimpering child to his shoulder. “Yes, yes, I know I’m putting a damper on your fun, but trying to keep up with you is like trying to catch a greased pig at the summer fair.”

The cloud of gloom gone, Gandalf smiled. “You certainly have the makings of a mother hen in you!”

“Do I?” laughed Isengar. “I suppose. At his age, lads and lasses aren’t too different from one another. My Blossom will be twenty-eight this year--a proper lass now, as my mother used to say. The very age I was when I stowed away on your old pony cart. How time flies.”

Isengar sat upon the stone bench with young Paladin beside him. The child no longer whimpered, but laid his head upon one of his uncle’s legs and soon was fast asleep.

Gandalf sat down on the ground in front of Isengar, the better to see into the depths of his friend’s Tookish green eyes. “I am more or less here at Great Smials on errand,” he said as he spoke of his task. “You see, while my thirteen companions are housed at the Green Dragon in Bywater, I am out searching for a burglar. Only a hobbit will do for this job.”

Isengar blinked for a moment. He wasn’t necessarily surprised by the solicitation; anywhere that Gandalf went, he knew adventure was sure to follow. However, Isengar knew that he wasn’t the young hobbit he once was when he travelled with the wizard over sea and over land. He certainly didn’t have a tween-aged daughter to care for then--nor a young nephew, however temporary the situation. Nonetheless, for a brief moment, Isengar imagined himself young again and that Gandalf was in fact asking him to go on a quest--not as a stow away, but as a burglar!

As for Gandalf, the wizard saw his friend’s cheerful expression fall. He already knew Isengar’s answer--and it was a correct one, in his opinion. There were children in Isengar’s life now, and there was nothing Gandalf wanted to do in the way of disrupting that.

At last Isengar gave a half-hearted smile. “You dangle a carrot in front me, Gandalf. Alas, I cannot accept your offer. There is the wee one here to think of, as well as my own lovely Blossom who is presently away in Whitfurrows visiting her cousins.” Then he added, “Not to mention, I’m not as quick-footed as I used to be.”

“I am not so sure about that,” said Gandalf, smiling.

“But I might know of someone who is!” Isengar suddenly sprang to life, almost waking the child sleeping on his lap. “He’s been visiting me on and off much of late--ever since his mother passed away six years ago.”

Initially, Gandalf puzzled at this, then smiled. Of course! Belladonna’s own son!

“Bilbo Baggins,” they chorused together.

Isengar went on, “He often presses me for tales about his mother, then ends up asking me for details about my journey south, or what it was like to sail upon the waves of the sea. Whenever I enquire if he should like to go on his own adventure, he baulks at the notion.” Isengar crooked his finger, indicating for Gandalf to lean in closer. “I think he most enjoys listening to tales about the elves!” he said with a conspiratorial wink. “And he has no obligations, if you understand me.”

“Really?” asked Gandalf in mock surprise. He smiled to himself; so Belladonna did leave her adventurous mark in the character of her son, Bilbo. “How splendid!”

* * *

*“...one morning long ago in the quiet of the world, when there was less noise and more green, and the hobbits were still numerous and prosperous, and Bilbo Baggins was standing at his door after breakfast smoking an enormous long wooden pipe that reached nearly down to his woolly toes (neatly brushed) - Gandalf came by.”

And the rest is history.

The End.

* The Hobbit, By JRR Tolkien, An Unexpected Party

A/N: This story was written over two years ago for Marigold’s Challenge 14. When I received my starter theme I knew I had some serious musing to do. At the time, I was at the tail-end of writing “Where Roses Grow”, and, for as much as I enjoyed writing that story, I felt I had been in a quagmire of drama and tears for a long while. I was bursting at the seams to write something containing laughter and jollity. As a result, The 19^th Hole was born.

Disclaimer: Hobbits and Middle-earth belong to JRR Tolkien, but in my dreams they belong to me.

Summary: Pippin-13, Merry-21, and Frodo-35 all play a round of golf. After some research of the game, instead of “Caddie”, I used the word, “Laddie”. “Caddie” is derived from the word, Cadet.

Challenge Starter: At least part of your story must take place in a graveyard.

The 19^th Hole

“Why do I have to be the Laddie?” Angrily, Pippin tossed away his drawn straw. “I want to play, too!” He was not happy at all with drawing the shortest one. If he didn’t know any better, Pippin would have sworn that it had all been a trick planned beforehand.

“Because you drew the smallest straw, fair and square,” said Frodo. He eyed the youngster, “You don’t think that we fixed it, do you?”

Pippin firmly crossed his arms over his chest. He didn’t answer aloud, however, behind those impish green eyes, the answer was a resounding yes!

“Well, are you?” demanded Frodo.

The thirteen-year-old gazed sheepishly at his feet. “No.”

Merry patted Pippin’s slim shoulders. “That’s a good lad--or should I say, Laddie?” he said, teasing his younger cousin.

In response, Pippin whirled around to glower at Merry.

“You’re not helping matters, Merry,” said Frodo, then turned to the youngest cousin. “You may use my clubs on a few turns, Pippin.”

And so began the most interesting game of golf that Pippin would ever remember. The day started out a bit cool as they walked from the Smials to the Shire Greens, the local golf course on the northern outskirts of Tuckborough. It gradually grew warmer as luncheon drew near, but not uncomfortably so. Eglantine had packed a lovely picnic for the lads to enjoy while spending the day outdoors.

“I shall have to thank cousin Tina for her excellent provisions--they were simply delicious!” said Frodo, then shovelled the last bit of his strawberry pie into his mouth.

Having finished his meal, Pippin sat nearby in the shade of an elm tree, leaning against its trunk. “Will I be playing this hole?” he asked.

“Hole number seven? Don’t be ridiculous,” replied Frodo. “It’s surrounded by a multitude of rabbit holes and briar patches. The best hole for you to join in the game is number eight.”

Reluctantly, Pippin picked up the bag of clubs and set to following his cousins up the hills, down the hills, across the stream and back again…under trees--and even once within the nook of an old chestnut’s trunk. Those colourful little feather-stuffed balls could get stuck just about anywhere, but their favourite spot of all was deep inside the rough parts of the brush and tall grasses.

It was now Merry’s turn to take a swing, so Pippin hefted the golf bag to where his cousin stood gauging the midsummer breeze against his wet forefinger. The young teenager felt weary, sweaty, and dirty--his furry feet growing hotter by the minute as the time slowly went by. Pippin wiped sweat from his forehead and his throat felt dry whenever he swallowed. He was thirsty; they should have been at the Oak Leaf Inn by now, however, Frodo’s ball landed in the thickets--and the player had to play the game from wherever the ball fell. It took forever for Frodo to manoeuvre his way out of the underbrush and back onto the fairway. “I suppose I’m a tad over par,” Frodo commented nonchalantly--dismissing the fact that he just spent a good fifteen minutes on the task.

As he continued carrying the bag of clubs, it seemed to Pippin that his friends took no notice of the time that passed--or how miserable he had become in the growing heat. Pippin had felt every fiery ray of the sun intensify since luncheon. His head began to pulsate with the drought of his body, his feet dragged in the warm blades of grass as he walked.

“I’m tired!” he complained, and then let the heavy bag to fall on the ground with a thud. The bag didn’t feel very heavy at first, but had grown so over the past couple of hours while hauling it to every blessed hole on the playing course.

No one gave Pippin’s complaint any heed.

Merry swung his club forward and then watched his ball sail past the neatly trimmed circle of grass that surrounded the playing hole. He winced at the results then turned to scowl at his young cousin, “Yell a little louder next time, Pip--perhaps then I’ll actually land one on the putting green.”

“Don’t blame Pippin for your terrible aim,” said Frodo, sliding his club into the bag. “If you practiced your swing as much as you say you do, then your aim would be fine.”

“Speak for yourself, cousin,” Merry retorted. “I didn’t send my golf ball into the thickets.”

Frodo ignored Merry’s jest, walking in the direction of the 13^th hole. “Ah! I can see the 19^th Hole already!” he said with eagerness. Frodo had fond memories of ordering his first beer at the establishment. Winner of the game got to choose where the next round of beer came from.

“Everyone knows there are only eighteen holes in golf,” said Pippin.

A look of mutual understanding passed between Frodo and Merry, then Frodo put in, “No, there are nineteen on this course!”

Pippin shrugged in response to Frodo’s comment. Perhaps the sun was starting to have an affect on his friends. Pippin shook his head sadly as he watched Merry and Frodo walk on towards the putting green. Then the young lad worked it out on his fingers that there were only five holes left to play.

“You both said that I should get a turn at hole number 9, and then at hole number 12, but you’ve played thirteen holes already! When am I going to get a chance?”

“I know the perfect turn for you, Pip,” said Frodo, carefully choosing one of the putting clubs from the bag. “The 15^th hole - it’s one of the easier ones to play.”

“Do I look daft?” Pippin asked sardonically. “I’ve played golf before--more than either of you two gooseberries! There are only two fairways to be found in the Shire--and the other is in the Northfarthing.”

“Just because one is located close to Great Smials does not mean that you have played nearly as much as you claim,” Frodo responded. “Your family moved here only a year ago, or is there a golf course in Whitwell? Perhaps I missed it - was it beside the potato patch?” Merry could be heard chuckling is mirth at Frodo’s retort; Whitwell was a small farming village where Pippin had spent the first twelve years of his life. It was a place where everyone knew everybody. Frodo added smugly, “I would be utterly surprised if you played even once before today.”

Fire grew inside Pip’s Tookish green eyes. Frodo wasn’t far from the truth, however, Pippin wasn’t going to let him know it. Pippin shouted his response, “When will I get to play?!”

“Be patient!” Frodo replied. “Unless you can aim a ball between those tree branches up ahead, then I should say you might want to wait.”

Well, the span between the tree braches did look to be quite narrow to Pip. Grudgingly, he took up the heavy bag of clubs to once again bring up the rear behind his cousins.

Sometime (much) later…

“Come on, lads,” Pippin moaned ever-growing impatience. “It’s my turn now--I’ve waited long enough!”

“I suppose he’s been a good fellow,” said Frodo. “Besides - it’s the last hole. Let him use your club, Merry.”

“Why my club and not yours?”

“Because mine is too heavy for him.”

“You’re saying mine has no weight to it?” Merry shot back. He held his club aloft and then let it swing back and forth like a pendulum to help exaggerate its heaviness.

“He might injure himself,” Frodo replied casually.

Merry sighed, then handed his club to Pippin. “Don’t break it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Pippin lied, then stepped up to the spot where his cousins teed their golf balls. He fumbled in his breeches pocket for the wee ball, covered with bits of sewn leather then stuffed with a small rock and goose feathers. It was a ball made special for golfing. Setting it down, Pippin checked the direction of the wind…then heard his cousins snickering behind him. He reared back for a swing…

WHACK!

Pippin’s ball sailed over Merry’s ball…then over Frodo’s….then sadly veered to the left by the miscalculated breeze towards the Took clan’s graveyard.

Merry kneaded Pippin’s upper arm. “You’ve got quite an arm there, cousin,” he said with a bit of a chuckle. “However--now you have to go find your ball--in the graveyard!”

Pippin’s cheerful spirit flagged a bit. He frowned, “Who’s coming with me?”

“No one,” said Frodo, walking off. “Merry and I are going up to the putting green; we shall wait for you there. Hurry up now--and don’t chip any of the gravestones with your club!”

“My club, you mean,” Merry put in, then shouted to Pippin, “And hurry up! I’m going to need it when Frodo is done with his putt.”

In the graveyard…

Pippin looked around warily as he approached the ominous site. Large old trees with gnarled branches surrounded the small field where the graveyard was situated. It seemed to Pippin that the graveyard had darkened; even the sunny blue sky was now replaced with low, grey clouds that threatened to rain upon him at any moment. The air suddenly felt stifling. Entering through the gate, the thirteen-year-old hobbit looked down at the first grave he passed by. Judging by appearance alone the gravestone looked almost as old as the Shire itself. One read: Isumbras Took III, 1066 - 1159, 11^th Thain of the Shire, and another read: Bandobras “Bullroarer” Took, Warrior - Battle of Greenfield, 1104 - 1206. Underneath the epitaph was added, Inventor of Golf.

Pippin startled at reading the last part. “I’ve got some cheek!” he muttered to himself. “Probably landed my ball on top of the very one who invented the game…,” he mumbled, looking over the tombstone. Pippin felt a creepy sensation; the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stood on end. “Just find the ball and hit it--then get the blazes out of here,” he said, making a sad attempt to calm his nerves down.

He spotted his small, whitewashed ball partially hidden by dead leaves--right beside the Bullroarer’s gravestone. “Oy!” The lad squatted on his haunches to measure out the foot of the club from the grave so he could properly hit the ball and not the deteriorating stone--more specifically, Bandobras’ deteriorating gravestone. Even in the seclusion of the graveyard Pippin held to his honour. He took his golf ball and placed it one length of the club’s foot away from Bandobras’ tomb. “Of all the graves to choose from…,” he grumbled, “it had to land here.”

Pippin observed the years of weather and decay upon the gravestone. There were many nicks and chips -- perhaps due to other hobbits landing their golf balls in the graveyard. “I’ll wager you wished you had let your own people bury you near Long Cleeve,” he muttered to the air. “There you would be left in peace and not disturbed by those of us who like to play golf.”

Beads of sweat formed on Pippin’s brow as he took aim with Merry’s club. His focus was completely on his target. He heard Frodo’s warning echo in his head, ‘…don’t chip any of the gravestones with your club!’

“I’m trying not to!” Pippin cried in response to no one present. Yes, he was alone in the graveyard; he shook off the creepy feeling of someone watching him. Pippin wound back to swing; any swing would do--just to get the ball out of this creepy place!

Both of his eyes were fixed on the little ball, but when he took a swing something went wrong. Afterward, Pippin had to rethink exactly what had occurred because it all happened so fast. His club first hit the gravestone, sending pieces of the stone flying everywhere, then the bottom part of Merry’s club broke off, flying up towards Pippin’s face….and then…

“Hullo!”

Simultaneously, Pippin screamed, jumped, and nearly wet his breeches. “Who...who are you?” he demanded--that is, once he caught his breath again. For a brief moment, Pippin’s eyesight was a tad blurred and his ears had a ringing in them.

Once his eyesight cleared and the droning noise in his head softened, Pippin noticed the translucence of the stranger-hobbit. The lad fell back, flinging himself behind Isumbras’ gravestone to hide. Pippin gasped, seeing the old fir trees as clear as day on the other side of the graveyard--through the very tall hobbit. “I-I-I’m sorry,” stammered Pippin, getting up the gall to head towards the gate. “I’ll leave r-r-right now!”

“Not so fast, laddie,” said the apparition, grabbing the young teen’s breeches from behind on the waistband. “I can see you’re in a bit of a fix, here. Bandobras is my name,” he said as an impromptu introduction.

Pippin was able to wriggle out of the creature’s grasp, once again hiding behind Isumbras’ gravestone--where he was much too frightened to make another move to escape. Pippin clamped his eyes shut, figuring the being would go away if he ignored it.

Not one to be put off so easily, Bandobras squatted down much like Pippin did just a few minutes ago to get a better look at the ball. “Golf, isn’t it? Yes, yes, yes…of course it is,” he said absentmindedly, eyeing the trajectory of the ball. He was assessing the distance the ball needed to clear the trees and land outside of the graveyard.

“You can move the ball over a wee bit further away from the stone to get a fair swing,” he said, then looked at the shaken teenager. “It’s in the rules. I should know,” he smirked. “I wrote them myself.” He stood up to his full four foot-five inches of height. “Are you all right, laddie?” Pippin said nothing, merely nodding his head vigorously in uncontesting agreement. It wouldn’t do to anger the Hobbit-Wight.

Pippin used to beg Frodo and Merry to tell him ghost stories as a young child--but after today, not any more! After listening to more nonsensical speech, Pippin heard Bandobras cackling. “You had to be there, I suppose,” he said. Pippin figured his great-great--great-great-uncle was in the middle of spinning a yarn. “There was more than one gross of those evil things! Imagine them--trying to threaten my family and the rest of us respectable Shire hobbits. What else was I to do? I cut down that leader of theirs is what I did! ‘Always start at the top’ is what my old Dad used to say--but he wasn’t speakin’ of Orcs, mind you. The whole lot of us took to playing golf after that. I wanted to make a 19^thhole, but--”

Suddenly there was nothing; the continuous ranting had ceased. Pippin remained motionless, hunkered down behind his great-great-great-great grandfather’s gravestone with his eyes shut tightly and fingers in his ears. After a moment of further silence, Pippin unplugged them. All was indeed quiet with the exception of some old dead leaves stirring in the breeze. Pippin slowly opened his eyes, easing himself around Isumbras’ gravestone to see a little better. The area that Bandobras had previously occupied was now ghost-free.

Pippin’s fear abated long enough for him to spring up out of his hiding place. His honour went out the window -- so to speak. Taking the small ball in his hand Pippin flung it out over the trees towards the 18^th’s putting green. He then grabbed the broken club and bolted.

Back with his cousins…

Merry was first to spy Pippin running up the hill with the broken club in his hand. “I should have known,” he grumbled. “You rarely return my things to me undamaged.” Merry then noticed the expression on his young cousin’s face. “What’s the matter? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I did!” Pippin shouted back at a distance, out of breath. He stopped just short of running into Frodo. “I did see a ghost! It was Bandobras of all ghosts…and he gave me instructions in how to play golf and…and--”

“What happened to you?” asked Frodo, brushing aside locks of hair that hid a small knot on the teen’s forehead. The skin was broken and oozing a little blood. Frodo became worried at this turn of events. “Sit down on this stone, Pip,” he said, the mirth having disappeared from his face. Pippin gasped sharply when his cousin examined the wound. The elder cousin bit his lip in concern. “How did this come to pass?”

“I was telling you,” Pippin replied. “I was in the graveyard and then--,” he hesitated. “And then…” That was rather strange--how did he obtain the injury? “I don’t know,” he finally answered after a pause. “All I know is that the Bullroarer’s ghost came to visit me in the graveyard.”

“Most likely in your head--or on it,” said Merry holding his broken club in his hand and surveying Pippin’s injury. “This club may have had a hand in your seeing old Bandobras.” He handed Frodo a clean handkerchief from his pocket to clean Pippin’s cut.

“He was really there, I tell you!” Pippin said emphatically. “He even taught me how to play the ball from his gravestone.”

“Right,” said Merry, winking to Frodo. “Perhaps Frodo ought to lose his golf ball once or twice in the Took’s graveyard. Might do him some good.”

Still wiping away at Pippin’s forehead, Frodo smiled sarcastically at Merry’s jest. “Or perhaps he’ll teach me how to knock the golf ball of a saucy Brandybuck off of the green and away from the hole.”

Pippin sighed; these two would never believe him. “Oh, forget it.”

“Pippin,” said Frodo, growing more serious. He sat down beside the teen, “I think your injury holds the answers to some questions I have. Did you swoon? Did you fall and hit your head? Was this the result of an object striking your head - and how?” Pippin made no comment. Frodo gently squeezed the lad’s shoulder, “I think the latter happened. I should like to know the how, though.”

“I agree with Frodo,” said Merry, holding up his broken club as evidence. “Say, Pip--why don’t you go ahead and finish the hole? Frodo and I already have.”

Pippin slowly stood up, looking around for his ball. He saw that it was on the putting green near the hole. “That isn’t where it should have landed,” said Pippin, eyeing it warily. He was careful not to divulge that he actually threw the ball from the graveyard. “My...umm... My aim was somewhat reckless.”

“It was lying there when we heard you running up the hill,” answered Merry. “It’s your turn so hurry up. We still have the 19^th Hole!”

Pippin looked up, “The 19^th hole?” Pippin then recalled that Bandobras was about to speak about a 19^th hole right before he vanished. Pippin sighed, “What are you two talking about? There are only eighteen holes, I tell you!”

An hour later…

“Ah! Beer in a dry throat!” said Merry, then took a drink from his mug.

“This is the 19^th Hole, Pippin,” Frodo explained to the young lad. He raised his own mug in a toast. “To friendship!”

The threesome happily clinked their mugs together whilst echoing Frodo’s sentiment.

Too young for beer, Pippin nodded, then sipped on his dandelion and burdock. “I suppose there are nineteen holes in golf. And...I believe I like this one the best!”

In the blink of an eye, Bandobras’ spirit sat beside Frodo while drinking a mug…he winked at a dumbfounded Pippin and then he was gone.

The End

Disclaimer:  All hobbits and Middle-earth belong to JRR Tolkien, but in my dreams, they belong to me.

Betas extraordinaire:  Marigold and Llinos.  Thank you!

A King’s Ransom

It all began yesterday when I returned home from attending a Faunt Blessing in Tuckborough.  It is part of my many duties as The Took, the head of the Took clan, to impart a blessing to the new faunts as a rite of passage into childhood.  It helps the fledgling-child and their family to understand that the faunt is no longer a baby to be coddled.

I returned home late in the afternoon from the Blessing.  My dear wife, Diamond, had recently put our youngest down for a nap and after looking in on the two older children in the day nursery, she sat beside me on the sofa telling me about her day.  Then she asked how the Blessing went; if there was anyone she knew in attendance and what sort of food they served after the ceremony.  Consequently, we engaged in light conversation for nigh to an hour before she mentioned tea would be ready soon and that I should get washed while she readied the children.

“Oh, by-the-by,” she said as an afterthought, “We found a very odd looking metal teapot in that old mathom box we’ve been keeping.  I put it aside for you to look at and decide if you want to keep it or give it to the tinker.  I’ve gone through the extra items it has accumulated over the past twelve months, but all of the original items are still inside the box for you to go through.”

There is a tinker who comes by the Smials every three months or so to mend the pots, pans, and any cooking utensils worth the effort.  Whenever he visits, my wife usually adds to the burden he already carries by collecting any appropriate items we, as a single family, no longer use or are broken (which is usually the case) and gives them to the tinker to either repair and sell for himself, or to do with as he pleases. 

The mathom box in question is actually a box full of trinkets that my father gave to me last year before he passed away.  I simply could not bring myself to immediately empty the chest after he was buried, hence, the box found itself in a nice dark corner in which to brood until I was emotionally ready to inspect every item passed down to me.  In the course of the past year, other mathoms of less interest had been added to the collection.

“Where is it?” I asked her, referring to the teapot, looking around the room for the item.

“On the tea table,” Diamond replied over her shoulder as she headed towards the day nursery in the back hallway.

Satisfied with her answer, I turned to the tea table while she tended the children.  I saw that the tea table held an empty tea tray from Viola’s visit earlier, a centrepiece of daisies and golden candles...but nothing else.  I wished to enquire further, so I waited for Diamond to return with the children.

“Papa!” Bonny and Faramir shouted when they entered the room.  All at once, they began to recount the fun they’d had while playing in the gardens that afternoon with their cousins.  I laughed at their lively conversation and gave them kisses and hugs in response.  

After I greeted the children, I realised my curiosity had been greatly piqued with regard to the “odd-looking” teapot, as my lovely wife had described it.  I bounced my five-year-old son in my arms, yet my focus ever returned to the tea table.

“I don’t see it anywhere, love,” I remarked, still digging deep into my memories in search of a teapot my father had apparently once owned. 

While holding the baby, Diamond looked at the tea table, then gazed about the room.  “Perhaps I placed it on the hall table near the door,” she said hesitantly.  I noticed that Diamond started to bite her fingernail absently.  I have discovered over the past eight years that this is a bad sign.

She turned to our eldest, “Bonny, do you remember that little gold teapot we found in Grandpapa’s old chest?”

I watched our seven-year-old’s head with plaited pigtails bob up and down in assent.  “Yes, Mummy!  I remember it was very pretty, but inside it was very ugly.  Faramir was playing with it.”

My daughter’s remark suddenly jogged my memory; ‘very pretty...inside it was very ugly’.  Could it be the Lantern?  My knees grew weak to the point that I had to put my son down for fear of dropping him.  What Diamond guessed to be an ugly teapot is actually a golden lantern that at one time belonged to my great-great grandfather Gerontius.

I looked my young son in the eyes to show that I was serious.  “What did you do with the teapot, Faramir?” I asked, though my tone was sweet.

Faramir smiled shyly, put his finger in his mouth and then announced, “My toy - my toy!”  So much for my seriousness.

“What did you do with your toy, Faramir?” I gently prompted him.

“I hided it!”

“You mean, you hid it!” Bonny corrected her brother.

“Where did you hide it?” I asked, trying to conceal my increasing alarm.  It seemed that my only way to finding this keepsake was through the playful nature of a five-year-old.

“I hided my toy in the toy box!” Faramir blurted, then stuck his tongue out at his sister.

“Where is the toy box, love?” Diamond intervened, sensing my growing distress, yet she probably could not have imagine what my concern was about.

Faramir pointed towards the door.  “There!”

“I don’t see a toy box over there,” I replied.

“Yes, there was,” Diamond put in quietly.  “It was the box I had prepared for the Tinker.  Bonny, take Faramir and go into the dining room and wait for us there - we will be only a minute.”

Once the children had gone, Diamond became nervous.  “I suspect the teapot is something precious, isn’t it?” she asked, tears glistening in her eyes.  Even little Blossom, in her mother’s arms, started to whimper.

I took both her and the baby in my own arms, not wanting Diamond to be upset over something that was clearly my fault for not being more careful with my things.  “Well, for a start, it’s not a teapot.”  I heard her sigh on my shoulder; it appeared my attempt at a jest was not taken as such.

“The Tinker is probably still in the kitchen having tea with the cook,” I reasoned.  “I’ll explain to him it was a misunderstanding and all will be well.  Go and start tea with the children -- I’ll return in less than a quarter of an hour.” 

However, when I arrived at the kitchen, only the cook and her helpers were there.  I asked the whereabouts of the Tinker and was told that he had already left.

“He did not stop for tea?  Do you know where he was headed next?” I asked.

“Why should he stop for tea, sir?” the cook responded with mild surprise. “He finished his work and left right after luncheon.  Said he was goin’ t’ meet a fellow in Tookbank.”

Diamond must have thought me mad as I told her of my plans to recover the lantern.  I kissed her on the cheek and said I’d be back before the sun set.  My pony, Shadow, should still be warmed up from our trip to Tuckborough, so he ought to be ready to ride to Tookbank.  As I galloped Shadow towards the town, I had plenty of time to think on just how precious -- how dear the golden lamp was to me.  After all, I must have inherited it by becoming a good storyteller in my own right.  Yes, I’ll admit it; I can spin a good yarn when the fit takes me.

When my great-great-uncle Isengar returned from the Sea, he brought back with him a few baubles he had picked up along the way, and each had a story behind it.  One of these baubles was a lantern made of gold, a lantern obtained in foreign parts, for it obviously looked nothing like the lanterns we use here.  It appeared every bit the teapot everybody thought it was, complete with an urn, spout, lid, and handle.

A fellow seaman had purchased the golden lantern in Belfalas from another man who had obtained it in a raid near Poros -- that is what Uncle Isengar had reported anyway.  The seaman gave it to Uncle Isengar as a parting token of everlasting friendship at the end of their voyage at sea.  Once he was at home, Uncle Isengar felt he needed no trinket to remind him of his friend nor anyone else he had met on his adventure, so he presented it to his father, Gerontius -- mostly as a gesture to lessen the punishment for being a tearaway, as it were¹.

When the Old Took passed away, the lantern was returned to his son, and whenever Uncle Isengar’s favourite nieces and nephews were his audience the old Seahobbit would take out the lamp and light it.  He loved the shadowy effect it had on his own face, and the illuminating effect it had on the faces of his young, enraptured listeners.  But then, when Isengar began to feel old age creeping into his bones, he found a new recipient of his special Storyteller’s Lantern.

After Bilbo had returned from his adventure in the Misty Mountains and enthralled a new generation of nieces, nephews, and cousins with new stories of trolls, eagles, and dragons, Isengar handed the lantern down to his fellow-adventurer and narrator.

When Bilbo turned eleventy-one and decided he wanted to return to the Last Homely House to finish his Book, one of the birthday gifts he gave away was the Lantern; given to my father, Paladin Took.  My father was a brilliant storyteller; he taught me everything I know about how to capture a listener’s imagination, and he, in his turn, learned from two of the best.

Once, when I was very young, my father took advantage of a rain day and told a story of an adventure that he and his cousin Adelard took when they were tweens².  Of course, he said, they were accompanied by adults, but nonetheless, things had been conveniently covered up and never spoken of again.  But did it really happen?  I have my doubts; my father could tell a tall tale and never blink an eye afterwards regardless.  To me, that is the mark of an exceptional storyteller; the listener cannot tell fact from fiction.  And to think the Lantern now belongs to me -- or ought I to say, it did belong to me?  How careless I had been!

As I rode on to Tookbank, I held little hope of ever finding the trophy prized by my father, Bilbo, and Uncle Isengar.  However, I had not been prepared, emotionally, to go through my father’s treasures immediately after his burial, yet I knew it was I that had been neglectful by not placing the chest where it would not have been disturbed.

Fortunately for me, Tookbank isn’t far at all from Great Smials, located a mere three miles to the west.  I arrived just as the market was closing for the day.  My eyes gazed to and fro over the stalls, looking for a hobbit carrying a small wooden workbox over his shoulder much like a shoulder pack.  I also trained my ears to listen for clinking metal objects, which would be attached to the outside of his workbox.  I tethered my pony in front of the Feather And Fur, the local inn, in order to better search the area.

“Have you seen the Tinker?” I asked one of the vendors.  He was busy packing his merchandise for the night.

“Went over yon by the smithy bout an hour ago,” the hobbit answered indifferently.  “Not seen ’im since.”

I enquired of the blacksmith if he had seen the Tinker.  “He left with a peddler-chap I’d not seen b’fore,” replied the smith, then pointed toward the next town. “Had a queer look about ’em.  They went that way.”

Then I felt a bit of apprehension; I thought of Trollsbane locked up in my livery chest in my bedroom.  What sort of roguish company was the Tinker taking up with?  I stood in the empty market stewing over what sort of explanation I would give Diamond for breaking my word.  Going further down the road could mean that I would be extremely late returning home that night.  Well...I am a storyteller!  I found Shadow and we were off again.

Half an hour later, I spied three figures up ahead walking along the kerb.  But as I drew near, I saw there was no Tinker among them.

“Tinker stayed in Tookbank -- at the inn.  Said he had a customer t’ visit in the mornin’.” said the taller fellow.  “Just me, my brother, an’ a friend makin’ our way t’ the East Road t’ get home.”

I let an oath I’d learnt in Minas Tirith roll off my tongue in frustration.  But just as I turned to take my leave, I saw a shiny, gold object dangling from the first fellow’s shoulder pack.

“How did you come by that?” I asked.

“Come by what?” he asked in return, then took on an accused tone. “I’d not pinched anythin’ from that market back there.”

I almost raised my eyebrows in questioning gesture at his last remark, but thought better.  I figured I’d have a better chance at recovering my own property if I remained calm and unassuming.

“I am referring to that lantern,” I answered the peddler, pointing to the shiny object.

“I bought it from Tinker,” he replied in an accent I quickly identified as that of Bree.  “My wife needs a new teapot,” he added unconvincingly.

“Bought it from the Tinker?  And what will it cost if I purchase it from you?”

“Not for sale.”

“Every merchant has his price,” I reasoned casually, trying to goad him into selling the lantern.

“Not this time.” 

The peddler must have known what true gold looks like -- and it’s value.

At that moment, one of the other peddlers nudged the first and mumbled something in his ear about the family.  “All right,” he finally said, “three silver pennies and no less.” 

I understood this peddler’s motives; he was born and raised in Bree and is not well-off.  He is one of many like him who continuously sell their wares on the road between that peculiar town and the Shire in order to make ends meet.  How they obtain their wares is sometimes questionable.  With all of this in mind, I was quite certain this fellow did not recognise me as the Thain of the Shire.

“Ridiculous!” I responded.  However, I nonetheless regretted wearing my expensive red waistcoat with the intricate patterns stitched into the front sections.  This itinerant merchant must have smelled the money I carried as a fox smells the blood of his prey.

There I stood in the road, desperately bargaining with a stranger who possessed something that not only was worth four times what he was proposing, but was actually priceless when I thought of my father, cousin, uncle, and grandfather.  And it was mine in the first place. 

The peddler merely gaped at me expectantly.  “Four silver pennies.  Take it or leave it.”

“How much?” I almost laughed at the peddler in disbelief.  He actually increased the price while I deliberated!  I tried not to sound too frantic, but I fear my rant had belied my intent to appear the casual buyer.

“Four silver pennies!” he repeats with equal fervour, looking me in the eyes and matching my own exasperation. 

“I’ll give you one,” I countered.

“Three.”

“Two.”

“All right,” he finally agreed, “Two silver pennies.”

I sighed heavily, then reached deep into my trouser pocket to bring out my purse.  I counted two silver pieces into the palm of my hand and then gave them over to the peddler.  He was lucky; I rarely carry this much money with me.  Or, perhaps I should count myself lucky for carrying it. 

Two silver pennies is what my father used to pay his field workers monthly for their labour, unless bartering crops was part of their wage.  I had just handed this peddler a month’s wages -- no -- a king’s ransom for something that was, in fact, mine.

I took my leave of the peddlers (and my two silver pennies), bidding them a safe road home.  I used my shirtsleeve to remove the finger-smudges from my precious Lantern, and then I smiled to see the shiny metal catch the golden sunset.

On the way home, I contrived a story for Diamond and the children worthy of merit from the previous possessors of the Lantern.  How I had to fight off six armed peddlers single-handedly...

The End

¹ - This remark refers to my rendition of Isengar’s adventure at sea, called “Gandalf and the Seahobbit”.

² - Paladin and Adelard’s adventure can be read in, “The Storyteller”.

Tale Challenge 35 - The theme will be to write a hobbity story that includes any sort of creature such as a dragon, unicorn, or even a hippogryf or a gargon – the creature that you choose is up to you! Your elements are: Something purple, a precious drawing, and someone held captive.

Disclaimer: All hobbits and Middle-earth belong to JRR Tolkien, but in my dreams, they belong to me.

Summary: Pippin decides to help out Nature a little bit. Pippin-9, Merry-still 16, Frodo-30, Bilbo-108, Gandalf-ancient.

Beta: Marigold

Flying Snails and Dragon-flies
Bag End, Hobbiton, the Shire, late Forelithe, 1399, S.R.

“Pippin, what are you drawing this time?” asked Merry, watching his cousin doodling on a bit of paper. For the past few days Pippin had taken to drawing bizarre animals with horns or wings coming out of strange places. Merry continued, “It’s a beautiful day outside, and it’s summer--Frodo said we’re going down to Bywater to wade in the pool. You can always do that later.”

“I’m almost done,” said Pippin, still drawing. He didn’t even bother to look up at his cousin, yet indeed he felt a gentle breeze enter inside the smial from the open window and play with his curls. The sweet scent of clover tickled his nose as he breathed in the warm air.

“You know, our holidays at Bag End don’t last forever, Pip,” said Merry, “We only have a few more days here with Frodo and Bilbo then it’s back to Brandy Hall for me and Whitwell for you. Gandalf arrived last night after you went to bed.” Merry saw a brief pause in Pippin’s scribbling; mentioning the wizard always managed to get a reaction out of his younger cousin. “If we behave ourselves he just might give us each a cracker later tonight.”

Pippin did not break his concentration on his artwork. “Gandalf’s never given me a cracker before,” he spoke rather quietly.

“You’ve never been nine years old before,” offered Merry.

Pippin laid down his leadstick and then gazed for some time through the open window as if weighing a decision. “All right,” he finally said, “but you must help me finish this first; you can draw faster and better than me.”

“Than I,” Merry corrected his cousin, then took the seat Pippin had occupied. He gaped at the various and sometimes outright ugly beasts that Pippin had been drawing. “What in the Shire are you doing to these poor animals, Pip?”

“Nothing,” said Pippin, blushing, then pointed to a large menacing creature on the right side of the paper. “Draw little, tiny wings on that one, Merry.”

Merry did as Pippin asked then looked at a drawing in the top left portion of Pippin’s paper. “What is this?” he asked. “It looks like a pony with an extra-long coat peg on its forehead!”

Pippin was quick to defend his innovative creations. “I put it there on purpose,” he answered Merry. “It’s to help hold the feed bag.”

“Their ears hold the feed bag,” Merry shot back.

“What if it hurts their ears?”

Merry sighed. “I should think that someone would have figured it out by now. And what is this other one?” He pointed to the bottom left.

“That’s a Frobbit.”

At that moment, Frodo stepped into the study munching an apple. “Are you calling Merry names again, Pippin?”

“I’m just helping out whoever made frogs and rabbits,” said Pippin. “I thought perhaps frogs might like to hop faster at times or keep warm with the rabbit’s fur. Maybe a rabbit gets tired of eating only vegetables.”

That set Frodo to scratching his head. “Sorry? I think I missed something. I thought we were going to Bywater?”

Merry handed the paper to their older cousin. “He isn’t calling me names, but it appears he’s twisting every creature in the Shire to fit his notion of convenience.”

Pippin retorted, “Am not--I’m helping, that’s all.”

Seeing a small crowd of young hobbits gathering in the study, Gandalf and Bilbo decided to see what was so interesting. Looking over Frodo’s shoulder, Bilbo found the source of their attention. It didn’t look like Frodo’s handiwork, but he felt he had to ask.

“Is this yours, Frodo?”

“No, it is not,” answered the tween. “I’ve never had the cheek to re-invent what was already created.”

“Merry?”

“No--it’s Pippin’s, though I helped him with the one over there,” Merry said, pointing to the largest drawing with ‘little, tiny wings’. “But that was so we could hurry up and go wading in the Pool.”

“This is Peregrin’s drawing?” Gandalf mused aloud as he peered over Bilbo’s shoulder. “May I have a closer look?” He studied the paper for a minute then said, “How did you come by the idea for this?”

Young Pippin didn’t know if he was in trouble with the wizard or not, yet he still held out hope for a cracker that evening. “I saw a snail crawling along the ferry jetty in Buckland last week when I was visiting Merry. I thought he’d like some wings to get across the passageway faster before he was stepped on. So, I decided that bee wings would be just the right thing for a snail.”

“Tell me, lad,” said Gandalf, pointing to the odd creature Merry had drawn wings for. “What is this beast?” The wizard noticed what appeared to be a dragon, but instead of the long wing-span dragons were noted for, there were tiny, almost unnoticeable bits of wing on either side.

“It’s a Dragon-fly,” Pippin answered eagerly. “I felt that the people of Lake-town could have felled Smaug a lot sooner if he flew around much slower.”

A stern look from Bilbo kept the older teen and tween from bursting into snickers. “Thank you, Pippin,” he said, “I should think the people of Lake-town would appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

“As do I,” said Gandalf, a twinkle in his grey eyes. He patted the honey-brown curls of the smallest lad and then left the room with Bilbo behind him.

“Do you think I’m being silly?” Pippin asked his older cousins.

Frodo answered diplomatically, “Well, I think perhaps Merry and I don’t see the magic in things as well as you do these days.”

“But there’s no magic in my drawings,” said Pippin a bit downcast. “Maybe I am being silly. How will the right people ever see my ideas for improvement?”

“You’re not being silly,” said Frodo, sweeping his hand through Pippin’s curls. “How do you know they don’t already know about your helpful creations?” Pippin just shrugged.

Once the lads were on the road to Bywater and with the rays of the sun shining on their faces, the cloud of gloom had been left behind. Even Pippin got into the spirit of things as he waded in the water and splashed his older cousins until they were nearly soaked--which was fine because it was a lovely day outside with a warm breeze to match. They finally started for home just before teatime.

After they returned home and ate a very enjoyable meal, the drawings Pippin had been working on earlier in the day had been all but forgotten. Pippin simply felt his time was better spent trying his best to win a game of chess over Merry. After that, a nice cosy story told by Bilbo or Gandalf out in the gardens after supper would round off the day wonderfully.

As the first of the evening’s stars began to shimmer in the twilight sky, Gandalf sat on a soft tuft of grass in the garden while the hobbits sat upon the swing. Just as Merry guessed, the wizard gave a small treasure into the upturned palm of each lad for his good behaviour.

“What’s this?” asked Pippin, holding his hand upward and inspecting the cylindrically-shaped item.

“It’s a cracker, Pip,” Merry said with glee. “I knew it!” he whispered into Pippin’s ear.

“May we, Bilbo?” Frodo implored, holding up his reward.

“I suppose it would be all right, but be careful,” answered Bilbo.

“I want to save mine until last,” said Pippin.

“All right,” said Frodo, understanding this to be Pippin’s first go at his own cracker. “I’ll go first, and then Merry will go next.”

As soon as Frodo pulled on the strings attached to each side of his cracker, a puff of blue smoke appeared and then a small charm dropped to the ground. Frodo picked it up from where it dropped. “It’s a...butterfly?” Clearly, it was small clay figurine, but Frodo wondered about this gift for a few seconds, and then it came to him. This particular purple butterfly looked exactly like the butterfly pendant his mother wore on a silver chain around her neck. It was his father’s betrothal gift to her. Frodo smiled at the warm memory. “Thank you, Gandalf,” he said to the wizard.

Gandalf watched the young cousins in amusement.

Merry was next to go. “Look! I got dragon! An exact replica of Smaug, I’ll wager!” He laughed, “I should really have appreciated a dragon such as this when I was closer to Pippin’s age,” he said, “but I shall nonetheless admire it. He smiled, “Thank you, Gandalf!”

Finally, it was Pippin’s turn. He closed his eyes, grasped both ends of the strings and pulled hard.

Both Frodo and Merry laughed. “You missed the green smoke!” Merry said in response to Pippin’s closed eyes.

When Pippin opened his eyes, he saw something had fallen at his feet. He bent over to pick it up. And then he smiled. “It’s a Dragon-fly!” he said excitedly. “They know! They know about my Dragon-fly! Oh, thank you, Gandalf!”

“I should warn you that it could take them years or even ages for any decision to come about to either accept or reject your creative new creatures, Peregrin,” said Gandalf, though he did not let on that it might well be more toward rejection, for who could deny that impish smile and those sparkling green eyes? Under the spell of the child’s enthusiasm, Gandalf regaled the young audience again (along with nods and assents from Bilbo) with his and the elder hobbit’s adventure to the Misty Mountains and Lake-town.

The End

Tale Challenge 38 - Elements: Book 1, Chapter V, A Conspiracy Unmasked.

Any journey that is not the Quest.  Your starter sentence is: "Well, this doesn't bode well."

Disclaimer:  All hobbits and Middle-earth belongs to JRR Tolkien, but in my dreams, they belong to me.  Nobody in their right mind would pay me for this.

Summary:  Paladin takes Pippin on a little journey to discuss the possibility of a different future.

Betas extraordinaire:  Marigold and Llinos

Journey to the Crossroad

Early Halimath, 1402, S.R.

"Well, this doesn't bode well," thought Paladin.  He was utterly exhausted from reaping the summer harvest and something important - no, something very crucial was about to happen.  In spite of his anxiety he began to nod, and just as the steaming cup of tea started to blur together with the edge of his breakfast plate, Paladin felt his wife brush her lips against his cheek.

“Wake up, love!” he heard her say with a chuckle, rubbing his arm to jolt him back to his senses - which it did, making him wince.  “Pippin will be here any minute and then there will be a contest between you, him, and those scrambled eggs and mushrooms Dahlia just laid on the table.  I’d be quick if I were you.”  Their twelve-year-old son could give his father a run for his money of late when it came to eating. 

Paladin grinned wearily at his wife as she sat down across from him, doing her best to conceal her unease for the sake of their perceptive children.  

Hearing a couple of voices enter the hallway, Paladin looked up.  Children certainly have a way of recovering quickly from a day of hard labour, Paladin thought to himself as he observed the children pass through the hallway with exuberance.  A good night’s sleep was all the younger Took children needed to recover.

Pervinca tried to walk past her brother, but Pippin playfully blocked her way, to his sister’s feigned disgruntlement.  How youngsters could manage that much energy after plucking countless bushels of apples was beyond Paladin.  The harvest was finally finished and Paladin felt it in every bone and muscle in his body.

Seconds later, they were joined by the two older lasses and then breakfast was soon underway.  After a while, when Paladin perceived the meal slowing down a pace, he decided to lay out the plans for the morning and afternoon that he and Eglantine had agreed upon.  

“Eat up, Pip,” he said, “You and I will be engaged all the day long.”

Perplexed, Pippin asked around a mouthful of eggs, “What are we going to do, Papa?”

Eglantine glared at her son.  “Pippin!”

Undaunted, Pippin swallowed his food and then repeated his question.

“We’re taking a walk around the borders of the pastures.  Summer is over and winter will be here before we know it.  I’d like to have any repairs completed before it gets too cold.”

“Aren’t Mr. Deno and Mr. Renny coming along?” Pippin asked.  They were the two regular labourers who helped year-round on the farm. 

“Not today,” Paladin answered, “Today it’s just us lads.”

Paladin watched Pippin smile; he knew his son envied Deno and Renny in years past.  Until this year, the lad had always been too young to go with the grown-ups and had to stay behind with his mother and the lasses to help with things around the smial or the barn.  Furthermore, on this day of all days, Paladin did not wish for Pippin to get suspicious of why he was being considered for a “grown-up” task, so he added, “I feel you’re old enough to take on more complex responsibilities -- a little bit at a time, of course.  After all, you’ll be turning thirteen in the spring.”

“Father,” Pimpernel spoke up, “will you not need more than just one person to help with repairs?  I can help, if you wish.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Paladin saw the disappointment in Pippin’s face, yet the lad said nothing.  Obviously, Pippin was excited to have his Papa all to himself without any interruptions.  “Thank you, Pim,” Paladin replied kindly, “But I think Pippin will be all I need today.  I believe you will be needed more here.”

After breakfast, Paladin and Pippin made haste in getting ready for the jaunt around the family’s vast holdings by packing a picnic lunch and getting the ponies and waggon ready.  It would unquestionably take until tea to properly cover the west and east pastures alone, not including the south grassland.  This would be the right amount of time for Paladin to spend quality time with his exceptional lad before breaking the news to him.  Paladin wondered if he was doing the right thing, as Pippin was on the cusp of learning the finer points of farming.  Indeed, this past spring and summer, Pippin had finally grown strong enough to wield some of the heavier tools used to cultivate the soil and engrossed enough to learn the best way to irrigate the crops.

In truth, Paladin worried if he was about to ruin the child’s life, or if the news would be a welcome change.  All of the signs that Paladin had read from his son indicated that he loved to farm.  However, being an intuitive parent who understood the inner-workings of his children, Paladin recognised that Pippin would undoubtedly excel at being a scholar...or the Took and Thain of the Shire.  Paladin, a life-long farmer, wasn’t so sure he wanted those titles for himself, but in order for Pippin to inherit them, Paladin would have to bear up and accept them.  Yet Paladin would not accept this offer without, at least, talking to Pippin first.  Which was the reason for this trip.

With everything ready, picnic hamper and tools in the back of the waggon, the pair was soon riding the lanes to the farthest corner of the farthest pasture, and it didn’t take as long as Paladin had thought to make it to the far edges of the west pasture.  He brought the ponies and waggon to a stop and climbed out of the driver’s seat.

There were a few green hills in the area, though not like the ones that stretched from the Westfarthing to the Eastfarthing.  These were hills that Paladin remembered far back into his own childhood.  He never tired of the grand sight; of colourful trees dotting the hills and dales in autumn, or green leaves waving in the breezes of summer.

“Fetch the measuring rod from the back, if you please, Pip,” Paladin instructed his son.  He was stalling, and growing more apprehensive by the minute.  He paced back and forth while he filled his pipe with Longbottom leaf then lit it, drawing in deeply, letting it out slowly.  The serenity of the outdoors suddenly had no effect on poor Paladin.

“Is something wrong, Papa?”

“Well, no,” Paladin answered somewhat truthfully, “Nothing is wrong.”  Nothing is completely right, either, Paladin, you dolt!  Oh, very well!

“Put the measuring rod back into the waggon and we’ll have a small bite to eat from the picnic hamper we packed.”  Food ought to relax me.

Pippin scratched his head; he was confused.  “Sorry?  I thought we were going to measure that post over there,” he said, pointing towards a broken fence post that had fallen to the ground.

“First things first,” Paladin reasoned to the perplexed lad.  “I should like us to have a chat, however, I should like to have something in my stomach before we do.”

Pippin blinked in surprise but complied with his father’s wishes.  Besides, the growing lad was always up for a snack.

The twosome picnicked together under an elm tree that grew outside the pasture fence.  They sat cross-legged upon the blanket that many times had served as a tent in the garden of Whitwell.  Once in a while, Pippin liked to camp at night just like his famous cousin Bilbo.

After a few bites of cheese and bread slathered with butter, Paladin washed it all down with a cup of water.  He finally broached the subject that had been on his mind for the past four days.

“Pippin have you ever given thought to what you want to be when you grow up?”

The elder hobbit had to firmly pat Pippin’s back to keep the child from choking on his bread after he laughed.  “Be easy, lad!  Don’t swallow and breathe all at once!”

Seeing Pippin‘s bewilderment, Paladin continued his initial speech. “I am very serious, Pippin.  An urgent matter has recently come to the forefront in a huge family way.  It affects the entire family.  It’s rather urgent, so I must know your thoughts on this matter soon.  Here, I want you to read this.”  Paladin reached inside his jacket pocket to retrieve the letter he had received from the current Thain.   He waited as his son took the letter out of the envelope then read its contents:

“Paladin Took

Whitwell Farm

Whitwell, the Shire

Dear Cousin,

            I have officially announced that I shall remain a bachelor until the end of my days.  As I have no heir to carry on my title, your Grandfather Hildigrim’s descendants are the next line of Tooks to inherit the distinction of Took and Thain.

            Should you decline this offer, the offices will pass to Isembard’s descendants.  However, should you accept this offer, you and your family will be required to live at Great Smials, and you will train directly under the auspices of the Took and Thain.

            I will grant you one week to make your decision.

Sincerely,

Ferumbras III

Thain of the Shire

Great Smials, Tuckborough, the Shire”

“But Papa,” Pippin looked up from the letter, “what about Isembold’s family? Yellowskin shows Isembold’s family after Great-grandfather Hildigrim, not Isembard.”

Paladin smiled at the various expressions of surprise Pippin had displayed while reading the letter.  It also appeared that his son was no fool.  “Uncle Isembold married young and took his family away under questionable circumstances,” Paladin answered.  “I don’t know whether or not they have kept in touch with the family throughout the years.”

“Oh,” Pippin replied thoughtfully, “The questionable circumstances weren’t in the book you had me read last year for my lessons.” Pippin didn’t completely understand the meaning of the circumstances, but since it appeared his father wasn’t going to expound on the idea, he let the matter rest...for now.  He then held the letter up, “Cousin Ferumbras is offering you the Thainship!   What are you going to do, Papa?”

Placing his hand gently on the lad’s knee, Paladin replied, “Pippin, I want us to decide this together.  I love to farm the land -- to feel the soil running through my fingers, to feel the satisfaction of a job well done, and to give my family and others a bountiful harvest.  This matter,” Paladin indicated the letter, “weighs heavily on my heart, Pip.  But more than anything, I want you to be happy.  And this will affect you much more than it will affect me.”

“But...we’re farmers, aren’t we?  What will happen to the farm if we don’t work it?  Your assistant, Mr. Woodcot, is retiring this year.”

“Then I’ll have to hire another hobbit to administer the farm in my absence,” said Paladin, then ruffled the lad’s curls.  “The crops will continue to be sown and reaped, the cows will be milked, though by another family.  You are still far too young to deal with all of that responsibility no matter how much you try to persuade me otherwise.”

After a moment, Paladin observed his son grow pensive, almost distant.

 “Pippin, we don’t have to decide right this moment what we want to do, but we must do it soon.  I certainly don’t want you to think that this is all on your shoulders.”

“But what do you want, Papa?”

“As I said, my dearest lad,” Paladin replied, tenderly caressing Pippin’s chin, “What I want is for you to be happy.  I know how much you love shadowing my every step and learning to be a good farmer.  And you’re doing quite well starting out, I should say.  However, I can see the longing in your eyes, lad.  I can see the wonder in your eyes whenever we gaze toward the heavens at night.  I see the radiance in your face when you find the answer to a riddle I thought for certain you could not solve.  I see the sort of books you bring home from Bag End - the books about Elves, the Outlands.  Pippin, you will undeniably become a successful farmer, providing for your own family, for the community.  But...would that be enough for you?”

Pippin was silent for a while, then at last spoke up.  “Was it enough for you, Papa?”

“For the most part, I have to say, yes.”  Paladin surveyed the trees and their leaves, showing a hint of yellow or gold around the edges.  “I suppose I thought it was enough, that is, until I started giving you your lessons.  Your appetite for learning nearly surpassed your appetite for food.”  At this, both father and son smiled together.

“You will receive far more and better schooling if we live at Great Smials than if we live here, son.  The Thain will see to that; for you will be my heir and receive the title upon my death.”

The young lad winced at the last thought.  Pippin drew up his legs to rest his chin upon his knees, looking more and more thoughtful as time wore on.  “Will I be allowed to plough the fields should I choose?”

Paladin laughed heartily.  “Aye, I dare say!  However, you will still need a grown-up to help you for some years yet.”

Pippin flexed his upper arm, “I can do it by myself now, Papa.”

Paladin merely smiled, suggesting the issue was closed.  “Let’s go for a walk, shall we?”

Father and son walked hand-in-hand alongside the fence taking in the beautiful scenery.  “Do the lasses know?”

“Aye.  Well, they do by now.  Your mother planned to tell them the news while they bottle the summer fruits today.  Your sister, Pearl, is eager to prove how grown up she is when it’s her turn to attend Cousin Lalia this coming Afteryule.  I suppose the timing is convenient.”

“Perhaps that’s a sign, Papa.  It could be that we are destined to follow Pearl to Great Smials.”

Paladin let go of his son’s hand, pulling him closer as they walked.  “Perhaps we are.”

The End.

Disclaimer: All hobbits and Middle-earth belong to JRR Tolkien, only in my dreams do they belong to me. ;-) I am not a professional writer, thus nobody in their right mind would ever offer me any money for this. I do it out of pure enjoyment.

Childrens ages: Bonny 9, Faramir 7 1/2, Blossom, 4, and Heather 1.  But the Reader can always adjust that to their own imagination. :-)

Grandmum’s Button Box

Great Smials, Winterfilth, 1437, S.R.

“There we are now, ladies,” Diamond said to her little lasses, ushering two and carrying one into the parlour. All three were fresh from the bathing room wrapped snug in their thick dressing gowns. “Sit down in front of the hearth to dry your hair,” Diamond instructed them. “Here's your baby sister,” she leant down and set one-year-old Heather beside them. “And please don‘t plait her hair -- she doesn't have enough to do so yet.”

Little Blossom sat wide-eyed next to her big sister; they had been caught in the act of plaiting Heather‘s hair earlier in the day. The eldest child and quite bold, Bonny merely shrugged. “Her hair plaits well enough, Mummy. She just needs lots of them all over her head.”

Diamond gently lifted her daughter’s chin, looking her directly in the eyes. “No plaiting.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Satisfied her daughter knew that she meant business, Diamond sat down beside her husband on the couch. Pippin was quietly puffing on his pipe with his nose buried deep in a book...and a smirk on his lips.

Diamond pinched his arm, “What’s so funny?”

Pippin winced, but made no apologies. “Heather. She reminded me of Vinca’s dolls when she was a little lass.”

Before Diamond could retort on behalf of their littlest one, Faramir entered the parlour holding an old, but magnificently decorated wooden box. It was made of polished pine with blue and green brocaded fabric tacked overtop of the lid. The brass latch in the front kept the contents within.

“Is this the box, Grandmum?” he asked.

“The very one,” Eglantine replied, her hands held out to receive the item. “Thank you, my lad. Now, I‘ll need a little help with threading the needle, if you please. I wonder if there is a young lass about who may do the job well.”

Bonny’s hand shot up into the air excitedly. “I can do it, Grandmum! May I, please?”

“Very well, my dear,” answered Eglantine, with a glance in Diamond’s direction. With no objection from her daughter-in-law, she proceeded to give the implements to Bonny. “But be careful,” she cautioned. She had always cautioned her own daughters in the same manner when they were around Bonny’s age.

Next, Eglantine fumbled inside the box searching for the right sized button for her grandson. “This one will be perfect for you, Faramir! Now, love, step closer and hold out your arm so I can get a good look.”

Diamond gave a questioning look to her husband beside her. “What’s the matter?” she whispered.

Pippin took his pipe out of his mouth to better answer. “He lost a button,” he whispered likewise, “and so Mother wants to fix it. She enjoys mending their things -- it gives her something to do.”

Both parents watched as their children interacted with their grandmother. It had been three years since Pippin’s father passed away, thus, Diamond reasoned that, at 101, her beloved mother-in-law would follow not too far in the future. Winter’s chill was never a respecter of persons; when it left the Shire, it would take many elderly, young children, and the feeble along with it.

“May I have that one, Grandmum?” Faramir asked her, pointing to a different button.

Eglantine raised her wrinkled brow in thought. “Well...I suppose you could, but it would be the only gold button on your nightshirt.”

Faramir held the shiny button in his hands, admiring it. “It belonged to Grandpapa, though. I remember seeing it on a jacket he wore.”

Most of the buttons inside Eglantine’s wooden box were bric-a-brac, not all, but most. Some were from garments her children had worn as wee ones, frocks her own mother and grandmother had owned, favourite shirts and jackets from her late husband, or coats that she and her family wore long ago. Eglantine’s button box was practically a trove of treasures of every shape, size, colour, and texture. She knew each ones character and the story behind it.

Diamond held fast to Pippin’s arm; not necessarily wondering what her mother-in-law’s response would be, but her young Faramir was boldly asking to take something that was probably still a part of his grandmother’s heart. Diamond trusted her mother-in-law completely and knew Eglantine would never crush the spirit of the lad, but still...

Eglantine smiled sadly at the bygone memories the brass button evoked. She replied quietly, “It did belong to your Grandpapa -- it came from his favourite green suit, you know. He had it made on the occasion of your own Papa‘s Coming of Age.”

Young Faramir’s eyes sparkled with his grandmother’s account of his father’s Coming of Age; he fancied the button he had chosen was something special to his late grandfather. Even so, at the age of seven, the lad understood his grandmother’s loss. Faramir missed his Grandpapa; he missed the walks in the garden paths or being pulled in a handcart through the garden.

Faramir placed the button back inside the box. “Then I can’t have it?” he asked softly. It was more a statement than a question.

Bonny handed her grandmother the needle and thread, all ready to go. Eglantine took it, thanking her granddaughter.

“You misunderstand me, my dear lad,” Eglantine said, her hand gently combing his remaining damp curls with her fingers. She took the gold button and pressed it back into his hand. “I want you to have it -- wear it and remember your Grandpapa.” Eglantine’s smile was as wide as the one Faramir gave her in return.

She handed the button box to Bonny, and then quickly examined the lass’s handiwork. “Good length for button-sewing -- very fine knot,” she said, giving Bonny a wink.

Bonny beamed with pride. She started to go back to sit in front of hearth but then paused. “May Blossom and I have a look in your button box, Grandmum?”

“Aye, you may,” answered Eglantine, then immersed herself to the task of affixing the special button to Faramir’s cuff.

Off to the side, sitting in front of the fireplace, two little lasses rummaged through what they considered priceless treasures. It became increasingly difficult to keep baby Heather from eating the valuables, so Bonny took her littlest sister to their mum to keep her out of harms way.

Soon, she and Blossom were laughing with delight at the beautiful gems and colourful art within the pretty box. At length, a beaded glass shank button the hue of bluebells caught Bonny’s attention. She held it up to catch the light in the fireplace. “This one looks like a blue diamond. It must be worth a hundred silver pennies!”

Eglantine chuckled, making it difficult to aim the needle into the button hole. “No, my love. My own mother specifically chose four of those at the tailor shop to grace the blue coat she wore to her first social party after her Presentation -- the very party at which she met my father.”

Eglantine proceeded to regale her young audience of the meeting and courtship of her mother and father, to the delight of the lasses, of course.

“What about this one, Grandmum?” asked Blossom. She wanted a story from Grandmum, too! The small lass held up a tiny round button, the colouring mother-of-pearl. “It’s so pretty that a princess must have wore it!”

“Bring that closer, my dear,” said Eglantine, squinting at the whitish object in Blossom’s hand. “Oh! That came from a nightgown your Aunt Pearl wore when she was an infant.” The child tried desperately to imagine her old Auntie so small and helpless.

At this point, and nigh unto eight o’clock, little Heather began to fuss, prompting Diamond to take the baby to the nursery. As she padded towards the door, she caught a glimpse of a shiny object inside the box. Curious, Diamond bent down for a closer look. “This is a lovely button, Mum. Which frock did you get this from?”

Eglantine didn’t have to look at the tiny treasure in her daughter-in-law’s hand; there were few like it, and most ladies who saw it greatly esteemed it. Finished with her task, she snipped the thread with scissors, allowing Faramir to appreciate his new button. She teased, “Why do you think it came from a frock?”

Diamond laughed, putting Heather in Pippin‘s lap, whispering something in his ear. Pippin smiled knowingly; he had heard most of the stories behind the peculiar bits and pieces throughout his childhood, and this story in particular he knew Diamond would love. He laid aside his pipe and book, getting up to take his youngest daughter to the nursery and put her to bed.

Diamond sat down beside her children and answered, “Because no self-respecting lad would be caught dead with a silver button made in the shape of a rose on his shirt and most definitely not on his waistcoat.” Bonny and Blossom giggled. Fascinated, Faramir sat down with the lasses for a better look. Anticipating a nice, long story, Diamond proceeded to plait Bonny’s near dried hair.

Thrilled at another chance to tell stories to the young ones, Eglantine sat back in her chair, her mind’s eye seeing a lovely pale pink frock made from silk and silver rose-shaped buttons running the length of the back. Pink rosebuds crowned her pinned up tresses on that cool, clear spring day, but her abiding love for her beloved, her new husband. kept her warm all the day long...

The End

A/N: The story behind the story...lol. When my sister and I were around Bonny’s age or younger in my case, our family would visit our great-grandmother. Whenever we grew bored with the chit-chat, we’d ask for Grandma’s button box. We’d spend the entire visit oohing and ahhhing the variety of buttons she had collected over the years. I remember once or twice my sister holding up a button and Grandma telling us which coat or dress it had come from. Was it true? I don’t know, but it made nice memories for me. Her collection most likely resulted from the Depression era, but I like to imagine Eglantine saving buttons to help keep fond memories alive.

Originally written for Marigold's Talechallenge 48.  My “element”, if you will, is a song that Pearl Took gave me. She was rather easy on me, lol. I’m easily inspired by music, and this one was great. I’ve put the link to the song at the end if you wish to hear it.

I am posting this story (late, and) by request, by the person to whom this story was dedicated: Pearl Took. Back in mid-January I figured everybody was sick of Yule stories, so I was going to be cheesy and post it later this year. Here’s to you, Pearl!

Disclaimer: All Hobbits and Middle-earth belong to JRR Tolkien, but in my dreams they belong to me. Only an idiot would pay me for one of my stories, and no, I wouldn’t take it; I do this out of pure enjoyment.

Summary: It’s their first Yule officially as Took and Thain and the Mistress of Great Smials. They knew they’d be busy, but they weren’t quite prepared for what they got.

Betas Extraordinaire: I’d love to say they were Llinos and Marigold, but RL has a way of reminding us of what’s truly important. Be gentle, lol, because this is my first "challenge" endeavour without them. A special Thank You to Marigold and Llinos for all of their patience and tutoring in the past; hopefully their labour will show a little bit in this tale.

The Last Dance

Great Smials, Yuletide, 1434, S.R.

T’was early morning of Yule 1, and throughout the Thain’s apartment, not a noise could be heard. Until...

Groaning, Pippin turned over in bed pulling the thick eiderdown over his head in order to shut out the noise; however that didn’t seem to work. The knocking upon the bedroom door continued along with the chirping of children’s voices beyond it.

“It’s too early, go back to bed!” he mumbled from beneath the covers. Pippin moaned at his own ineffectiveness; knowing well that his voice barely carried above the blankets, let alone to the diminutive intruders outside in the hallway.

Beside him, Diamond shifted her position in bed to face her husband. “They won’t go away until they know we’re awake,” she said in a hoarse voice. “Besides, if we don’t do something quick they might wake their baby sister; the nursery is right next to our bedroom.”

Pippin felt Diamond slip out of their bed then listened to her soft footfalls as she went over to the door. He heard her give quiet instructions to the children to fetch their grandmother, Uncle Merry, Aunt Estella and cousins, and then to wait for her and their father in the parlour. After that, Pippin next felt the mattress depress beside him along with a chill draft, telling him that Diamond was back once again under the warm covers.

“Please...just a few more minutes,” Pippin whined into his pillow.

He and Diamond had stayed awake far into the night putting together the final touches of a doll's house for Bonny, a toy barn for Faramir complete with small wooden animals, and then filled three very large decorative sacks tacked to the mantelpiece in the parlour for their three young children. Blossom, the youngest at age one, would be easy to please with a set of nesting blocks, as she wasn’t quite refined in the “art” of Yule gifts yet.

“It’s half past six, love,” said Diamond, combing his bed-head curls with her fingers. Pippin remained prone underneath the thick blankets. “It’s Yule 1, you know. We have a very long day ahead of us.”

Pippin didn’t budge.

The young Mistress of Great Smials shook her head and sighed. She knew rising this morning would be difficult for her husband, and it wouldn’t necessarily be due to their staying up late. This Yule would be the first without Paladin Took, having passed away in late Halimath at the ripe old age of 101.

If it weren’t for the fact that so many folks were counting on a festive day hosted by the Took and Thain, Diamond would have caved in to his plea, but today of all days, she dare not; there was far too much to be done. Merry and his family had made the trip this year to be with them this Yule along with many other dear friends and family, and she knew Pippin would be beside himself if he failed them in any way today. Diamond decided Pippin would need a little help rising for the day.

Inside the bedroom, the fire in the hearth had burnt away into embers long since the couple had gone to bed some hours ago. Diamond reached over to the night table to turn up the lamp, then promptly jerked the eiderdown away from Pippin. She grinned; he reacted just how she knew he would.

Pippin gasped when the cool air met his nightshirt and the exposed skin of his legs. He quickly sat up in bed beside his wife then snatched back his half of the warm comforter to cover up with.

“All right!” he said, though only slightly irritated; Pippin knew he ought to be getting out of bed and soon. “I’m awake -- just give me a moment to gather myself,” he said, rubbing his face with his hands in an attempt to wake himself further. “I shall need a very strong pot of coffee.”

Diamond let Pippin sit for a few seconds before taking his hand in her own, bringing it to her lips to tenderly kiss it. “How are you feeling?”

Pippin drew up his knees just enough to lay his free arm across them and rest his chin in thought. Pippin could never hide his emotions from Diamond; her keen sense of perception is one of her many good qualities that drew his heart to hers.

“I miss him,” he said in a whisper. He then turned his head to face his wife, his eyes glistening with tears in the golden lamplight. “I always will. Thirty years from now I shall still miss him; he was my father.”

“Last Yule he danced with my mother under the mistletoe,” said Pippin, smiling wistfully at the image in his mind’s eye. “He kissed her and said that she was as beautiful as the day they were married. I don’t think he realised that I had overheard him.”

Diamond gently squeezed his hand in response. “I think he did.”

A few moments passed while they sat in reflection of distant and recent memories of the dear old hobbit. At length, Pippin broke the silence, this time giving his wife‘s hand a warm squeeze.

“Happy birthday,” he said, then leaned in to kiss her gently on the lips.

Diamond smiled. “Thank you -- so far it is very happy.”

Suddenly, she leapt from the bed to tip-toe over the cold floor to her wardrobe. She pulled out a drawer, took a small box from it, and then ran back to her warm bed and husband. She snuggled up to Pippin, presenting him her birthday gift.

“Is it that enormous pipe we saw in the smoke shop the other day?”

Diamond rolled her eyes in amusement. “Pippin, I believe the box is just a little too small, don’t you think? Open it!”

Pippin had to laugh at Diamond’s insistence. He loved to tease her with taking his time with opening her gifts. Nothing, however could have prepared him for the sweet surprise he received.

“Diamond!” he gasped.

“Yes,” she said, “It’s right there behind your dad’s birthstone.”

“No,” Pippin chuckled at her misunderstanding, “I meant...anyway -- look! This was my father’s pocket chain!”

Pippin held aloft a small silver chain with clasps at either end used to attach pocket watches to their owners weskits. Pippin instantly recognised the pale blue gem flecked with red dots dangling near the main clasp that would attach to the pocket watch, but there was also a small diamond that dangled behind the bloodstone.

“Yes, it was your dad‘s,” Diamond confessed. “Your Mum gave it to me to present to you on my birthday. I took it to the jeweller in town to add your birthstone to the chain. Mum wants it to become an heirloom.”

“And it shall,” said Pippin, still mesmerised by the beautiful jewellery. “It’s lovely! Thank you, Diamond.” He carefully laid the chain aside on the night table, tenderly kissing Diamond in the process. “So, what does the byrding-lass have planned for the day?”

Diamond sighed melodramatically as if a weight of care were upon her shoulders, then she smiled. “To spend Yule morning with her dear family until about...” she narrowed her eyes in recollection, “9 o’clock, when the Ladies of Great Smials meets for tea. It’s Yule tradition, you know!” Diamond giggled, mimicking the last part in Cousin Saffron’s haughty (and exaggerated) Tookland lilt. “Then precisely at ten, I must speak with the kitchen staff to ensure the food for the Yule Feast is going as planned and that nothing is amiss -- also to give out my birthday gifts. After that, I take refuge here in our apartment with our children until luncheon, after which Mum and I will proceed to the Great Hall to oversee the decorating.”

Pippin raised his eyebrows and chortled. “I can imagine what the Great Hall will look like after our children have a go at decorating! They will do their best to please you and Mother, but in the end, unfortunately, they might prove to be a hindrance.”

Diamond lightly nudged her beloved. “That’s all taken care of, love. Pearl and her daughters have asked to spend time with our young brood this afternoon, which will help me immensely. Pearl is wonderful with children and will keep them busy for hours. Her taking the children will give me the opportunity to help keep Mum’s mind occupied with happier things, and Auntie Esmeralda’s being here will help, too.” Pippin nodded his agreement.

“So,” Diamond concluded, “all of that will keep me busy until it is time to bathe and dress the children for the feast.”

Pippin got a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “What about you?”

Diamond grinned likewise. “As it is my birthday, I thought it very appropriate to bathe and wear my birthday suit.” She paused for effect at the shockingly amused look on Pippin’s face. She laughed, “Of course I am going to do the same for myself, silly lad! You still wish for me to wait for you here at the apartment? You have a busy day as well.”

“Oh, I do!” replied Pippin. “And, yes, please wait for me here. ’Tis fitting for the Thain and his Mistress to arrive at the Hall and be announced together.

“But...as for my schedule, after spending early Yule morn with my dearest family,” he continued, “I have a treasury meeting with the core Took family heads of Great Smials in my office to discuss last year‘s spending as well as spending for the coming year. Once that is finished, we all will then gather in the Lesser Hall for the annual Took Moot with all members of the Took Clan who wish to discuss family business. So, that will keep me engaged the rest of the morning. However, once that is finished, I do plan to return here to take luncheon and spend time with our family and our guests.”

Feeling more awake, Pippin dragged himself out of bed to put on his dressing gown. As he tied the sash, he continued, “Then after lunch, Reggie and I will go off on the hunt for the perfect mistletoe to decorate the Great Hall. Wouldn’t want to bring bad luck on us all and not have any mistletoe!”

“Absolutely not!” said Diamond, still smiling at her beloved. She, too, rose from the bed, slipped into her pale yellow dressing gown then headed for the washstand.

“I do hope that Merry will come with us,” said Pippin. Having washed his face and hands, he reached for a face towel to dry with, offering another to Diamond when she reached for one. “Anyway, once we have completed our utmost important mission, we shall return to Great Smials to get ready for the Yule Feast.” Pippin lovingly looked on while Diamond brushed her long hair and tied it with a bright green ribbon.

“Now, Mrs. Took, would you care to join me in the parlour to watch our family unwrap their gifts?”

* * * * * * * *

Ten minutes past 9 o’clock...

Diamond walked hurriedly down the main tunnel, hastily smoothing out the wrinkles in her red frock and matching jumper then reached behind her head to tuck away the wispy ends of her hair underneath the lowest fold in her pinned up tresses. Diamond always tried to look her best, although this morning the baby had other ideas. At the age of one, Blossom still experienced separation anxiety whenever her Mama stepped out of the apartment. Fortunately, Estella was close by and aided her friend, however, in spite of the needed assistance, Diamond was left a bit rumpled.

The Mistress of Great Smials had her own private chamber used for charity teas, guild meetings, and the like. It was located next door to the Took and Thain’s office, so hearing the low volume of male voices behind the thick wooden door was nothing new to her. Diamond left her chamber door open with the thought that the servant would arrive in a short time with their tea. Breathlessly, Diamond sat down in her own designated chair set within the tea circle.

“Diamond, love,” Saffron cooed from her chair. “We had hoped to begin the meeting promptly, as we all have a full schedule on Yule 1.” Saffron was quite arrogant, thus, very few of her own kin truly liked her. Even her marriage had to be arranged by her parents, as no lad would have her...not without a price.

“I do apologise, ladies,” Diamond chattered on, “Blossom had a fit when she saw her Mummy leaving, and among everything else, Faramir was upset over Bonny using one of his toy farm animals for her Doll’s house and I had to...”

Diamond briefly went silent when she met the cold, indifferent stare of Saffron.

Without missing a beat, Diamond turned away from Saffron, to face her close friend and confidante, Laurel Took (Everard’s wife) sitting in the chair beside her. Laurel had five children, so Diamond knew that she would appreciate her circumstances.

Diamond continued, “And so I had to intervene before each child took justice into their own hands! Thank goodness Mum was there to divert their attention and I could leave.”

Laurel shared a genuine smile with Diamond; she wasn‘t very fond of Saffron, either. “I‘ll wager not five minutes later they were once again jolly.”

With the attendees recorded and the meeting finally in progress, the business of choosing families in need of charity for the coming year was interrupted when Saffron complained about the noise in the hallway. Diamond didn’t feel the noise was at an intolerable level, however, she knew that until she addressed the situation, Saffron wouldn’t be happy. Saffron could always find a reason to complain about anything. Diamond figured it was her way of gaining attention. Nonetheless, to appease her, Diamond volunteered to close the door.

As she brought the door to a close Diamond thought that the voices did sound much clearer now. Peeking into the hallway, she spied three gentle-hobbits standing just outside of the Thain’s office debating an issue at a low volume amongst themselves. Two of the hobbits had their backs to her, but she immediately saw Pippin; he stood with his face in her direction while speaking with two other cousins who stood before him. Why the three were talking out there and not in the office, Diamond could only surmise that there had been some dissention among the ranks in the Treasury meeting.

Diamond stood at the doorway to her chamber, the door open just a crack -- just enough for one brown eye to peep through. Pippin had stopped speaking and was now listening as the other hobbits carried on the dialogue. Suddenly Pippin caught her eye; he smiled and winked at her. Diamond smiled back, her heart filled with love for her beloved. She lingered, letting the sparkle of his green eyes penetrate her heart, her very soul.

Why did so many meetings have to take place on the most festive day of the year? Yuletide was the one season of the year that Tooks, distant and near, returned to their ancestral home to be with family.

Diamond could tell by Pippins eyes, his facial expression, that he was quite uninterested with the issue at hand and would much rather spend his morning with her, and in truth, she would much rather be with him. And why not? They had been able to steal away in Yules past. However, time alone was not to be this year. There was far too much to be done.

The two cousins once again engaged Pippin, his gaze broke and was drawn back into their conversation.

Diamond slowly closed the door.

* * * * * * * * *

Pippin trudged beside Reggie in the long passage leading to the main tunnel. They had just left the apartment of Gertrude Took, an elderly lady known to most as “Aunt Gertie”. Senility was setting in which attributed to her forgetting to replace the protective screen around the hearth to keep the crackling, burning wood behind the grate. The mat caught fire which spread to her favourite chair and nearby furniture situated near the hearth. Fortunately, the family next door heard the commotion, rang the alarm, then went to Gertie’s rescue. The fire was contained, though the chair and mat were destroyed. And this wasn’t the first time such a thing had happened.

Pippin borrowed Reggie’s handkerchief to wipe away the soot on his face. “Aunt Gertie is lucky that nobody was injured this time. She needs someone to look after her.”

“Who?” Reggie asked. He, too, had soot streaks all over his face. “She’s an old spinster, Pippin. She has no children, she’s all that’s left of her family.” Reggie sighed; something did have to be done and soon or else Aunt Gertie would injure herself, or worse. “Perhaps I can speak with Jewel and take in Aunt Gertie for a while, but I don’t know for how long.”

Pippin handed the blackened handkerchief to his cousin, saying, “You needn’t worry on that, I don’t think she has long.”

Reggie looked at his watch as they continued to traverse the hall. “We have just enough time to stop at my apartment and wash off the remaining grime and have a bit of lunch before riding out to hunt the mistletoe we spotted in that oak tree the other day.”

Pippin stopped in his tracks. “What is the time?”

“Half past one,” replied Reggie.

In frustration, Pippin put a hand to his face to rub the stress out of his forehead and in the process rubbed black smudges all over his face again. Reggie smirked but said nothing, his friend being in obvious distress.

“I‘ve missed luncheon,” said Pippin. “I promised Diamond that I would be there to have lunch with the family and the guests.”

“Pippin, Diamond is a reasonable lass,” said Reggie. “She’s probably heard by now what has delayed you. I’m sure they’ll all understand.”

That wasn‘t the point. Of course Diamond would understand, however, Pippin yearned to spend a little time alone with his wife and thought luncheon would provide the perfect venue where they could escape for a few minutes to be alone. Pippin was silent for a few moments, very disappointed that the day took a dreadful turn the way it did.

“She will,” he said mournfully.

“The hunt for the mistletoe happens at this time every Yule,” Reggie added. “The sun will set in a few hours, so we must start right away. Diamond knows it’s tradition. Besides that, it’s bad luck not to have mistletoe at the turning of the year.” Reggie gave Pippin a pat on the back in an attempt to cheer him up. “Come along, Pip! Jewel will have something quick to eat ready for us both and she‘ll send word to Diamond about you.”

“I suppose, but I haven’t seen Diamond since this morning,” Pippin said glumly as he began the trek to Reggie’s apartment.

Reggie regarded his younger cousin with a sincere smile. “You miss her.”

“I do.”

* * * * * * * * *

Inside the Great Hall, the room hummed softly with the multitude of voices and the aroma of just about every kind of food filled the air. Tables with crisp white tablecloths were lined up neatly in rows, colourful ribbons hung from wall sconces and bright candelabrums overhead. The mistletoe, painstakingly obtained from one particular oak tree hung over the centre of the large dance floor. Every couple dancing upon the floor, young and old, married or not, would vie to be under that spot throughout the night. That infernal mistletoe!

Seated to the left of Pippin’s empty chair at the head table, Diamond took a biscuit from the platter one of the servants offered to her and bit hard into it. This day hadn’t turned out as she thought it would. Not only did she and Pippin have almost no time together this Yule, but when he returned from his hunt for the mistletoe sporting a small cut on his temple, they had a quarrel over the importance of having Yule mistletoe at the feast (Hobbits in the Northfarthing did not hold the same high regard for the winter foliage as did hobbits in the Westfarthing). Diamond thought the dinner went fine although she surmised that those seated closest to her and Pippin were perceptive enough, or plainly knew about the matter, as she and Pippin spoke very little to each other.

Now Diamond was kicking herself; she had indeed overreacted. Pippin was one of the most selfless people she knew -- it was one of his many good qualities that she so admired. Pippin hunted the mistletoe every year not because of its supposed enchanting properties; even he knew better than that. But Pippin spent hours in the bitter cold every year to please his family and those he loved. Pippin didn’t truly believe in the plant’s magic any more than she did, but the children loved it -- as did the many couples who kissed beneath it. Perhaps it was the stress of the preparations, or maybe she was taking the separation harder than she thought and took it out on Pippin. Diamond sighed at her own ineffectiveness.

And truly, what was she thinking? In Yules past, they were always able to steal away for a bit because Pippin‘s parents had most everything under control. But this year, she and Pippin worked alone. Pippin was now officially Took and Thain, and she, the Mistress of Great Smials; they each had numerous duties, especially at Yule.

After the meal concluded and before the dancing begun, everyone plied for their attention: “Thain Peregrin, I would be pleased if you came over to meet my family -- my son wants to join the Hobbitry-in-Arms but...” or “Mistress Diamond, I’m from the Pincup Ladies Charity League, if you have a moment I‘d like to speak with you about...” On and on it went through all three courses.

Diamond sulked in her chair, sipping from her wine goblet to wash down the biscuit. As she continued to nibble, Diamond watched her husband dance with his Mum. The first dance of the Yule Feast was something traditionally given to the Took and his Mistress, but Diamond couldn’t begrudge Pippin and his Mum. In fact, Diamond encouraged it, telling Pippin that (speaking as a mother) it would give Eglantine the message that he is comfortable with being the head of the family and that he would be all right. In spite of this, Diamond was still put out by her own anger earlier, and still felt quite foolish for criticising her beloved. However inconsolable she felt...Diamond admitted that mother and son dancing together did look sweet.

The song ended and now everyone could take part in the dances. Everyone capable of dancing was fair game as long as they were willing to do so.

“May I have this dance?”

Diamond looked up to see Merry standing beside her.

“Stella noticed that you were looking a bit forlorn,” he said sympathetically, then held out his hand. “May I?”

Diamond smiled uneasily, but took his hand. “You may.”

Diamond loved Merry as the big brother she never had, but she didn’t wish to dance with him right now -- she wanted to dance with Pippin. However, it would be very impolite not to accept the noble offer from the Master of Buckland. Yet, as Merry escorted her to the dance floor, Diamond could plainly see that the love of her life had already been taken by their six-year-old daughter. Little Bonny wasted no time in taking her Papa’s hand for him to twirl her on the dance floor. Well, Diamond couldn’t begrudge that, either.

On through the evening, it was Merry, Everard, Fredegar, Merimas, Ferdibrand, Sam...every fine, strapping male hobbit the Shire proper and Buckland had to offer danced with Diamond. As for Pippin, it was Pearl, Pimpernel, Vinca, Stella, Laurel, Jewel, Juniper (Fredegar’s wife), Mum, Bonny, and even eighteen-month-old Blossom...the list for Pippin went on and on...at least, in Diamond’s point of view it did.

The evening was now getting late, and the requests for her to dance had become fewer. Diamond sat at the head table; the more she sipped her wine, the more dejected she felt. She began to reason that Pippin was purposely avoiding her because he was still vexed.

Every time a song ended and she thought perhaps Pippin might get a chance to dance with her, some old matron or young tweenager would ask for a dance to the next song, and Pippin rarely refused.

Finally, towards the end of the night, Diamond accepted the fact that she would have to spend the entire feast -- and her birthday, nonetheless -- without a dance from her beloved.

Not one dance.

A hot tear ran down her cheek as she watched Pippin join in the last song of the evening with the band, singing and playing his lap harp for the guests that remained. 

Well, Diamond thought mournfully, wiping away the tear, there’s nothing for it now but to collect my brood and head back to the apartment.

She drained her wine goblet, completely missing the part where Pippin whispered something to the other musicians and then laid aside his own instrument. Diamond rose from her seat, wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, then turned towards the door.

Not one dance.

“Mistress Took, may I have this dance?”

Diamond froze. She instantly recognised that voice. Diamond turned back around, seeing the face of her beloved standing before her, love and forgiveness in his eyes.

More tears threatened to blur her vision, but Diamond allowed her handsome Knight of Gondor to take her hand and lead her to the centre of the dance floor -- directly underneath the dreaded mistletoe. No one else was on the dance floor, all eyes were on them. He gave her a passionate kiss on the lips, being that was what mistletoes were for. The guests applauded.

“You look beautiful,” Pippin whispered, gazing directly into her soft brown eyes.

Diamond smiled through her tears; her green velvet skirt and silver-coloured silk blouse complimented his dashing silver and sable tunic. She felt Pippin’s strong arm around her waist gently draw her body to him, his other hand lifting hers as couples do when they dance.

Soon the music resumed; it was the absolutely last dance.

It was a simple tune with lyrics that everyone knew, played with just a violin and two lap harps. Diamond also recognised it as the same slow-dance song that was played at their wedding over seven years ago.

Diamond grew warm and tingly as she felt Pippin’s warm body pressed against hers. She closed her eyes, breathing in his scent and relished his touch. The rest of the world was shut out as they swayed gently to the music; a slow, romantic dance.

Pippin, too, closed his eyes, kissing his wife ardently. He loved her more than life itself.

Then Diamond felt Pippin lift her chin tenderly, she opened her eyes to meet his.

Pippin’s eyes never left his wife’s as he tenderly whispered, “You’re as ever beautiful as the day we married.” And then he smiled lovingly, still so much in love.

Snuggled in each others embrace, they continued to dance, oblivious to anyone else around.

In the far corner of the room, Pippin’s sisters quietly took his and Diamond’s small children to spend the night in their guest quarters so that the lovebirds could nestle without worry.

No future Yule would rival this one, as Diamond treasured the memory of this Yule forever in her heart.

The End

A/N: The song Pearl gave me is here: http://web.mac.com/pearltook/Pearls_Place/My_Stories/My_Stories.html