Chapter the First: Come Early, Come Late
in which Beregond goes in search of an errant guardsman

The guardsman stretched, coming from the soldiers' mess into the promise of a fine morning. Perhaps to call him a guardsman would not be entirely accurate, for he'd been relieved of such duties, pending his hearing before the King. But all who knew him still thought of him thus, even if he wore a surcoat of unrelieved black, with no White Tree broidered in silver upon the breast.

His duty at the present time was to attend Captain Faramir, when the Captain needed attending, that was. At the moment the Captain was likely asleep, having been awake until an hour ago as the banquet to celebrate the Coronation of the King ended with a final ceremony at the rising of the sun.

But Beregond was restless, not yet ready to seek his bed, though he was weary and his half-healed shoulder pained him. He wondered, too, about the young hobbit, Pippin, who had attended the King for the early part of the banquet, but had been dismissed after upsetting a plate into Elessar's lap... The King had sent him off to bed, dismissed rather like any other sleepy youngster, and off he'd gone--which did not sit well with Beregond. Of course, one did not argue with a King, and Pippin would not be expected to argue in the midst of such a grand affair, but the lad had gone off all too tamely, without protest, rousing Beregond's fatherly instincts. Well, he had been blushing to the tips of his ears, but...

Had Beregond not been attending Faramir at the time, he would have walked with Pippin, to see him safely to his bed. Just now he'd gone to the mess, expecting to find the young hobbit at breakfast there, to bring him word that he was expected to attend his cousin the Ring-bearer this day, to wait outside Frodo's bedroom and let the staff know when the hobbits began to waken. Boring duty, perhaps, but light and un-strenuous, for one who'd recently recovered from battle wounds, and he'd perform conscientiously and find some rest himself in the doing.

But Pippin was not in the mess... had he overslept? He would have slept this night in the quarters he'd shared with Mithrandir during the siege; though during the banquet the servants would have been preparing the house set aside for the Periannath, Pippin's room would not have been quite ready for him at the relatively early hour of his dismissal.

Mithrandir had been deep in discussion with the King when Captain Faramir dismissed Beregond, telling him to go to his rest. Likely the Wizard would not return to his quarters soon. Beregond decided to waken Pippin himself, inform him of his duties, make sure the lad ate a hearty breakfast, especially after missing the feast last night.

...but Pippin was not at the house. He had come back from the feast, a serving woman told the guardsman, and gone out again shortly after, trudging down the wide carven stair from his fair room as if a great weight were upon his shoulders, and he had not returned. She assumed he'd been sent on an errand, poor weary lad, and forced to return when he should be seeking his pillow, for hard were the hearts of the great lords, and hard did they drive those who served them.

So had been the Lord Denethor, perhaps, for he'd driven himself hard and expected as much from everyone around him. 'But the King is a fine man, and fair master,' Beregond reproved.

'I wouldn't say no ill against the King!' the serving woman gasped, hand at her heart. 'No, never would I!'

Beregond patted her shoulder; once warned, surely she'd be more discrete in her grumblings. He turned and trotted down the stairs, wondering where to search next?

Some instinct drew him to the wall of the citadel upon the north side, not far from the dwelling, and there huddled on a bench, he found his quarry, still in uniform, cloak cast over his head.

He started forward, blessing the fact that he was the one to find Pippin, and wondering how best to remedy the situation. Falling asleep, while wearing the uniform of the Citadel, now, that was a flogging offence! Though he doubted the Captain of the Guard would order a flogging for this particular young guardsman... he would most likely order a lesser punishment, such as bread-and-water. On second thought, Pippin might prefer flogging to a sentence of bread-and-water.

Thinking better of his first impulse, which was to shake the youngster awake, Beregond walked softly back to the corner, turned, and began to stomp his way towards the bench, hoping the noise he made would waken the lad... but no; Pippin did not move.

There was nothing for it, then, but to face the consequences. Upsetting a plate in the lap of the King, and then falling asleep while still in his uniform... Beregond shook his head, steeled himself, and reached out to shake the small shoulder.

Pippin lolled in his grasp, and he was barely in time to keep the hobbit from tumbling to the ground.

'Pippin!' he said in alarm. 'What ails you, lad?'

Uncovered, the hobbit's face was deathly pale. He struggled to open heavy lidded eyes, opened his mouth to answer, took a wheezing breath.

'No air,' the hobbit whispered. 'I thought... to find a breath... of fresh...' and then he went into a paroxysm of coughing, lifting a pocket-handkerchief to his face. Beregond's alarm grew as he saw the snowy linen stained with ominous red...

Part 2:

'It was a near thing,' Elessar told the worried hobbits, 'a near thing indeed. He was so very ill that he didn't realise...'

'He didn't realise how very ill he was,' Frodo put in grimly.

Elessar looked at the Ring-bearer, standing to his full diminutive height, hands loosely clenched, jaw tight and eyes full of life and purpose, and he blessed Pippin's illness for bringing Frodo out of himself. There was no sign of brooding, now, no abstracted manner, but rather determination. Frodo, for Pippin's sake, was taking up the fight.

'He concealed his illness because he didn't want to spoil the Coronation,' Merry said with a grimace, 'and besides, it was...'

'...only a cold,' he and Frodo finished together.

'Well he's on the mend,' Elessar said. 'Draughts and rubs, hot onion poultices to clear his chest, simmering herbs and steam... and that brings us to another question. How will we keep him abed, once his energy returns? He is still very weary, and his cough wears him out enough to make him contented to sleep, but he has no crushing injuries to keep him confined this time when he starts to feel better...'

Frodo looked to Merry, who appeared to be at a loss.

'He's not one to lie abed,' Sam said, shaking his head, carefully not looking at his beloved Master. Secretly he was rejoicing to see Frodo completely caught up in the matter of Pippin, and not lost in reflection as he too often had been of late.

'Well then,' Frodo said. 'You say he's on the mend...'

'Yes,' Elessar intoned gravely, not at all the cheerful tone one would expect when talking about someone recovering from an illness. 'But if he gets up too soon, before his lungs are clear, the lung fever might return--no, will return, and carry him off before...'

'We cannot have that!' Merry said in alarm. 'Frodo, what's to be done?'

For a moment Sam thought the younger cousin had overplayed his role, but Frodo was distracted by his own worry for the youngest cousin.

'There was a time or two, back in the Shire, when we had to keep Pippin in his bed longer than he cared to stay there,' Frodo said, a look of grim determination in his eye. 'Just leave it to us, Elessar. We'll take care of it.'

Unaccountably, Merry laughed, and Frodo's look softened as the cousins exchanged wry glances.

And then the Ring-bearer began to chuckle, and Sam gave the King a conspiratorial nod.

Chapter the Second: Silent Knight

in which the King reassures his youngest Knight

Contributed by shirebound

Over the long months he had known them, Aragorn had learned to read the emotions of his hobbit friends better than most. Frodo and Merry had nearly identical reactions to distress -- a tenseness in their bearing, eyes guarded as they worked out how to solve something. But there was very little guarded about Sam; his 'plain hobbit sense' rarely allowing him to hide anything for long. He felt it was better to get things out in the open, find a practical solution, and 'get on with it.' And then there was Pippin...

Aragorn hesitated outside the door of Pippin's room. When Pippin grew too quiet, for too long, it was a sure sign of something troubling the youngster. With a soft knock, he pushed open the door. The flowers, books, gaily-colored quilts and pillows, and softly glowing lamps brightening the room could not disguise the presence of a variety of medicines arranged on one of the tables -- draughts, syrups, poultices, small basins, gentle salves... whatever might be needed.

Pippin was sitting up, partially supported by pillows, a small picture-book of Faramir's lying in his lap. As Aragorn approached the bed, he could see that Pippin was fighting sleep.

"Hello, Strider," Pippin murmured. He frowned in the direction of the laden table. "Time for more of those..." He grimaced at the memory of the taste of some of the medicines.

"No," Aragorn said with a smile. He sat on the bed next to his small patient. "I thought we might talk for a few minutes, Pippin."

"Has anything happened?" Pippin was instantly alert, braced for bad news. "Is someone else sick?"

"Everyone is fine."

"That's good," Pippin said quietly. He fell silent, asking not a single one of his usual questions about meals, activities in the Citadel, or when he might be let out of bed.

"Pippin," Aragorn began, "I know this confinement is difficult, but I believe there is something else bothering you." He met his young friend's troubled eyes. "Can you tell me about it?"

Pippin cast his eyes down, then finally nodded slightly. "After everything we all went through, and becoming a Knight of the City and all..." He plucked absently at the blankets. "I was starting to feel... older. Now everyone has to waste their time taking care of me, like... like a child."

"I see," Aragorn said thoughtfully. "I understand how you feel. I spent half my life feeling like a child, Pippin, even after I was fully an adult; even after I began learning to act courageously, be a leader, and put the welfare of others ahead of my own."

"Then why did you feel like a child?" Pippin asked, puzzled.

Aragorn laughed. "Because I grew up amongst Elves -- ancient, wise folk who see all mortals as such. Besides, they rarely become ill. Can you imagine how I would feel, as an adult warrior, when -- ill or injured -- I found myself being tended and cosseted by Lord Elrond or his sons as if I were five years old?"

"You do understand," Pippin said wonderingly. "I've felt so very grown up recently, and hadn't given much thought to the fact that I'll be returning to the Shire still an 'irresponsible tween', as they say. They may still see me as a child, whatever else I have done."

"They may," Aragorn said gravely, "but you have gained the respect of some of the most honored folk in the West. Wear that proudly, Pippin. And someday, you will find someone very special who sees you as you see yourself... or perhaps even more than you see yourself. Whatever your age, from that moment on, you will never feel like a child again."

"Did that happen for you?" Pippin asked.

"It did," Aragorn said, a smile lighting his face. "However young and impulsive her brothers may at first have thought of me, when I gained the regard of Arwen Undómiel, my life was transformed. What I have achieved, I have done for her... for us. From the first time we met and spoke, she saw me as I could become, and I have strived to match her vision."

"I'm so very happy for you, Strider," Pippin said earnestly.

"Thank you, Pippin." Aragorn replied. "And as for you... it is not so dreadful, is it, being lavished with all this attention? It is a joy for us to do so."

"No," Pippin grinned suddenly. "It's not so dreadful, I suppose." He yawned, his eyelids growing heavy. "Thank you for telling me about Lady Arwen."

"It is her opinion that I value most," Aragorn said, tucking the hobbit under the blankets. "Perhaps, as you lie here, you can decide what you value and desire most, and how to work to achieve it."

"I already know," Pippin replied. "What I desire is… to be brave and true, and earn the high regard of..." He stopped speaking, his eyes suddenly brimming with tears.

"Yes?" Aragorn prompted.

"My King," Pippin whispered.

Aragorn looked down at the hobbit and smiled. "Then you will need to set a new goal, Peregrin Took," he said softly, "for you already have your King's highest regard."

Pippin beamed with joy. Aragorn sat with him while he fell asleep, and -- although Pippin did not know it -- remained for a long time after, watching over his young and treasured knight.

Part 3:

'I'm feeling perfectly myself again and there's no reason to tie me to the bed!'

Pippin's face turned red as he began to cough again in earnest. Merry tendered a glass of water, Frodo poured out the soothing syrup and held it to his young cousin's lips, both watched with concern, ready to shout for a healer if the coughing fit turned to a strangling struggle for air, as had happened earlier.

'You're perfectly "yourself" again, for certain,' Frodo said dryly.

'Tying him to the bed; there's a novel idea,' Merry said in his most cheerful tone. 'D'you suppose it's something the Tooks came up with for Pippin's especial benefit?'

'Sam always seems to keep some rope about,' Frodo replied. 'I'm sure he'd be happy to...'

'You jest,' Pippin wheezed.

'Don't try and talk, lad, you'll only set yourself to coughing again,' old Ioreth said, bustling into the room with a tray of good things meant to tempt the appetite. She was followed by several helpers bearing trays. Pippin's was not the only appetite to be tempted, after all. 'Lovely eggs, scrambled with cream, the best the City has to offer...'

'Don't want it,' Pippin mumbled rather ungraciously, pushing the food away. 'Wouldn't you like to have my portion, Frodo? "Lovely eggs scrambled with cream" and cheese melting atop; that's what Mum always stirred up when you and Bilbo would come to visit.'

'Such a lamb,' Ioreth murmured with a fond look, and then she put on a stern voice, which was rather spoilt by the smile she was suppressing. 'Now then, lad, you eat that! It'll give you strength!'

'But my throat is sore from coughing,' Pippin whined, 'and my head hurts so...' The rest of this piteous sentiment was rather muffled as he was pulled against Ioreth's ample breast.

'Poor lamb,' she said. 'And so sweet and generous, trying to give his breakfast away. Why, young Bergil told me that the Little Folk are always giving, never taking, why, they even give presents away on their birthdays instead of expecting to be showered with gifts!'

Merry and Frodo exchanged a wry look. Pippin always expected gifts... on other people's birthdays. He would drive his older cousins to distraction with his nagging to find out what his present might be, and unending guesses; of course, he drove them to distraction when his own birthday approached, with his nagging to make them guess their presents, and his constant hints.

'Such wonderful, generous folk,' Ioreth said, releasing Pippin (to that hobbit's relief, for it was difficult to get his breath, crushed in her loving embrace) and dabbing at her eyes.

'Not always generous,' Frodo said with a grin.

Merry rolled his eyes. 'Not that old story,' he said. 'You wouldn't...'

'As a matter of fact, young hobbits go through a time when they want all they see,' Frodo went on relentlessly. 'You might have a jar full of sweetmeats, for example, and offer a young hobbit as many as he wishes. He'd put his hand in the jar and grasp such a hand-full that he wouldn't be able to bring it out again. Do you know what he'd do then?'

'Frodo...!' Merry said.

'He'd weep from frustration, and howl,' Frodo said, 'when all he had to do to solve the problem would be to let go the handful, and take only a few sweetmeats at a time from the jar. You would not believe how difficult it can be to convince a young hobbit to open his fist, let the sweetmeats fall and free his trapped hand from the jar.'

'Well I never!' Ioreth said, sitting down upon the bed. 'I find it hard to credit.'

'O yes,' Frodo said wisely. 'Why, I have an example that is even better...'

'Frodo!' Merry said again, more flustered than before.

Pippin had picked up his fork and was absently eating his lovely eggs scrambled with cream, listening with interest to the conversation.

Frodo smiled and said, 'O yes, young hobbits have to be trained to generosity; if not they'll grow up greedy and grasping as any Dwarf...'

'I'm going to tell Gimli what you said about him...' Merry threatened.

'And sometimes if their parents are tardy in their training, a young hobbit can be difficult, indeed...' Frodo went on.

Chapter the Third: A Knight to Remember
Contributed by Beruthiel
in which Ioreth learns something new about hobbits as Frodo takes a walk down memory lane

Bag End, SR 1391.

"Merry, your cousins are not plotting to get their hands on all your playthings."

"Yes, they are! Have you seen the way they stare at them whenever I play with them? Then they act all loving and sweet and ask if they can play with me."

"Maybe it's you they really want to play with, not just your playthings. You're very good at coming up with diverting things to do, you know."

"That's silly, Frodo. I tell them to keep their grubby hands off my things, and they run to the grownups and cry and make trouble for me. And the grownups always believe them! It's disgusting."

"Well, that isn't very nice of you, Merry."

"They're the ones who aren't nice, trying to steal my playthings! I'm just protecting them. The little thieves are so obvious, the way they stare at my things when I play with them."

"Maybe if you didn't boast about what fine-and-fancy playthings you have, and shared them now and then, the other children wouldn't stare so much."

"Are you daft? Of course they would. They want my playthings."

Frodo sighed. This was more difficult than he'd expected. He had so been looking forward to this visit of his cousins from Brandy Hall, but this young Merry was not the young cousin he remembered leaving behind when he went to live with Bilbo at Bag End.

"Merry, listen. Just because they like your playthings and enjoy playing with you, doesn't mean they're out to rob you blind."

"Yes, they are. They play with my things when I'm not around to stop them."

"Have you caught them at it?"

"No. They're sneaky."

"Has anyone else seen them?"

"If they have, they never told me."

"Do your playthings look like they've been moved when you come back to them?"

"No. How daft are you? I told you the little villains are sneaky."

"Well, if no one ever sees anyone with your playthings, and the playthings never look disturbed, how do you know anyone's up to no good with them?"

"I just know."

Frodo sighed again. This was not merely difficult; it was impossible.

"Merry, Paladin and Eglantine will be arriving soon, with the lasses and the babe, and you will be expected to play with them nicely. If you don't, your visit could be cut short. Do you understand?"

"I'm not playing with that Pervinca. She's worse than all my Hall cousins put together."

"Nevertheless, you will have to be nice to her, and Nell and Pearl, and little Pippin, and if anyone hears any complaints, all of you will catch it. Understand?"

Merry grumbled.

"And if you all can't get along, I might get in trouble too, for not keeping the peace. Eglantine and Paladin, and your parents, have been looking forward to having some time to themselves. I'm supposed to be in charge of you while Bilbo looks after the adults. You don't want to get me in trouble, do you?"

"No."

"So can you manage to be civil to the lasses, for my sake?"

"Oh, all right. But they're not getting my playthings."

Another long-suffering sigh.

"The way Nell and Vinca giggle together, I know they're up to something. I'm going to have to hide all my things before they get here."

"For the dozenth time, there is no grand plot to pilfer your playthings, Merry!"

But before the words were out of Frodo's mouth, Merry was out of the room and down the hall, rushing to get his precious playthings to safety.

Frodo collapsed into a nearby chair, nearly pulling his hair out in frustration. If folks thought the Tooks were the most stubborn creatures in existence, they ought to try reasoning with this nine-year-old Brandybuck.

The next day...

***

'This is all so boring and tedious,' Merry said. 'Look, Pippin's yawning, and we're keeping him awake.'

'Not at all,' Pippin said, but his voice was raspy and a cough threatened.

'Now then, lad,' Ioreth said, pouring out a dose of sweet syrup. 'You just settle back and listen.'

Frodo smiled at an exasperated Merry and continued.

***

The next day...

Frodo sighed with contentment as he entered Bag End's library, looking forward to a day of peace and quiet. The adults were taking tea with a friend of Bilbo's, Merry and the lasses had found some local children to play with, and Pippin had been recently changed and fed and was now napping. Frodo was required to stay home to mind the babe when he woke, but he found the wee lad delightful when not tired or hungry. In the meantime, Bag End was blissfully silent.

Stepping up to a bookcase, he halted and frowned. The book he had intended to read was missing. Odd, as he had been reading it to Merry only yesterday, and he was sure this was where he had put it.

Reading it to Merry...

"Oh, Merry," he muttered, "will you never come to your senses?"

He left the library and headed for Merry's room, stopping along the way to fetch a candle.

"Merry, Merry, Merry," he said, approaching a panel in his cousin's wall, "I hate to invade your secret hiding place, but honestly, no one is out to steal my book merely because you like it." He carefully pushed the panel inward and swung open the door of the hidden closet Merry thought no one knew about. Holding the candle out before him, he spotted his book leaning against the opposite wall.

Frodo stepped into the closet, letting go of the door. As he reached for his book, a gleam of colour off to the side caught his eye. Turning to investigate, he chuckled. All the playthings and trinkets Merry had brought were carefully stacked in the corner, safe from scheming thieves.

A loud thud sounded directly behind him. Startled, Frodo whirled around and cursed; the panel had swung shut, trapping him inside. He knew it could only be opened from the other side.

"Bollocks," he swore. "There goes my peaceful day." As he stood in the centre of the closet, wondering how long he might be stuck, a loud and displeased shriek erupted from Merry's plaything stack.

Frodo nearly dropped the candle. Suspecting Merry had brought in some kind of animal that didn't want company, he stepped back slowly, straining his eyes to see what he shared the closet with.

Something was moving, struggling to free itself from Merry's cloak. Frodo cautiously held out his candle, hoping for a better look at -

"Pippin?!" he exclaimed. "What in the Shire are you doing in here?"

Crawling out of the twisted cloak, Pippin regarded Frodo briefly, and then began to cry.

Frodo set down the candle and hurried over to comfort the babe.

***

"So, Pippin, here we are, trapped in a secret closet that only we two and Merry know about."

"Meh-mi."

"That's right. Merry. I don't imagine he'll be pleased to find us in his hiding place."

"My."

"How did you get here, anyway? You were supposed to be napping."

"My, my."

"Did one of your sisters put you down somewhere and then forget about you, instead of putting you in the crib?"

"My, my, my!"

"What? You want the cloak? That's Merry's cloak, I'm afraid."

"My!"

"My goodness, you're a squirmy one. Did you crawl in here when Merry wasn't looking? He must have accidentally shut you in. Poor little babe. At least you had the cloak to keep you warm."

"My, my!!"

"Oh, all right, all right, you can have the cloak. But Merry will be angry. There, happy now?"

Wrapped snugly in the cloak, Pippin cooed and sucked his thumb. He was indeed happy.

"Merry won't like you calling his cloak yours. You'd best enjoy it while you can."

"Meh-mi."

"Yes, Merry. The cousin who is surely about to become the most terrifying creature you'll ever encounter. I hope my ears won't burst from all the yelling. He really doesn't like his cousins getting into his things, you know."

Apparently unconcerned, Pippin dozed off.

Frodo's eyelids began to droop. Within minutes, both hobbits were sound asleep.

***

"Frodo!"

Frodo jerked awake to see a small hobbit's silhouette towering over him, its hands on its hips.

"What are you doing in here? I thought I could trust you!"

"Hush, Merry, you're waking Pippin."

"Pippin? Where is he?"

"Right here, I've got him. We both seem to have got trapped."

"Well, it serves you right, coming in here and trying to steal my cousin."

"What?"

"Pippin is mine! I put him here to keep Vinca away. Works better than anything. She never wants to go near him."

"You put him in here?"

"It was only for a while. And I gave him my cloak to keep warm."

"Since when do you like babes?"

"I don't like babes. But Pippin isn't bad. And anyone who can drive off Vinca like he can has to be trustworthy. Unlike another cousin in front of me right now."

In Frodo's arms, Pippin stirred, looking up to see Merry.

"My," he said, reaching his hands up.

"See? He's the one cousin not after my playthings. He just wants me."

Before Frodo could respond, Merry snatched up Pippin and turned to leave.

"There now, Pip, did Frodo barge in and bother you?"

"My!"

Frodo scurried out of the closet before the panel could close again, thinking that perhaps the folks who said living next to the Old Forest could damage the mind were right.

***

'And that's the end of it!' Merry said with relief.

'Perhaps,' Frodo said.

'What do you mean, "perhaps"?' Merry squawked like an outraged hen.

'Hush now!' Ioreth hissed, rising cautiously from the bed.

'Just that,' Frodo said, nodding at a sleeping Pippin. 'I may well have to tell it all over again on the morrow. He missed the best part!'

Part 4: Elendiari's Tale

Chapter the Fourth: Watchman, What of the Knight?

in which the youngest of a series of storytellers commanded by the King performs his duty

contributed by Elendiari22

Bergil opened the door and peeped into the room. A curly head lay at the foot of the big bed, hairy feet resting on the pillow. Pippin was staying abed, Bergil saw, but he was not doing it willingly.

The curly head twisted when the door hinges creaked, and Pippin smiled over at Bergil, coughing slightly. " 'Lo, Bergil," he said, raising himself onto an elbow. "I suppose you've come to keep me in check?"

Bergil grinned. "Yes, sir. Sir Merry asked me to."

Pippin laughed; it turned into a racking cough. The hobbit doubled over, and Bergil hurried to hand him a glass of water. Pippin drank it and settled back against the pillows, right way around, this time.

"Don't ever tell anyone that I admitted this to you, but I don't mind being waited on hand and foot," Pippin said. He tugged the covers up, making himself comfortable. "Do you have a story for me? Every one has been telling me stories today. It's been wonderful!"

Bergil nodded. "I have one, but I don't know if you'll like it. It's rather silly."

Pippin grinned, looking delighted. He settled more firmly into his pillows, taking a smaller one to hug to his chest. He wheezed only slightly, but Bergil took care to fill a mug with water and set it close on hand. Then he sat down in the armchair next to the bed.

"The King said that you might like a story that is native to Gondor," Bergil began. "I asked him if any tale would do, and he said something lighthearted. When I asked him if I could tell you this one, he asked to hear it, and when I was done, he looked like he wanted to hit his head against the wall." He paused, gauging Pippin's reaction. The hobbit looked terribly curious, and Bergil grinned. "Shall I tell it?"

"When you lead it in on such a rope?" Pippin replied. "Yes! I can scarcely wait to see the rest of the beast!"

Bergil nodded. "All right. Well, once upon a time, not so very long ago, there was a captain who came out of the North to Gondor…"

Thorongil was a great captain, whom everybody loved. I never met him, because he was born long before myself, even before my father, but there are songs about him. His name is elvish for ‘Eagle of the Star', because he wore a silver star on his cloak and was very swift. When Lord Denethor's father was Steward, Thorongil came from Rohan to serve him. He thought that the Corsairs of Umbar were a terrible threat to Gondor, and after a lot of badgering (I'm just repeating what I've heard other storytellers say, Sir Pippin!), Thorongil was allowed to take a fleet of ships and go attack the Corsairs, so that they couldn't attack the fiefs to the south.

They came to Umbar by night, and no one saw them because it was so dark. Or so they thought. A small sailing vessel hailed them, and not wanting to begin a fight when they were so far from the Corsair ships still, Thorongil disguised himself and hailed them back.

They were Corsairs themselves! They invited the captain to join them for a party, and because he knew he could get important information out of them, Thorongil and his closest captains went onto the little ship.

There was a party going, and it was very lively. Thorongil kept his men close to him and bade them not drink the home brew of the Corsairs.

‘We are travelers, much like yourselves,' Thorongil told the captain of the vessel. ‘We have spent the last few years sailing the coast South to North, but this is the first we have seen of this land. Are you land warriors?'

The corsairs laughed--they were becoming quite drunk, you see--and told him that no, they were pirates. They sailed on big ships and were going to raid Gondor some day. He seemed to be a competent sailor; would he like to join them? Perhaps, Thorongil said, and thank you. Could they tell him who their captain was?

The corsairs all laughed again, and a big man stood up.

‘I am the Captain! All these-here men are under my command!' he said, and all of the corsairs cheered.

Thorongil looked at the man curiously. He was a big man with wild black hair and a black beard. Both had beads woven in, and he wore very colorful clothing. He engaged the captain in conversation for a long time, and when he and his men left, Thorongil was very happy.

When they got back to their ship, Thorongil told them his plan. It was quite wicked! You see, the Captain of the Corsairs was very sup-super... he was afraid of things he couldn't see or touch...

"Superstitious," supplied Pippin.

"Yes, that's the one!" said Bergil. "He was very superstitious."

The Captain believed that a sign would tell him when to fight and when to stay. No one could make him sail his fleet unless the time was right, you see. The sign, he said, would be momentous and terrifying, but he just "knew" it was coming, for an old fortune teller had told him to "watch out". He was waiting, but if it did not come soon, then he would attack the fiefs of Gondor like he was planning to do.

Thorongil's plan was to provide the captain with his sign. They would burn all of the Corsair ships, but they would also need something a little more personal, so that the captain would be frightened enough not to attack when his fleet was built up again.

It was decided that as well as burning all of the Corsair ships, they would dress one of the younger soldiers up as a lass, and pretend that she was a spirit come to tell the Captain not to fight.

They prepared swiftly. The Corsairs were planning to sail to battle the next day, and so Thorongil and his fleet needed to be swift. They dressed the lad up as a girl, and sailed into port. The Captain and his friends had just reached their dock when they attacked! A great number of the fleet set the Corsair ships on fire, and Thorongil and the young soldier hurried to intercept the Captain.

As luck would have it, though, the young soldier fell and sprained his ankle. Thorongil had no choice but to put the lad in a safe place and don the girl's clothes himself! Well, the dress didn't really fit him, so he wore it like a skirt and put the mantle around his shoulders. He wore a big Corsair lady's hat with a veil to hide the fact that he was a man, and went out onto the docks.

The Captain, who was watching the fleet burn in shock and fear, gasped when he saw the young woman come onto the dock, moving as silently as a ghost. There were no girls at this port; it was the last stop before going out to war. He was certain that this was a ghost.

‘Hear me, O Great Captain!' Thorongil said, pitching his voice to make him sound like a girl. ‘The time is not yet ripe to attack Gondor! Go home and do not attack there, for it would be your doom!'

The Captain stared at Thorongil, and suddenly, he cried, "Florella! I knew it was you!"

Thorongil was startled. The Captain was hurrying towards him with his arms open, like he wanted to hug him.

‘I'll go back, darling! Just let me kiss you again!' the Captain cried.

‘No, no! That's not allowed!' Thorongil replied. ‘Go home!'

But the Captain persisted in chasing after Thorongil, thinking he was the spirit of a girl named Florella. Meanwhile, everyone else in Thorongil's fleet had done their job and were waiting outside of the port to go home. Thorongil knew he had to get back to them, and continued to try eluding the Captain. At last, though, the Captain grabbed him by the mantle! Thorongil jerked away, and was forced to pull his sword out. The Captain, seeing that he had been tricked, was furious, and they fought like two wild things. In the end, though, Thorongil was triumphant, and he succeeded in sending the Captain into the sea. I don't think he actually killed him, but I don't know for sure. In any case, Thorongil sheathed his sword, picked up his injured soldier, and hurried back to his ship.

Gondor had triumphed! (But then, Gondor always triumphs. It's Gondor.) The fleet had managed to sack the Corsair port without firing a shot, and they sailed home victorious.

When the men saw Thorongil in a skirt, they tried not to laugh. On the young soldier it had been all right, but Thorongil was their Captain, tall and grim, so he looked very funny. Thorongil went and changed immediately, but someone that very night wrote a song called "Captain Thorongil and the Corsairs".

Captain Thorongil never went back to Gondor. He was supposed to, but he said he had other things he needed to do. Some think he left because he was embarrassed!

Bergil stopped and helped himself to a glass of water. "I don't know if that's the full story," he said. "But that's all of it that I know. My father never let the men tell me the parts that were funniest. Did you like it?"

He looked up at Pippin again and jumped slightly. Pippin was laughing so hard that tears were leaking from his eyes and he was wheezing. Bergil jumped up and handed him a cup of water, patting him awkwardly on the back.

"That was brilliant, Bergil! Thorongil the Pirate! Who would have thought!" gasped Pippin, when he could talk again. He wiped tears from his eyes, coughed a little, and laughed again. "D'you want to know the funniest thing about it all?"

Bergil nodded, curious. "What?"

Pippin looked at him, eyes dancing with mischief. "When I was in Rivendell, I learned what King Elessar's other names were. Thorongil had other names too, among them Elfstar, Strider, and Aragorn...!"

Chapter the Fifth: Never Cross Swords with a Shield Maiden
in which Eowyn does her part
contributed by Bodkin

Pippin felt as if ants were crawling up his back. It reminded him somewhat of the time that he and Merry had over-indulged in some of the Gaffer’s home-brew, liberated cunningly from Frodo’s cellar. But he was sure--fairly sure--that he wasn’t suffering from the effects of too much drink. And he was almost sure that he wasn’t trying to sleep in an ants’ nest: not this time, anyway.

He persuaded his overly heavy eyelids to lift a crack. There was no point drawing attention to himself just yet.

Even so, the blue eyes fixed unrelentingly on his face made him gasp.

‘You are awake,’ Éowyn stated, her voice stern. ‘Good. I was told to make sure you had some of this as soon as you woke.’

Pippin closed his eyes again and gave a gentle snuffle in the hope that he might convince the shield-maiden that he had merely been dreaming.

The chink of a bottle on a glass, together with the strong scent of cloves rather suggested that he had not succeeded, but he thought there was nothing to lose by continuing the attempt. After all, he couldn’t run. Not with his breeches on the other side of the room. He hitched the coverlet a little higher--a flimsy bulwark at best.

Two fingers grasped his nose in a relentless grip, forcing him to open his mouth in order to continue breathing and, with a speed that reminded him of her well-reputed skill on the field of battle, she tipped the noxious mixture into him and pushed his jaw closed.

He swallowed. It was that or choke. ‘That was not fair,’ he protested as soon as she released him.

‘From what I’ve heard, you are as bad as Éomer,’ she told him. ‘I’m not putting up with your nonsense. They can leave me in charge of you if they want,’ she frowned, ‘but you’ll swallow what I tell you to swallow.’

Pippin looked at her warily. For all he knew that Merry admired the White Lady of Rohan, he had to admit that he found her quite alarming. There was something about being confronted with a slight lass, however tall, and knowing that she had slain the Witch King, that made even a Took decide that there was something to be said for caution. He smiled winningly. ‘I wouldn’t dream of being difficult for you,’ he said. ‘Family is fair game, after all.’

A shadow of a smile touched her lips. ‘I suppose so.’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve got anything to eat?’ Pippin asked automatically. ‘I haven’t had any food for hours.’

She raised her eyebrows at him.

‘No, I didn’t think so,’ the young hobbit said sadly. ‘Not that I could eat much anyway.’ He lay still for a couple of minutes before shifting restlessly. ‘Can’t I get up?’ he asked. ‘I’m much better now.’

‘You are as bad as Éomer,’ she snapped. ‘You stay where you are.’

Pippin looked at her speculatively. ‘Tell me about when you had to keep Éomer in bed,’ he said, ‘and I will.’

She had a nice smile, Pippin decided. Perhaps he could see what Faramir saw in her – at least when she wasn’t looking fierce.

‘He had a fever,’ Éowyn said simply. ‘He was just about old enough to ride out with his first éored--he had been looking forward to it for months and boasting about what a great warrior he was going to be--and the day before he was due to leave with Théodred he went down with the speckled pox. He was mortified. Only children get the pox and if there was one thing Éomer didn’t want to be, it was a child.’

‘I can understand that,’ Pippin commented.

Éowyn looked at him thoughtfully. ‘The speckled pox isn’t a particularly dangerous illness,’ she said, ‘but you need to keep warm and out of draughts--and drink plenty of water.’ She poured a glassful and handed it to the hobbit. ‘Éomer, of course, thought the healer’s advice didn’t apply to him--and we were forever finding him trying to get down to the stables. In the end, my uncle decided that, since I had already had the illness, I should sit with him.’ She grinned. ‘Éomer had a hard enough time avoiding me when he was well. With him in his bed and me watching over him, I think Uncle suspected he would have little chance of escape.’

‘Did it work?’ Pippin asked.

‘Oh yes. By the time the spots had faded and he was allowed to begin training again he had quite given up trying to get away from me. He would take any vile potion I offered, too, if only to stop me forcing it down him.’ Éowyn narrowed her eyes at the hobbit. ‘And I am going to make sure that you don’t disobey healer’s orders either.’

Pippin decided that, for once, discretion would be the better part of valour. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ he said.

Chapter the Sixth: Muffled Conversation
in which Frodo remembers what was lost, and cherishes what was saved
contributed by Dreamflower

Pippin stirred drowsily, and opened his eyes. Frodo was sitting quietly next to him, with Pippin’s scarf in his hands, turning it over and over, and studying it.

“Hullo, Pip,” he said, without looking up. “Did you have a good rest?”

“I did.”

Frodo looked at him fondly. “You took very good care of this scarf. I am surprised it survived all that it went through with you.”

Pippin blushed. “I told you I would treasure it forever. And when--when you left us at Amon Hen, well, it rather seemed to me that if I could keep it safe, it would feel as though I were keeping you safe as well. Silly, I suppose.”

“Not at all, Pippin,” Frodo replied huskily, and cleared his throat. He turned away, wiping at his face. "Got a little something in my eye..." he muttered.

“Orcs left it alone--they weren’t to despoil us. And when I came here to the White City, and I swore my service, they gave me livery. I had leave only to wear my Elven cloak with that. So I picked apart the hem, and tucked the scarf inside, and sewed it back up.”

“Very ingenious,” Frodo smiled. No wonder it had stayed safe. Even the Lórien cloaks he and Sam had worn to the Black Land, had, after a good cleaning, looked like new. Those cloaks were seemingly impervious. “I remember when my mother made this for Bilbo. Would you like to hear about it?”

Pippin was surprised. Frodo almost never talked about his parents. “I would very much like that, cousin, if you would not mind it.” He turned on his side and tucked his hands beneath his cheek, making him look very young.

Frodo reached over and tugged the coverlet up over Pippin's shoulder, as he had done countless times before. “I was ten years old. I had always watched my mother doing needlework. To me it was just something mothers did. She had always used a drop spindle for her spinning. But that year---”

“Oh, Bilbo! It’s wonderful!” Primula’s face shone as she ran her hands over the beautiful golden wood of the spinning wheel. Drogo looked up from his new chess set, and watched her, grinning. And Frodo even lost his attention for his beautiful new story-book. For Bilbo’s eighty-eighth birthday, he had come to Buckland to spend a quiet day with his favorite cousin and his family.

Ten-year-old Frodo had given his gifts first: a pretty blue hair ribbon for his mother, a pen wiper for Bilbo, and a small bag of his favorite sweets.

Then Bilbo had presented his gifts. Drogo and Frodo had been pleased enough with theirs, but Primula had been thrilled with hers. She threw her arms around Bilbo, and bussed him soundly upon the cheek.

_________________________________________________

A couple of weeks later, Frodo watched, fascinated, while his mother spun: grey yarn from grey wool which had come from grey sheep in the North Farthing. Primula let Frodo help her wind it into hanks. It was very soft.

“What will you do with this, Mama?” he asked.

“I am going to make a special gift for Uncle Bilbo.”

The grey yarn was soon finished and put aside. Primula then began to spin some ordinary white wool. She spun a good deal of that, for much of it she would dye. Then she put the spinning aside for a while to work on Yule gifts.

__________________________________________________

“What are you doing now, Mama?” asked Frodo, one cold day in Afteryule. He had seen her dye yarn before, but never like this. Instead of a big batch of one color, with a deal of yarn in one large vat, there were four small bowls of different colors. She had several hanks of the white yarn she had spun before Yule.

“The Widow Goodbody told me how to make something she called ’variegated’ yarn. I shall dye different sections of each yarn hank in different colors: wine, russet, golden orange and deep green.” Frodo’s eyes grew wide as she removed one finished hank.

“It looks like autumn!” he exclaimed.

“Yes,” she smiled, “for Uncle Bilbo’s birthday is in the autumn. But I shall give it to him in the spring, for my birthday.”

______________________________________________________

Frodo watched his mother, rocking in her chair, her knitting needles clicking, the length of knitting growing below. “Will it be finished in time, Mama?”

“Yes, dear. It is nearly three more weeks to my birthday. I’ve plenty of time for this and other gifts.”

______________________________________________________

“Is it finished, Mama?” Frodo ran his hands across the softness of it. The checks of variegated yarn against the soft grey looked like autumn leaves against a grey fall sky.

“Almost, Frodo. Would you like to help me finish it?”

“How?”

“I need to put the fringe on. Hold out your hand.”

Frodo did so, and his mother turned his palm sideways, spreading out his small fingers. Then she used them to wrap lengths of the yarn around and around, and then snipping them off. When she had enough, Frodo watched as she used a small hook to draw them through the ends of the scarf and tie them on.

“Now it is finished, my sweet. Do you think Uncle Bilbo will like it?”

__________________________________________________

Primula’s birthday party was held at Brandy Hall. Her parents and her husband had gone all out for it, and it was the first major social event of the spring.

Primula had been very busy. Bilbo’s gift was not the only one of her own creation.

She passed out the packages to her guests, her blue eyes sparkling with pride at their praise for her handiwork. She handed Bilbo his package.

“I hope, Cousin Bilbo, you will see to what good use I put my own gift from you!” she laughed.

Frodo watched curiously as the old hobbit unwrapped the package, as eager as any young lad. “Oh, my dear! It is lovely!” he exclaimed. His eyes shone as he drew it forth and felt its softness. In spite of the warm spring night, he threw it about his neck.

Bilbo embraced his cousin and kissed her cheek.

____________________________________________________

Frodo pulled his pipe from his pocket, gave it a rub with his pocket-handkerchief, and looked off into the distance, as if he were seeing something far away and long ago.

“I remember she made Grandfather Gorbadoc and Papa beautifully embroidered waistcoats. And she had stitched a family tree in wool on linen for Grandmother.”

“I remember that.” Pippin murmured. “It hangs in the dining room at Brandy Hall. I didn’t know your mother made it, though.”

Frodo nodded. “But my own gift from her was also a scarf, of that same lovely soft grey, with stripes in it of shades of blue. I had never seen her working on it at all. I lost it the following winter.” Frodo tamped pipe-weed into his pipe and stuck the stem in his mouth, though he didn't light the pipe, merely sucked thoughtfully on the stem, his look faraway.

“None of us knew that those would be our last birthday gifts from her. She and Papa were gone before her next birthday. Bilbo loved that scarf, and wore it for years, before giving it to me about a year before he left. But I put it away. I could not bear to wear it.”

Pippin caught Frodo’s hand with both his own. “And then you gave it to me because you thought you were leaving me behind and would never see me anymore.” His green eyes filled with tears. “Frodo, perhaps--”

“No, Pippin. I do not wish to have it back. I meant for you to have it.”

“Oh, Frodo! I’m so glad we’re all together again.”

Frodo smiled gently, and put the scarf in Pippin’s hand. “So am I, dear cousin. So am I."

Chapter the Seventh: Shining Knight
in which Gimli reveals a sparkling secret
contributed by Pearl Took

Gimli’s Tale

He looked at the small person laying tucked up in the bed and sighed, glad, as was his wont, for how little the expression on his face showed. Now that the warring was over, Gimli no longer wore his heaviest boots nor his clanking mail so the ill hobbit in the bed had not heard him approach the door. The bed held the hobbit, a chessboard with scattered pieces, two books, a lute and what oddly enough appeared to be knitting needles and yarn. The hobbit faced straight off the foot of the bed, not to his right where the doorway was. He wore a scowl on his youthful face while his arms were defiantly crossed over his chest. A mere fifteen minutes ago he had been caught attempting to raid the house’s kitchen when, he knew, he was supposed to remain in his sickbed. The wee scowling face was pale, the lad’s breath wheezed, but what had brought the Dwarf up short was a small hair-topped foot sticking out from under the blankets. It hadn’t been long ago that self-same hobbit’s wee foot had been all Gimli had been able to see of the youngest hobbit . . . and the sight had saved the lad’s life. Gimli sighed, shook off the memory and entered the bed chamber.

The movement caught the corner of Pippin’s vision. “Not interested (cough). You can just (wheeze) turn right about and walk back (wheeze) out of here (a fit of several deep coughs). I’m no’ in the mood (wheeze) to be minded to (cough) by another nursemaid.”

“Good, as I’m no nurse, and definitely not a maid.”

Pippin made no answer, however, Gimli had seen the slight upward twitch at the corners of the hobbit’s lips. The young knight had nearly smiled despite himself.

“Fine, fine then, lad,” the dwarf said as he turned away. (Coughing and a few straining breaths came from the bed.) “I’ll take myself and my story elsewhere. Must be someone around here with the courtesy to accept the offer of a good tale.”

“Gim . . .” a fit of coughing interrupted and caused the Dwarf to hurry to the small one’s side. Gimli sat Pippin forward then whacked him firmly on the back. The thumping continued until he could hear that the coughing was finally clearing some of the congestion from the lad’s lungs. He handed Pippin a handkerchief in which to spit then eased the hobbit back onto the pillows before tossing the soiled cloth into the wash basket.

“A good tale?” Pippin raspily asked.

“Aye. Well, one I liked to hear my father tell when I was a lad. Now I put my thoughts to it, it may not be to the liking of a hobbit lad.”

“I’ve always liked Dwarves.” Pippin smiled up at his friend. “I learned a lot about them from Bilbo, you know.” He wheezed at each of the frequent breaths he took, quite different from his usual rapid speech. “Always liked their names, almost like singing a song; Kili and Fili. Dori, Nori and Ori. Bifur, Bofur and Bombur. Oin and your father Gloin. Thorin and Dwalin and . . .” Pippin’s breath caught but not from his illness. He hastily glanced at Gimli before lowering his eyes.

A hand, more gentle than one might expect, rested on the hobbit’s shoulder. “Aye, and Balin. No need to not name him, young hobbit, as he belongs in your list. All that happened to our Fellowship in Moria turned to the good, in the end.” Gimli sighed as he sat on the edge of the hobbit-height bed, sitting so he faced Pippin. “The battle won at the Lonely Mountain raised his hopes too high, m’lad. The time wasn’t come for what he tried. Might work now with all our lot has done.” He smiled at his friend. “Thanks to us even the Balrog is gone. Maybe someday Khazad-Dum will ring once more with the music of Dwarvish hammers.” The Dwarf stared off toward where the Misty Mountains lay, saying nothing for a few moments before giving himself a small shake. “Well, young Peregrin, are you wanting a tale after all?”

“Yes, Gimli. I’m sorry I was so rude.” Pippin’s pale face reddened a bit. “It just is hard to stay abed. I’ve had the wheezes and coughs a good many times in my life and I rather know when they are trying to do me in and when they are just wanting to hang about being a bother. This lot is much more the bothering kind, which makes it so much harder to stay in bed.” Pippin’s speech was still very much interrupted by the afore mentioned wheezes and coughs, which obviously was another annoyance to the young knight.

“Very well then, Peregrin. You shall have the tale in full.” Gimli cleared his throat and began.

~~~~~~~~~~

Mahal, whom the Elves call Aule, did make us. His heart yearned strongly for hearts to fill with his love of craft. His mind yearned strongly to nurture in other minds imagination and the creating of designs. His hands yearned to show other hands the skills of bringing forth beauty from the bones of Ea. His yearning drove him to making, and in making he went against the One who made all. Iluvatar showed mercy, both to Mahal and to those born of his yearning. The one who made us and loved us was not ordered to destroy us but we slept so that the First Born would have their place.

At last, the time was granted for our awakening. The Seven Fathers of the Dwarves went forth upon the earth finding those places where our gifts could best grow. And we did grow. In number and skill and wealth we grew. The First Born valued the work of our minds and hands, yet they did not value us.

Durin walked beneath the sun and to him appeared the one whose craft had formed him.

“You are downcast, my son. What cause is there for this? Great strength is in your body. Great imagination is in your mind. Great skill is in your hands. Great love of craft and beauty is in your heart.”

Durin boldly spoke to him who loves us. “They who came before us do look upon us with disdain. They greatly desire the work of our minds and hands, the gifts you have given to us, your children, the lessons you have taught. But they say there is not beauty in us. They say we are like the earth and stone with which you formed us; plain, without comeliness in form and feature.”

Mahal brought to the eye of Durin’s mind granite as it is found, then how it looks when worked by our hands. Marble, slate, sandstone and soapstone. All plain to behold without our touch. The ores before they are smelted and worked lying useless, these Durin beheld. Then he saw the ornaments, tools and weapons, beautiful and functional, that those ores become because of our craft. Gems, both common and rare, looking like so many pebbles to be trod upon until touched by the gem-cutter’s skills.

Finally, before Durin there lay a stone, large and rounded, rough and plain to the eye. In his hands there appeared a hammer and chisel.

“My son, find the line that will spit the stone.”

Durin looked upon the stone until he knew he had found its fault.

“Use your tools, my child, and split the stone.”

Durin positioned the chisel into the fissure, he struck a mighty blow.

Durin was blinded by the light of a thousand rainbows shining out from the crystals within the stone. To his knees he fell. His heart clutched within his chest. Tears filled his eyes for the beauty he beheld.

“My children indeed are like those things from which I formed them. My children have the strength of the earth itself, the strength of the foundations upon which Ea is built, the strength of the mountains that rise into the heavens. Such rock is often unpleasing to the eye. But know this, my son, there is beauty within, for only where there is beauty can more beauty be born. It is born in your hearts, envisioned in your minds, brought to life by your hands. Behold this stone. They are all around, both great and small, hiding within them their beauty. You shall call them thus, you shall call them Beauty Stones. They are yours, ever to remind you of how I, Mahal, Aule, Your Maker, know you to be. As you are to know yourselves to be.”

Durin blessed our Maker and he took with him the pieces of the Beauty Stone and they were seven in number and one piece was gifted to each of the Fathers of the Dwarves.

~~~~~~~~~~

Gimli placed a round stone, the size of the hobbit’s fist, in Pippin’s lap.

“Is it (wheeze) a Beauty Stone?” Pippin asked as he picked it up.

Gimli chuckled. “Well, that is the question isn’t it, young hobbit. The only way to know is to crack it open.” The Dwarf placed a pillow on the stone floor of the bedchamber then held Pippin’s dressing gown out for the lad to put on. “Set yourself on the pillow, lad, so’s not to get a chill.”

Pippin wrapped himself up then sat down, tucking his feet under himself so they were off of the floor. With a grunt, Gimli sat opposite him. He placed the stone on the floor just so, then covered it with a cloth that had a slit cut into it, then he handed a small hammer and chisel to Pippin.

“Are you able to see the bit of a groove cut into the stone, young hobbit?”

“Yes.”

“The cloth is there to keep slivers and shards from flying all over. Now, place the edge of the chisel in that wee groove and give it a good solid whack with the hammer.”

The tip of Pippin’s tongue snuck out between his lips as he concentrated on placing the chisel just right, holding it steadily in place, then delivering the blow. Gimli had found the fault in the stone correctly, the chisel went easily through and the lump beneath the cloth was no longer round. Pippin looked up at Gimli, curiosity brimming in his eyes, the Dwarf gave a slight nod of his head. Pippin pulled the cloth away.

Green crystals, the color of leaves in the spring, glimmered from the three pieces of broken stone: a Beauty Stone. The hobbit carefully picked up each piece, examining them thoroughly; his mouth slightly open, his eyes sparkling like the inside of the pieces resting on his palm.

“It is like most all of us, isn’t it, Gimli? I mean, Strider looked quite disgusting when we first met him and he was really a king inside. Sam is rather plain looking but he’s very wise and you’ll never find a more loyal friend. I don’t think anyone at that council thought Frodo would really make it to the mountain, but they couldn’t see the inside Frodo, they couldn’t see past his being a 'halfling'.” Pippin smiled up at his friend. “The Lady Galadriel saw you though. She spoke kindly and respectfully to you from the very start.”

“Yes, well . . . she’s . . . she’s another matter all-together, young hobbit. There are not many in this old world like her.” It was Gimli’s turn to lower his eyes. Into his field of vision came a small hand with a piece of the Beauty Stone laying on the open palm.

“I want you to have a piece of this, Gimli, so you’ll remember me and that you told me the story. I’ll keep a piece and, if you won’t mind, could you tell Merry the story and I’ll give the other piece to him. It will help us to always remember you, your story, and how special your people are.”

Gimli took the offered bit of stone. “Aye. That will do quite nicely, young hobbit. Quite nicely indeed.” Once more, the Dwarf was glad so little of his face showed. He didn’t want Pippin to see just how deeply those words had touched his heart. “Now, to bed with you before I get into trouble,” he grumbled as he helped his young charge to his feet.

Chapter the Eighth: A Little Knight Music
in which Sam proves once again his storytelling prowess
contributed by rabidsamfan

"Here, now, Mr. Pippin, I've brought you a nice tray of bread and butter, and one of the lasses in the kitchen hunted out a jar of jam as well. 'Twill make a nice bit of luncheon for you." Sam got Pippin and tray arranged and clambered into the chair that Aragorn generally used so as to be at the right height for conversation with the inhabitant of the high bed. He looked like a fauntling in it, his feet dangling. "Would you like a bit of a story to pass the time?"

"Yes, please," Pippin said. "But nothing that makes me laugh too hard or I'll start coughing again and have to stay in bed even longer."

"Well now," Sam said thoughtfully. "That leaves a good many of my best tales out, doesn't it."

"Tell me something true then," Pippin commanded. "Tell me what Gollum was like. Or," he added quickly seeing the shadow in Sam's eyes, "tell me an old story from the Shire. Tell me a story you know by heart."

"An old tale?" Sam's face brightened, and he relaxed, scooting back into the chair so he could lean against the back of it. "Aye, I think I can do that. How about Tom Tarrytoes Seeks His Fortune?" he asked, then shook his head. "No, that one's too silly."

Pippin frowned and sat up straighter. "Which one is that?" he said. There were a lot of Tom Tarrytoes stories, and he'd thought he knew them all. "The one where he climbed to the top of the beanstalk? I've never heard it called that."

"Nay, it's the one where… well, I'd best tell it some other time, and then you'll know," Sam said, smiling.

"I want to hear it now." Pippin crossed his arms and scowled at Sam.

"Tis too silly. I'd have you laughing and coughing, and then who knows what Strider'd have to say."

"Please, Sam. I promise not to laugh too hard."

"Well, all right then." Sam produced a neat roll of knitting from his pocket, straightened it out to work on and began.

Once on a time and twice on a time Tom Tarrytoes lived with his mother in a small smial tucked up by the river. Now he was a good lad and always did as he was bid, but he was simple, and though she loved him dearly, his ma fretted that he'd never make anything of himself. So one day she gets him out of bed and says:

"Tom Tarrytoes brush up your feet
The day is bright, the air is sweet
So wash your face and never shirk
Today's the day you go to work."

"To work?" says he. "But I've no job, Mother."

"Then you must find one," says she, and sends him out the door with a packet of cheese and bread and a nice bit o' pie.

So Tom he goes across the river and down the road and up the road and over the hill till he comes to a large farm. He asked there for work, and the farmer said, "Can ye chop wood?" and Tom says, "Yes, if you'll show me how."

So the farmer leads him to an old oak that had fallen in a storm and chops a bit of branch into firewood. "Like that," he says, "Can ye do it?" And Tom says yes.

So the farmer gives him the axe and goes off to his chores, and Tom begins to chop at that old tree, singing.

"Chop chop chop
and wipe your brow
you can finish the job
now that you know how."

And by sunset do you know he'd done it all? The farmer came back to see if he'd want a bite of supper and there was Tom beside two dozen cords of wood all ready for the stove.

So the farmer, he pulls out a gold coin and gives it to Tom saying:

"Tom Tarrytoes you've done your task
As well as anyone could ask,
Better than some and good as the best,
So take your pay and go to rest."

Tom took the coin and held it in his hand, all puffed up with joy. He ran for home as quick as he could, over the hill and down the road and up the road till he got to the river, but as he was crossing the river he tripped and fell and when he opened his hands to catch himself the gold coin flew out and dropped into the mud. He looked and looked by moonlight and starlight, but he couldn't find it, so he went on home and told his mother what had happened to his pay.

"Why you should have put it in your pocket!" she cried.

"I'll do better next time," he promised, and had his supper and went to bed.

Next morning his mother roused him up before the sparrows:

"Tom Tarrytoes brush up your feet
The day is bright, the air is sweet
So wash your face and never shirk
Today's the day you go to work."

"To work?" says he. "But I've no job, Mother."

"Then you must find one," says she, and sends him out the door with a packet of sandwiches and three apples from the tree.

So Tom he goes across the river and down the road and up the road and over the hill till he comes to the farm. He asks if there's another job for him, and the farmer said, "Can ye milk a cow?" and Tom says, "Yes, if you'll show me how."

So the farmer leads him to a barn with a herd of cows, and bends by the first with a bucket and shows Tom where to put the milk in the cool spring cellar afterwards. "Like that," he says, "Can ye do it?" And Tom says yes.

So the farmer leaves him with the cows and goes off to his chores, and Tom begins to milk, singing.

"Pull pull pull
and wipe your brow
you can finish the job
now that you know how."

Now it so happened that day that the farmer got called away, and as no one else knew that the cows and Tom were in the barn, why there they stayed, and Tom spent the day going round the herd, singing so sweet he got more milk from those cows than they'd ever given before.

And by tea time do you know he'd done it all? The farmer came home and remembered Tom and when he went to look and the cows were sleeping in the barn and the spring cellar was full of cans full of milk and pails full of milk and poor Tom washing out whatever he could find with a hole on top to hold some more.

So the farmer, he tells him he's done enough and he takes one of the pails of milk and gives it to Tom saying:

"Tom Tarrytoes you've done your task
As well as anyone could ask,
Better than some and good as the best,
So take your pay and go to rest."

Tom took the pail by the handle, all puffed up with joy. He ran for home as quick as he could, over the hill and down the road and up the road until he remembered what his ma had told him.

Sam paused and fixed Pippin with a twinkling eye. "Do you remember what she said?"

Pippin blinked and thought… "Why, she said he should put it in his pocket."

"That's right," said Sam.

Well the pail wouldn't fit, no matter how he turned, so Tom held open his pocket with one hand and poured the milk with the other as carefully as he could, though it tickled. And when he was done he ran for home and came in the door crying, "Ma, Ma, I've brought you some…" but when he looked in his pocket there was nothing at all. "Brought me what?" said his ma, and Tom Tarrytoes cried and told his mother what had happened to his pay.

"Why you should have carried it on your head!" she told him.

"I'll do better next time," he promised, and had his supper and went to bed.

The next day she thought to try again, and at dawn she went into his room saying:

"Tom Tarrytoes brush up your feet
The day is bright, the air is sweet
So wash your face and never shirk
Today's the day you go to work."

"To work?" says he. "But I've no job, Mother."

"Then you must find one," says she, and sends him out the door with a packet of sausages wrapped in bread.

So Tom he goes across the river and down the road and up the road and over the hill till he comes to the farm once more. He asks if there is any work, and the farmer says, "Can ye churn butter?" and Tom says, "Yes, if you'll show me how."

So the farmer takes him to the spring cellar and shows him how to pour the cream into the churn and beat the dasher. "Like that," he says, "Can ye do it?" And Tom says yes.

So the farmer gives him the churn and goes off to his chores, and Tom begins to make the butter, singing.

"Churn churn churn
and wipe your brow
you can finish the job
now that you know how."

And by noontime do you know he'd done it all? The farmer came back to see if he'd want a bite of luncheon and there was Tom beside enough butter to last all summer and take some to market besides.

So the farmer, he takes a lump of butter the size of a melon and wraps it up with paper and string and gives it to Tom saying:

"Tom Tarrytoes you've done your task
As well as anyone could ask,
Better than some and good as the best,
So take your pay and go to rest."

Tom took the butter and held it in his hands, all puffed up with joy. He ran for home as quick as he could, over the hill and down the road and had got a good way along before he remembered what his ma had told him.

"Do you remember?" Sam asked.

"To carry it on his head," Pippin said, grinning.

"Aye, that's right."

So Tom set the butter on his head and walked as slow and careful as he could to keep it from tipping off. But the sun was shining and the day was hot and that butter began to melt, trickling down through his hair and behind his ears and down his back and by the time he got home he was a sight to see and there wasn't no call for him to tell his mother what had happened to his pay.

"Why you should have tied it up with string and swung it back and forth to keep it cool!" she said as she scrubbed him clean.

"I'll do better next time," he promised, and had his supper and went to bed.

The morning came and the stars were fading when his mother tapped on his door.

"Tom Tarrytoes brush up your feet
The day is bright, the air is sweet
So wash your face and never shirk
Today's the day you go to work."

"To work?" says he. "But I've no job, Mother."

"Then you must find one," says she, and sends him out the door with a packet of strawberries and bread and some carrots from the garden.

So Tom he goes across the river and down the road and up the road and over the hill till he comes to the farm. He asks if there's any work to be had, and the farmer says, "Can ye shear sheep?" and Tom says, "Yes, if you'll show me how."

So the farmer leads him to the meadow full of sheep and shows him how to use the shears to take the fleece all in one go. "Like that," he says, "Can ye do it?" And Tom says yes.

So the farmer gives him the shears and goes off to his other chores, and Tom begins to shear those sheep, singing.

"Snip snip snip
and wipe your brow
you can finish the job
now that you know how."

And by ten o' the clock do you know he'd done it all? The farmer came back to see if he'd want a bite of second breakfast and there was Tom beside a pile of fleece as high as a haystack.

So the farmer, he takes one of the lambs and ties a bit of string around its neck for a lead and gives it to Tom saying:

"Tom Tarrytoes you've done your task
As well as anyone could ask,
Better than some and good as the best,
So take your pay and go to rest."

Tom took the lead and held it in his hand, all puffed up with joy. He started for home as quick as he could, over the hill and on but that lamb had such short legs it couldn't keep up, and he stopped to think and when he did, he remembered what his ma had said.

"Tie it up with string and swing it back and forth to keep it cool," Pippin chanted happily, bouncing on the bed.

Sam gave him a look and he settled down dutifully, still grinning.

"Aye that's right," said Sam, and went on.

The lamb didn't much like being tied up with string, and it liked being swung back and forth even less. Tom tried dipping it in the river to cool it off, but it weren't no use. By the time he got home the lamb was puling and green and Tom had no choice but to go and ask his mother what had happened to his pay.

She took the lamb and settled it in a basket to mend and scolded Tom. "You should have carried it over your shoulders like a shawl," she told him.

"I'll do better next time," he promised, and had his supper and went to bed.

Twas only the stars awake next day when Tom's ma decided to give him a start with her song.

"Tom Tarrytoes brush up your feet
The day is bright, the air is sweet
So wash your face and never shirk
Today's the day you go to work."

"To work?" says he. "But I've no job, Mother."

"Then you must find one," says she, and sends him out the door with a packet of potato bread and half a dozen hard boiled eggs.

So Tom he goes across the river and down the road and up the road and over the hill till he comes to the farm. He asks for work, and the yawning farmer scratches his head, trying to think of something for the lad to do, "Can ye break a pony to saddle?" says he, and Tom says, "Yes, if you'll show me how."

Now that farmer had a dozen ponies off the moor, and all as wild as hornets, and he didn't have no mind to show Tom what to do on one o' them, so instead he brought his old Dobbin along to the field where the ponies grazed and used his rope and saddle on the gentle old soul. "Like that," he says, dismounting. "Can ye do it?" And Tom says yes.

So the farmer gives him rope and bridle and saddle and goes off to his chores, and Tom begins to work, singing.

"Into the saddle
and wipe your brow
you can finish the job
now that you know how."

But he wasn't done by ten o'clock, nor by lunchtime neither, for those ponies didn't want to be tamed. Still Tom was Tom and he did as he was bid, and by teatime the ponies were tireder than he was and by sunset do you know he'd done it all? The farmer came back to see if he'd want a bite of supper and there was Tom with the ponies nestled up around him and all of them taking a well-earned nap.

So the farmer, he rouses Tom and the prettiest pony and gives it to Tom saying:

"Tom Tarrytoes you've done your task
As well as anyone could ask,
Better than some and good as the best,
So take your pay and go to rest."

Tom climbed aboard that pony and started for home, all puffed up with joy. But he hadn't gone too far before the pony got tired and he climbed back down and wondered what he should do. And then he remembered what his Ma had told him.

"Carry it on your shoulders!" crowed Pippin. "Oh, no!" He clapped his hands together with delight, and chortled until he began to cough and then had to settle down and have a drink of tea before Sam would go on.

Sam wasn't sure he was doing the right thing, but the story was nearly done, and Pippin begged and promised to behave, so when the lad was settled once more he picked up his tale.

Now Tom was strong but the day had been long, and when he got under the pony's belly and pushed up he could only take a step or two before he had to put it down again. All night he went, a step at a time, over the hill and up the road, all the next day he went as well, down the road and to the river, and it was evening of the next day when his ma, who'd been worrying about him so, looked out the door and saw him carrying that pony across the river.

She ran to meet him and as he'd taken no harm she saw the funny side of it all, and gave him a hug and a kiss and boxed his ears because she'd promised herself she would. And when she'd got him up to the smial and the pony in the stable, she fixed him a bite of supper and told him this:

"Tom Tarrytoes do as you're told
And if you are not paid in gold
Ask the one who gives you pay
How to bring it home that day."

"I will," promised Tom, and do you know? He always did.

And Tom and his mother lived happily...

"to the end of their days," said Pippin, joining in the familiar phrase. He yawned and scooted down into the blankets, his eyes fluttering closed above his smile. "Thank you, Sam."

"You're welcome," said Sam, and tucked up the covers and went off to find his luncheon.

Chapter the Ninth: Turnabout is Fair Play
in which Pippin tells a story of his own
contributed by ansothehobbit

'I am so very tired of being cared for and cosseted and told I must stay in the bed until further notice!' Pippin grumbled. 'I'm well! I'm well! I'm--' This series of hopeful sentiments was interrupted by a cough, that invited another and yet another, eventually a whole host to take up residence, until the young hobbit was bent double and turning blue in his effort to breathe.

Faramir, his visitor of the moment, slapped the hobbit's back and tendered sips of water, to no avail. Cursing under his breath, he allowed the onrushing healers to thrust him aside, watching helplessly as they battled the onslaught of coughing.

At last it was under control, and Pippin was eased back against the freshly-fluffed cushions, sipping at the tumbler of sweet syrup concocted to fight tickles in the throat.

'I swallowed wrong, that's all it was,' he protested in between wheezes, his voice raspy from the battle. 'Just swallowed wrong...'

'Of course, that's all it was,' Faramir defended his young guardsman stoutly, waving the healers out of the room. 'He's fine, now, and he has a goodly supply of sirop, and he will endeavour not to make the same mistake, but to swallow carefully...' He eyed the young hobbit, adding under his breath, '...though how such a folk, who spend a great deal of their time eating, should ever experience such trouble, evades me.'

Pippin laughed, nearly choking, but quickly controlled himself, repeating his original sentiment. 'I'm so very weary...'

'Then lie yourself down,' old Ioreth said, 'poor lamb, so very weary, and no doubt the Captain is tiring you with tales of battle and bloodletting...'

Faramir was ready to protest, but he never could get a word in when old Ioreth was well started. Dealing with the old woman always made him feel much younger than his age, made him want to roll his eyes, but that would be beneath his dignity, of course. All he could do was hold onto his temper and hope for an interruption.

Just then Merry skidded into the room, eyes wide with alarm. 'They told me...' he panted, 'you...' Frodo was not far behind him, Sam trailing in on his master's heels.

Pippin glared. 'I'm...' he said, putting space between each word to give them weight, 'fine...'

'You don't look fine,' Merry said worriedly, putting a hand to his young cousin's forehead, only to have Pippin strike it away.

'I don't need to be taken care of!' he said through gritted teeth.

'Of course you don't, cousin,' Frodo said, sympathy plain in his eyes. He knew all too well what it was to have people hovering over him, counting his every breath, urging food and tonics on him, following him about and never giving him any peace.

'Is there anything I can do for you, Master Pippin?' Sam said.

'Yes!' Pippin nearly shouted, hoarse though his voice was.

'What is it?' Sam said, starting forward in his eagerness to serve.

'You may fall ill and let yourself be badgered for a change,' Pippin said. Faramir suppressed a chuckle.

'Now, Pippin,' Merry said sternly. 'You've given us no end of trouble, when all we want is for you to rest and recover...'

'As if you're the patientest patient there is to be found in all of Middle-earth!' Pippin said.

'I--' Merry began, but Pippin turned to his Captain.

'Honestly, you ought to see how he carries on...'

'He seemed remarkably well-behaved after the battle of the Pelennor,' Faramir said, sitting down once more in the chair beside the bed, now that it seemed the crisis was over.

'Hah!' Pippin said. 'He was not himself!'

Merry was about to contradict, but a glare from his younger cousin silenced him.

Taking a sip of the soothing syrup, Pippin swallowed and cleared his throat. 'You ought to have seen him in Rivendell, for example,' he said. 'Trying to give the impression that nothing was at all the matter with him, as if he always wakens blinking like an owl in the light of dawn...'

'Too much to drink?' Faramir said with interest. He'd been frankly amazed at the Halflings' capacity for food and drink.

'Not half!' Pippin said. 'He'd've been better off, for a few glasses of wine, I warrant, instead of worrying through the nights and days when there was nothing more worth worrying over...'

Faramir settled himself more comfortably. It seemed as if Pippin were about to take his own turn at storytelling.

“Merry, wake up!” Pippin said, shaking Merry's shoulder eagerly. It was one of those extraordinarily beautiful days in Rivendell – where the sun made the leaves shine like gold and copper and the air was crisp and clean and all you wanted was to run out into the beauty of it all. That was what Pippin wanted now and he wanted Merry with him.

They'd all been too anxious for Frodo to manage much more than to watch and to hope since they arrived, but now Lord Elrond had said he would be all right! Pippin thought it felt like the whole of Rivendell breathed a loud and long sigh of relief. That is, all except Merry. Merry'd been worrying more than usual, and was working himself into quite a state. Pippin had tried all the tricks he knew but whatever he did, Merry just brushed them away. Mock anger, teasing, jokes and downright childish attempts to make his Merry smile and laugh and stop worrying: Nothing seemed to work. He talked to Gandalf and Strider, and Sam and Bilbo, but whatever anyone did, the effects of it didn't last long, if it worked at all. Bilbo was the one who seemed to manage best but when their old, beloved relative took a nap or wrote in his book Merry started to worry again.

Pippin wanted to talk to Frodo and had decided upon doing it this very day if Merry didn't stop worrying. It was a wonder Frodo hadn't commented upon it already, knowing Merry as well as he did.

“Merry! Get up! It's a beautiful day and I know the cooks are making pancakes and they have apple syrup and mushrooms and freshly baked bread just waiting for us. Merry?”

Merry tried to make believe he was still asleep but Pippin's chattering felt like a whole group of people shouting inside his head. As soon as he opened his eyes the sun stabbed him mercilessly. He moaned and covered his head with the blankets. For a moment he tried to think back, to see if he could remember having drunk too deeply of the dwarven ale Gimli had introduced them to, or perhaps the fine elven wine, but however much he tried to believe it, no memory of such activity surfaced. Pippin was talking about breakfast now and as much as Merry loved pancakes and apple syrup the thought of it made his stomach churn. He hastily curled up into as tight a ball as he could manage, hugging his middle. Those movements made his head start to throb in earnest, though, and he moaned again.

Waiting for Merry to come awake, Pippin padded about their room, doing his morning ablutions and thought about that day's plan, not hearing Merry moan or seeing him curl up tight. He knew Merry needed his time to wake and didn't rush him. Merry would be a much happier cousin to have around if he could wake in his own time. That didn't prevent Pippin from pressing just a little though. When Merry didn't wake as fast as he usually did, Pippin walked over to the bed again and looked down at him.

Merry lay still for a moment or two, trying to keep Pippin's chatter out of his mind while he assessed his situation. The problem was that his head was hurting so much, he couldn't think. He could only remember having had such a horrid headache once before, and that one had lasted for a week. It had been around the time he came of age and started to feel the responsibility of being the son of the Master of Buckland weigh more heavily on his shoulders. His parents had warned him then to watch for the signs of too much worry, but it didn't look like he'd managed that now, now did it?

Merry turned over on his back. The acute nausea was reduced to a slight feeling of sickness now. He experimentally opened his eyes to see Pippin looking worriedly, even anxiously back at him. The younger cousin had stopped talking now and was just watching Merry wake up.

“Are you all right?” Pippin asked as soon as Merry's eyes opened.

Merry nodded, but immediately regretted it. He clenched his eyes shut and put his hands over them, trying to rub the sleep and headache away. “It's just a little headache,” Merry answered. There was no need to make Pippin start worrying over him too; they'd had enough with Frodo.

“Don't even bother, Merry,” Pippin said, perturbed, and gently but persistently pulled Merry's hands away to get a closer look at him. Merry was pale, and from his squinting, the light was evidently hurting his eyes. “By the looks of things, your head hurts a whole lot. Am I right?”

“How…?” Merry managed, surprised. Pippin had seen him indisposed of course, but nothing as bad as this.

“I've three sisters and a mother, Merry; they get bad headaches once a month. It's something they have from the Bankses.”

Merry just gaped in surprise. He tended to forget that Pippin knew more about the world than he sometimes let on. He hastily shut his mouth. Growing up in a smial full of lasses certainly gave you a different perspective on life!

Pippin didn't give Merry time to answer. “How bad is it? Do you feel up to eating something?”

Merry started to shake his head, then remembered himself just in time. “No. But I could do with some tea.”

“All right,” Pippin said, but in that moment there was a knock on the door and two elves came in with trays laden with pancakes and bread and mushrooms and all good things a hobbit could want for breakfast – the cooks quickly having learned that a bit of bread and fruit and water doesn't make a hobbit happy if it was considered to be a proper meal. Seeing Merry still in his nightshirt and in bed one of them stopped briefly in the doorway. He looked out on the sunny morning, then back at Merry, and arched an eyebrow in query, but didn't say anything.

Pippin was occupied with the food and didn't notice, but Merry did. He held the elf's gaze, forcing a smile as he slowly sat up and slid down the side of the bed, feeling for the floor with his feet. The door shut behind the elves, and Merry moved to the washstand. He managed to pour water into the basin and dip a cloth in the cool water before Pippin managed to tear his attention away from breakfast and the tea he was pouring for Merry.

“What do you think you are doing?” Pippin said, immediately hurrying to Merry's side and taking the cloth from him.

“Getting up, of course,” Merry said, taking the cloth back and starting to wash his face, letting the cool wet fabric rest over his eyes for a moment. “What did you think?”

“Merry,” Pippin said in his sternest voice, hands on his hips and his mouth in a thin line. “If I'm reading you correctly, with this kind of headache all you want to do is curl up in bed in a quiet, cool room and not be disturbed by anything. Am I right?” Again Pippin took the cloth from Merry.

Merry paused in pulling the nightshirt over his head and pulled his head back into it. “Yes. But what I want and what I can are two different things. Although Lord Elrond said Frodo will be well, he did also say that Frodo would need quite a bit of time to recover. It might be weeks before he'd be well enough to take a proper walk or do anything that could remotely look like exercise. And if there's something all the Big Folk say we need before we set out on this journey, it's exercise!” Merry winced as he stopped speaking. He'd been too loud for his own ears.

“Yes. And what are you thinking of doing? Did you plan to exercise for him?”

“Pippin…” Merry started to protest.

“No, Merry. Listen to me. You can't do that. You can't hold off a whole army of orcs or evil men or protect Frodo all by yourself. Why, it's not even certain that Lord Elrond will let us go!” Pippin paused as Merry winced again. “Enough of that,” Pippin said in a softer voice, seeing Merry's face turn even paler. “Let's get you back to bed, Merry.” Silently and gently he manoeuvred Merry's arms back into the nightshirt and led him back to the bed, and as Merry climbed up, Pippin gave him a boost to propel him into the bed. He fluffed the pillows and with a hand to Merry's chest leaned him back against them.

Merry wanted to protest but involuntarily sighed in relief as his body rested against the pillows. A heartbeat later Pippin was there with a cup of tea. “Drink this now,” Pippin whispered. “Do you mind if I eat something? I'm awfully hungry, Merry.” As Pippin knew, with this kind of headache the mere smell of food could make one sick. He didn't want to make things worse than they were.

“No. You eat something, Pippin.”

Pippin had barely managed to start on his second helping of breakfast before Bilbo and Aragorn entered. Merry had slid down in the bed as soon as he'd finished his tea and was lying with a blanket over his head to keep out the light. He would've asked Pippin to draw the curtains if he had the energy. Perhaps Pippin could light a single candle, placed just so that he didn't see the source of light but still could make use of it if he needed.

“Good morning, Pippin,” Aragorn said as he entered. “Where's Merry?”

“Oh, he's here.” Pippin peeled the blanket away to reveal Merry's head.

Merry clenched his eyes shut again as the blanket came off and turned so his head was buried in the pillow. He heard soft footsteps come closer and soon Bilbo's familiar hand was stroking through his curls before softly calling his name. “Merry? Are you awake?”

“Yes.” Merry turned and sat up.

Seeing the hobbit sit up, Aragorn came over to the bed and stood behind Bilbo. “Then why are you still in bed? This isn't like you, Merry,” the old hobbit said. “We were waiting for you and Pippin in Frodo's room but when none of you showed up we started to worry. Is everything all right?”

Merry opened his mouth to answer but Aragorn beat him to it. “I think not. One of the elves who was here to deliver breakfast told me that he didn't know that the Periain were so slow in rising. He mentioned that one of them looked unwell.” Aragorn kept his gaze on Merry as he said this.

“It's true,” Pippin said. He'd stopped eating as soon as the others came in, but now he absently picked up his fork. “Merry has a headache, and a bad one at that, but he won't admit it.”

“Pippin!” Merry's protest came out as a whimper. Bother! He didn't need this.

Pippin quickly abandoned his food and reached out to gather Merry in a soft hug. “Sssh, Merry.” Holding Merry close and laying his head to rest on his shoulder, Pippin looked fearfully from Bilbo to Aragorn.

“Help me up!” Bilbo urged and Aragorn lifted the old hobbit up to sit on Merry's bed. Both lads looked exhausted, something Bilbo didn't find strange at all after everything that had happened. Pippin drew Merry closer to make room for Bilbo on Merry's other side. Bilbo crawled up to the head board, and leaned back against the pillows Aragorn fluffed. Finding a good position to sit, he gently took Merry from Pippin's protecting embrace and leaned him against himself. “Can you manage to scoot down a little, Merry-lad?”

When Merry was positioned just so, Bilbo turned to Aragorn. “Close the curtains and light a candle, but put it out of Merry's line of sight.” Bilbo gestured to a table on the far side of the bed. Pippin, by his position, would shield Merry's eyes from the candle flame. Before Aragorn could ply Merry with some herbal tea that likely would make the lad throw it up for the foul taste, Bilbo decided to try something else. He reached out to ruffle Pippin's curls before starting to gently rub Merry's shoulders. “There, there. It will be all better soon.”

Merry's only answer was a low moan as Bilbo's fingers found muscles he didn't really knew had been so tense.

“There,” Bilbo said a little while later, patting Merry gently on the shoulder. “All better?”

“A little,” Merry said and sat up. “Thank you.” He started to slide out of the bed again but Aragorn stopped him when Bilbo gave him a meaningful look.

“What are you doing?”

“Getting up, of course,” Merry said, sliding off the bed. “It's a glorious day and Pippin wanted to explore, and I want to see how Frodo is doing.” Merry turned to look at Pippin who looked more scared than eager to go out and enjoy the day.

“Not so fast, young hobbit,” Bilbo said, managing to catch hold of Merry's sleeve. “Come back here.”

Knowing that disobeying his dear old relative was the last thing he'd want, and wanting to make Pippin happy again, Merry willingly climbed back up and sat down between his cousins once more, putting an arm around Pippin and squeezing encouragingly. “It's all right, Pip. I'm better now.” He tried to smile but his head hurt too much to manage a proper one.

Bilbo lifted the blankets and sternly eyed Merry until he crawled under them. With a satisfied smile, Bilbo tucked the blankets nicely in about the younger hobbit. “The massage might have released the tension a little, my lad, but the way you're squinting in this almost-dark tells me that the headache is not at all gone. Am I right?”

“Yes,” Merry said quietly, looking from Pippin to Bilbo to Strider and back to Pippin. Pippin had been awfully quiet since Bilbo and Strider had come in and even in the dim light Merry could see he was fighting to hold back tears, so he reached out again and gathered Pippin in a hug. “Don't worry, Pip. I'll be fine.”

“Don't worry?” Pippin said, pulling out of Merry's embrace and failing to hold back the anger and worry that he had worked up since he discovered that Merry was unwell earlier in the morning. “Don't WORRY? Merry… Oh, you're a fine one to talk!”

Pippin's voice, shrill as it was with anger, felt like piercing needles in Merry's sore head. With his head feeling as if it were about to explode, he wasn't going to try to talk reason with his cousin. He covered his ears and slid down in the bed, hoping that the pillows would muffle Pippin's voice. Merry loved Pippin dearly but when he became too excited with something he forgot that he didn't necessarily have to raise his voice.

“Stop!” Bilbo said. “The both of you. Stop now.”

Merry peered out from under the blankets again and Pippin snapped his mouth shut.

“A lot has been going on since you all arrived and you're both exhausted. We're all tired.”

“I'm sorry, Merry, for yelling at you,” Pippin said, stroking Merry's hair tentatively.

“I'm sorry too, Pippin. I should have known I was starting to worry too much.”

“Yes, you should,” Aragorn said quietly from the foot of the bed, where he still stood. He thought he knew hobbits after travelling with them a month. He'd known Bilbo from the years he'd spent in Rivendell, but shaking his head he found that he still had much to learn about them. Gandalf had once said that you could learn all there is to know about hobbits in a month, but after a hundred years they could still surprise you. Well, these five he'd come to know had surprised him many times over in the short while he'd known them.

Merry sat up. “What do you know about it?” he said, exasperated.

“I've lived among the elves for many years, Merry. And we mortals worry a lot more than is necessary. The elves have at least taught me that. Now I know your head hurts, and seeing how Frodo has responded to the various herbs and tonics given to him, I fear that what I have to offer you is not something you would relish but it would help with the pain. Then I think we shall all leave you to try and sleep. I know that sleep is hard to come by when your head hurts, but try anyway.” Aragorn sat down on the side of the bed and looked at the hobbits. “Are you willing to let me help you, Merry?”

Merry nodded. He had seen for himself how Frodo reacted to the medication he was given, but he'd rather take a foul-tasting tonic than have this horrid headache any longer. The tension was starting to build up again and he was feeling definitely unwell.

“There's a good lad,” Bilbo said, and he patted Merry on the cheek before sliding down of the bed with Aragorn's help. “You do as he says now and I'll go check on Frodo-lad for a while. No doubt he and dear Sam are wondering where everyone is. I'll come back and check on you later. And I'd better find you still abed, Meriadoc, unless I hear that our friend the Dunadan here or Lord Elrond himself has released you. Good-bye, my lads!”

“Yes, Bilbo. Good-bye,” Merry said meekly, and then wearily he lay back against the soothing softness of the pillows.

“Now then,” Aragorn said, “let's see what we can do about this headache. Pippin, would you fetch me a bowl of cool water and a cloth?”

Pippin scrambled off the bed and ran to the washstand, pouring water in the washing bowl and fetched a fresh cloth from the stack on a stool beside it. Aragorn took a little phial from his pocket and poured a few drops of it into the water before stirring with his finger and wringing the cloth out in it. He folded it and placed it over Merry's eyes.

“What is it?” Merry asked, lifting the large cloth a little. The fabric smelled nice and soothing. “It smells of lavender.”

“Yes. It's a mixture made of relaxing herbs and flowers from Rivendell's garden,” Aragorn said. “I was going to take it to Frodo. He too needs to rest after the surgery so that he can heal properly.” Aragorn rose. “I'll go prepare that tonic now. Why don't you finish your breakfast, Pippin? I'll be back shortly.”

“All right.” Pippin had forgotten about his meal and it had gone cold now, but he didn't care. As soon as he put the first forkful into his mouth, his stomach rumbled and he ate hungrily, watching as Merry lay still on the bed.

Merry turned onto his side when Aragorn stood back up. He raised his hand to hold the cloth in place. Lying this way, he faced the covered window with his back to Pippin and the single lit candle. The smells of Pippin's now-cold breakfast still made him nauseous and he curled up further. He couldn't ask Pippin to cover it up and stop eating! A hungry Pippin was not a happy Pippin, and Merry wanted more than anything for his Pippin to be happy. He felt a little ashamed though, over worrying so much that he made himself sick, but he couldn't help it. It had been so close for Frodo and he was still not well…

“Merry. Stop thinking,” Pippin's voice suddenly said from beside him. He'd finished eating then. “You'll only worry yourself worse. Try to sleep.”

Merry turned to lie on his back again and unerringly reached out to take Pippin's hand. “All right. I'll try. Stay with me?”

“Of course, Merry. I won't go anywhere. Why, in this dark I'll probably sleep some myself.” Pippin lay down beside Merry and within a few moments he was asleep.

“My poor Pippin.” Merry tugged on a blanket and covered Pippin up. Now, if he could only manage to fall asleep himself…

*****

But Aragorn returned quickly and kept his eyes on Merry until the hobbit had taken the tonic, stalling his questions about the drink with a raised hand and a quick glance to Pippin's sleeping form.

“It's something to make you rest and take the pain away,” was all he'd say.

When Merry was finished, Aragorn gave him a mug of fresh water and Merry gratefully drank from it, making the foul taste go away sip by sip. At last the water was gone as well, and he lay back. Aragorn tucked him back in and soon Merry also was asleep.

*****

The next time Merry woke up, his head felt better and he immediately sat up. Pippin lay on the bed beside him, watching him wake up.

“How's your head?”

“It's much better now.”

“Good. Because Strider was in just a moment ago to see if you were awake, but since you still slept he went out again, promising to come by later.” Pippin looked searchingly at Merry. Merry'd been sleeping for several hours and it was nearing lunch time. He did look better, though. “Are you hungry?”

Merry thought about that a little. He didn't feel hungry, but he didn't feel nauseous at the thought of food, either, so he nodded, suspecting that he would be able to get something down.

“Good. Because Strider said that if you were able to eat and you felt better he might let you get up to go see Frodo for a bit, but then you would have to go back to bed and rest for the rest of the day.”

Merry pouted a little at that. He did feel better, so why should he go back to bed then? He looked at Pippin, wanting to voice his questions.

“Ah. Don't even think about it,” Pippin said firmly. “Strider said that even if you feel better now, you aren't well yet. The headache can come back with greater force if you don't do as he says.”

Merry nodded slowly. He wasn't sure if he liked this mature, stern Pippin as much as he liked the "old" Pippin. But then, Pippin – all of them – had grown quite a bit during their journey so far. Deep down, he was really happy to see more of this side of Pippin too. It was, after all, inevitable; he had to grow up some time. Better to do it now than later, Merry thought, and smiled before climbing over to Pippin's bed and gathering his cousin in a hug. “Thank you, Pippin-dear, for looking out for me and telling me what's what when I can't see it for myself.”

“Oh. You're very welcome, Merry-mine. You did, after all, teach me all the tricks I could ever want to learn about how to look out for someone.” Pippin hugged Merry back and looked at him closely again. “If you're ready for some food then, I'll go alert the cooks that they have some hungry hobbits to feed and then we'll go see about Frodo. And maybe, if you're good and go back to bed, Bilbo will let you read some of his books. By his leave this time!” Pippin nudged Merry and winked.

“Was he here, too?” Merry said as he climbed down from the bed to wash and dress.

“Yes. And Sam. We've all been worried about you, and no doubt Frodo will have a thing or two to say if he's up to it.”

“I don't doubt it, Pip.” Merry said and laughed heartily, for it was good to be a hobbit in Rivendell, and to have cousins and friends who loved you and looked out for you when you didn't have the wits to do it yourself.

Chapter the Tenth: The Knight Has Been Unruly
in which Gandalf is not so close as he used to be
contributed by Dreamflower

GANDALF’S TALE

Pippin was absolutely awash. He could hear his belly sloshing. Still, it had worked--he had finished his pitcher of water, and now Sam, who was watching him this morning, had gone to fetch more. Pippin had been pretty sure that it would work out that way, as Sam hated to ask servants to do anything. If he hurried, he could make good his escape before Sam returned. The gardener was not nearly so wise to his tricks as were his cousins.

The first order of business, though, was rather urgent. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and stood up. He found himself just a little dizzy, but it soon passed, and then he drew out the chamber pot. It took him rather longer than he expected, but then that had been a lot of water.

He grabbed his breeches from where they hung, neatly folded at the foot of the bed, and tucking his nightshirt into them, made his way to the door. He opened it.

And found himself staring at a familiar set of white robes.

“Gandalf!” he squeaked.

“Peregrin Took! Were you going somewhere?”

“No,” said Pippin dejectedly. He turned and walked back to the bed, shedding his trousers as he walked; and tossing them back to the foot of the bed, he clambered back in and plumped himself down with a sigh.

Gandalf chuckled silently. Secretly he was pleased to see that nothing more than a boring convalescence had at least temporarily banished the sober and responsible Knight of Gondor, and brought a return of the irrepressible tween. It was good to know that Pippin’s youth had not been entirely lost to the experiences of the Quest. Out loud he said “Sam saw me in the corridor, and asked me to look in while he fetched more water.”

“Oh.” Sam must know him better than he thought. Or Frodo and Merry had warned him. Pippin heaved a mighty sigh. “It’s so boring in bed, Gandalf!”

Gandalf came in and sat in the chair by the bed. “Perhaps a tale would help the time pass more quickly. What would you like to hear?”

Pippin brightened immediately. Stories from Gandalf were not offered often. “The evening before we reached Minas Tirith, when the long march from Cormallen was nearly done, after we'd eaten you were telling us about knowing Bilbo when he was young.* I’d love to hear more about that.”

Just then the door opened and Sam came in, bearing a pitcher and three cups. “Mr. Pippin, since you was so good about drinking all your water, I thought mayhap a bit of fruit juice would be good for a change. It’s that orange kind they have down here.”

Pippin blushed. Sam was so kind; he shouldn’t have tried to trick him. “Thank you, Sam. Gandalf’s going to tell us a story about Cousin Bilbo!”

“Really?” Sam grinned, and after setting the tray down and pouring each of them a cup, he climbed up to sit on the bed next to Pippin, just as eager for the story as the young knight.

Gandalf started to take out his pipe and then refrained. Pippin was not to smoke or be smoked around until Aragorn pronounced him well.

“In the days of my friend Gerontius, the Old Took, I was a frequent visitor to the Shire. I always made it a point to be at the Great Smials for the Lithedays, when I would bring fireworks. On the particular occasion I am thinking of, Bilbo was a few years younger than you, Peregrin--perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three…

Bilbo was excited, as he always was, to go and visit his Took relations. There were almost no lads of his own age in Hobbiton, and he still thought lasses rather silly. But in Tookland, there was his cousin Siggy, who was exactly one month older than he, and his very dearest friend. And then there was his older cousin Adelgrim, who in spite of having recently come of age was as full of mischief and ideas as any tween. And yesterday Bilbo’s mother Belladonna had received a note from Aunt Mirabella Brandybuck that she would be there with his Brandybuck cousins. They were all very young, but her oldest, Rory, who was twelve, adored Bilbo, and tagged everywhere after him when they were together. Perhaps if Bilbo had younger brothers, he would have found it annoying, but as it was, he was quite flattered by little Rory’s attentions.

And to top it all off, there would be fireworks and a wizard! A lad couldn’t ask for a better holiday!

“Bilbo!”

“Yes, Papa?”

“Is your travelling case packed? Bring it out to the trap if it is!”

_____________________________

When Bilbo, Belladonna and Bungo Baggins all arrived at the Great Smials, they noticed a good deal of commotion going on in the south garden.

“For goodness’ sake, Bella, what are your relations up to now?” Bungo pretended exasperation, but he was quite fond of his wife’s relatives, though he did not even pretend to understand them.

She gave him a dimpled grin and tossed her chestnut curls. “I’d have no clue, save that my sister Mira seems to be in the thick of it. And is that little Rory? All dripping wet?” The Baggins family pulled up the pony-trap and clambered out, as a stable hobbit came to take charge. Bella walked up to her brother, Hildibrand, who was father to Bilbo’s cousin Siggy. “What’s going on, Hildi?” she asked.

“Oh, the younger lads were playing at ball, and little Mondo Bracegirdle got peeved that his team was losing and kicked the ball right out into the middle of the pond. Our intrepid Brandybuck nephew Rory just dove right in, to the horror of everyone, and swam out after it! Now everyone’s in an uproar--many of those watching were sure he would drown, and some of them seem offended that he didn’t.”

“Oh goodness gracious!” exclaimed Bella. “Everyone knows Brandybucks are half fish. What’s Mira up to?” For she could see her younger sister taking her temper out on someone.

“That’s the Bracegirdle lad’s parents.”

“Ah.”

Bilbo had spotted little Rory, being held closely to his mother’s side. He was wriggling and trying to get away; since she was busy with her tirade and had baby Asphodel in the other arm, he finally managed it. He was dripping wet and grinning. He looked over and saw Bilbo, and took off.

Mira looked at him, and shook her head, and let him go.

“Bilbo!” cried the lad.

Bilbo had just enough time to brace himself before the wet youngster slammed into him. “It’s good to see you Bilbo! Did you see what I did?” he asked proudly.

Bilbo felt consternation at suddenly having his clothing all wet, but he politely ignored the indignity. “No, Rory, I did not. But I heard about it. You were very brave. I should not have dared to do such a thing.”

“Well, of course not. You’re a Baggins; you can’t swim.”

There was no use arguing with such perfect logic, and Bilbo was not even inclined to try. He returned the child’s hug, and then suddenly felt a slap on his back.

“Hullo, cousin!” said Sigismond.

“Siggy!” Bilbo’s happiness was nearly complete. “Where’s Chop?” This was Adalgrim’s nickname. As a small lad, his mother had foolishly insisted on calling him her little “Lambchop”. When he grew older, he would only answer to “Chop”.

“Oh, he’s busy with some boring grown-up stuff. He’ll slip away from it soon, if he can.”

Just then another Took cousin came by. Siggy reached out and snagged him. “Flambard, have you seen Chop?”

“He’s with Grandfather, greeting the wizard,” said Flambard, and shrugged off. He was not in Bilbo’s little circle of friends. His mother was a Sackville and he took after her side of the family.

But all three of the cousins looked at one another in glee. “Gandalf’s here!” they exclaimed.

Just then Mirabella, finished with her lecture to the Bracegirdle lad’s mother, came by to get Rory. “Come along, Rorimac. We need to get you into some dry clothes. You can find Bilbo and Siggy again later.”

Bungo looked over at his son. “I think you need to go change as well, son.”

Bilbo looked down at his breeches. They were all wet round the knees, and soiled with mud and pond weed. “Yes, Papa,” he said. He went to get his case from the trap, and Siggy came along with him.

_________________________________________

Later that evening in the main dining hall, Bilbo sat with Siggy, and with Rory and little Faro Boffin, who was Rory’s age, and was the son of his Aunt Donnamira, at the children’s and tween’s table. They were eating with a good deal of concentration and very little talk, for even with young hobbits, food is a serious business.

“I wish I had more of those lovely roasted potatoes,” said Rory longingly, casting an envious look at Bilbo’s plate, for Bilbo had not finished his yet.

“I am fond of you, Rory, but not that fond,” said Bilbo, stabbing one of the little potatoes and conveying it to his mouth.

Just then Bilbo felt a slap on his back. He turned and grinned. “Chop! It’s good to see you!”

“Hullo, lads,” said Adalgrim with a wide and mischievous grin. “I’ve found better provender than this, to be had with little enough effort. Come along! You, too, Rory and Faro. Your small size will come in handy--”

A short time later, they found themselves ensconced in an out-of-the way cellar, the possessors of several pies and pastries of both the sweet and savory variety, not to mention a jug of ale, and another of sweet cider.

“Chop,” said Bilbo admiringly, “how did you know that it would be so easy to raid the larder when the kitchen is so busy?”

“Easy enough, lad; when the kitchen staff are so occupied with serving the meal, they’ve no time to keep watch. Also, who would imagine anyone making a raid while supper is being served?”

“Chop, you are brilliant!” said Siggy.

“I know,” was the smug reply. “I’ve another idea as well. You know that tomorrow night are the fireworks?”

“Oh yes!” said Bilbo enthusiastically. Gandalf’s fireworks were something he looked forward to immensely.

“Well, why should the Wizard be the only one to have the fun of setting them off?”

The younger lads all gaped at Chop, in stunned admiration. Was there no one so daring as he? Bilbo hoped he might someday be like Chop, and not ever get all boring, the way most hobbits did when they came of age.

_____________________________________________

The fireworks were bursting overhead in showers of brilliant color. As Gandalf returned to his cart, he fetched several out, and then went back to where he was setting them off. As the Wizard darted off chuckling, Chop hissed “Now!”

The five lads emerged from behind the tent where they had been hiding.

Chop kept watch. They boosted Rory and Faro into the cart, and the lads emerged with a number of smaller fireworks. Then Bilbo and Siggy clambered up.

“Look at this,” hissed Siggy. He held up a rather large rocket.

“No,” said Chop, “the big one!”

Bilbo grabbed one: perfectly huge. He held it up.

“Yes, that’s the one! Hurry up, someone’s coming!”

They scuttled into the tent. Chop kept look out the door. Rory and Faro were gloating over their small haul.

“Here,” said Bilbo, handing the large firework to Siggy.

Siggy grabbed it. “Let’s light it now!” he giggled, and without further ado, pulled out his striker.

Bilbo had turned to say something to Chop, but at the hiss of the fuse, he turned back, horrified. “You’re supposed to stick it in the ground!” he exclaimed.

Siggy had done so. “It is in the ground!”

“Outside!” cried Chop. He rushed over, but it was too late--the rocket rose up with a whoosh! taking the tent with it, and shooting into the air, where it exploded into a brilliant shower of color, forming a huge tree that seemed to cover the whole sky, in a burst of loud explosions.

The young hobbits stared, transfixed, for just a moment. They had done that!

“Let’s get another,” said Chop, when suddenly they were cut off by a booming voice.

“Adalgrim Took! Sigismond Took! And Bilbo Baggins, of all people!”

Gandalf loomed over them, a squirming Rory and Faro in either huge hand. Their Grandfather Gerontius stood behind him, his eyebrows drawn alarmingly together, and a scowl to end all scowls on his face.

“Uh-oh” said Chop.

_____________________________________________

“Gerontius was only too pleased to allow me to set the older lads a punishment. Little Faro and Rorimac were turned over to their mothers. I set the other three to washing dishes--of which, by the way, there were hundreds. The three of them were covered in soot and smoke, and were a sight to behold, I tell you.”

Sam’s eyes were wide, as he imagined Bilbo a mischievous tween. If anyone but Gandalf had told the story, he would never have believed it. But he could easily imagine that it was something that Mr. Pippin’s and Mr. Merry’s grandfathers would have done--in fact, he could just as easily imagine Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin doing such a thing themselves. It was a good thing they were still too young for such mischief when Bilbo went away.

Pippin was grinning. “I never heard such a story about Grandfather Adalgrim before! He died before I ever was born.”

“Well, Gerontius was not very amused at the idea that a hobbit who had come of age was still behaving like a silly tween, and moreover, leading other younger hobbits into mischief as well. That is why he sent him to Whitwell and settled him on the farm there, to get his influence away from the other young hobbits. As for Bilbo, Bungo was none too pleased with him, either, and it was a good long time before he saw any of his Took relations again.”

Pippin laughed. “I wonder that I never heard about that before,” he said.

“Well, the farming life rather settled your grandfather down, as did marriage and five children. He became rather more respectable after that.”

“So, what else can you tell me about my relations?” asked Pippin curiously.

Gandalf laughed. “My dear Peregrin! You are quite insatiable!”

“Of course I am. I’m a Took! And wait till Merry hears what his grandfather got up to…”

______________________________________________________

* Unfinished Tales, Part III, Chapter III, “The Quest for Erebor”

Chapter the Eleventh: Good Knight, Sweet Prince
in which Boromir makes an appearance
contributed by thebeecharmer

Shells
By
Pipkin Sweetgrass

“Drat!”

Pippin gasped, trying to catch his breath. He could scarcely sleep for this blasted cough! He coughed until his head ached and his sides were sore, and still this blasted tickle in his chest persisted. “Drat!” he said again.

“Poor lamb,” came a voice from the doorway. He looked up to see Ioreth enter with a basket on each arm. “I have something for that cough of yours. Perhaps it will help you rest. You look hungry, my dear.”

Pippin wondered exactly how one might look hungry, yet the old nurse was right, he was indeed quite hungry. Having given Pippin a syrupy concoction that eased the tickle in his throat, Ioreth took a tray from a nearby table and placed it in Pippin’s lap. Her gnarled but still nimble fingers grasped a silver dish from inside one of her baskets and drew it out, placing it on Pippin’s tray and lifting from it a linen napkin.

“Whatever is this?” Pippin said, “It does not look too appetizing, I’m afraid. I hope it tastes better than it looks. I trust they aren’t what they look like!”

“Have you never had crab, then?” Ioreth said, taking a chair beside the bed. “What do they look like to you?”

“Well, I don’t wish to upset you, but they rather look like spiders. Very large ones, but spiders, only with those big claws.”

“Oh, but you don’t think I would serve so awful a thing to my special patient, do you? No, my dear, these are crabs, and not just any crabs, they are soft-shells!”

“I have heard of crabs before, but I’ve never eaten them, or even seen them. Boromir spoke of them; he seemed quite fond of them, if memory serves.”

“Aye, he was very fond of them. He enjoyed catching them as much as eating them!”

“Catching them?” Pippin picked up fork and knife. “How does one go about eating these things?”

“As I said, these are soft-shells, so you just cut them, as with any other dish.” Ioreth watched Pippin cut a piece of crab and pop it in his mouth. She smiled, quite pleased with the expression on the face of her ‘lamb’. She had heard that this hobbit had a nose for mischief and the curiosity of a kitten, but she refused to believe it. How could so sweet a creature ever cause mischief? “Yes,” she continued, “Boromir loved to catch crabs. Why, I remember the day he learned how as though it was but a fortnight ago!”

She watched the hobbit take another eager bite of crab. Intent on his meal as he was, he looked at her as though he was expecting her to elaborate. “’Twas on Dol Amroth, one fine day when he and Lord Faramir went to visit with his uncle, Imrahil. ‘Twas soft-shell season then, too. Aye, I remember it well. Poor lamb, he had only just lost his mother, and Prince Imrahil thought the pair of them, the Lords Faramir and Boromir, could do with some time by the Sea.”

Ioreth watched Prince Imrahil pull up the crab-trap from the end of a long dock, empty its contents into a net, and hand the net to his young nephew. “You’ve caught yourself a delicacy, Boromir!” The Prince smiled at the look of puzzlement on the faces of his nephews. “These are soft-shell crabs! There are quite a few of them in here with the hard-shells. Each year, you see, the crabs shed their shells. For a time, they have no shells, and are soft and vulnerable. In only a matter of hours, the new shell forms, like armor.”

The boys looked up at their uncle silently. They had been all but wordless since Finduilas had died, and had become more inseparable than ever. An expression of sad fondness crossed Imrahil’s face as he looked at his nephews. The sun over the island Kingdom had tanned the faces of the boys and brought golden light to their red-gold locks. They were the very picture of good health, but Imrahil knew their hearts must still be quite heavy. His gaze lingered on the eldest child. How like Finduilas he was, with his warm, golden locks and his sea-water eyes as opalescent as mother-of-pearl. The lad had taken to watching after his younger brother almost obsessively. As they walked back to the beach, Imrahil saw Boromir lift Faramir and carry him as if his younger brother was, in fact, his own son. He placed a hand on Boromir’s shoulder.

“Let Faramir walk, my boy,” he said gently.

Boromir, with obvious reluctance, let his little brother down and watched anxiously as Faramir ran the rest of the way down the dock, crying “Ioreth! Ioreth! We caught crabs, we caught crabs, we caught crabs, we caught soft-shells!” Faramir tripped in his excitement, and Boromir almost bolted forward, but Imrahil held him back.

“Come, Boromir, I should like to speak to you privately, since you are the oldest.” Imrahil sat on the edge of the walk and motioned for Boromir to join him. The boy tore his eyes away from Faramir to look up at his uncle. “Now, you see, he is unharmed by his fall. Boromir, you cannot forever hold onto him. You must let him find out for himself what he can and cannot do.”

“But Uncle! He is only little, I am his older brother! My duty is to take care of him, now that Mother… ” The boy looked down at his hands, then raised one hand to his mouth to bite at a nail.

“Here, lad, let us take a look at these crabs. You see the ones with the soft shells? Well, you and Faramir are much like them. Your mother and father were always there to protect and guide you. They were like the shells on the hard-shelled ones. But now, my sister your mother is gone, my boy. Denethor is deeply sorrowful. He loved my sister dearly, as did we all. When he is better, perhaps he can help you and Faramir through this dark time, but for now, why, he is so benighted by his loss that he cannot see what he must do. You and Faramir are like the soft-shells. This is a very trying time for you and your brother, so you see; you have to wait, to be patient. Too soon you will have shells of your own to protect you, when you grow to be men. Yet when you are grown to manhood, do not forget, you may be hard on the outside, but inside, keep a soft spot or two, for those whom you hold dear.”

“Like the crabs, Uncle?”

“Yes, like the crabs. It is only the shell that is tough, you know. The crab itself lies within. The shell protects the crab, but it is not the crab itself. Do you understand what I am trying to say?”

“I rather think that I do, Uncle.” Boromir looked at his hands once more, but he no longer nibbled his nails. “It is very hard, you know, to be without a shell. But I shall be patient, as you say. I must still take care of Faramir, though. Mother would have wanted that, I think.”

“She would be so proud of you, my boy,” Imrahil said, tucking his nephew under his arm for a brief hug. Too soon the boy would think himself too old for such open affection. “And now the time has come for two young crabs to go in for supper!”

Boromir looked at the net full of crabs and laughed. “Will this crab be eating those crabs for supper?”

“Of course, my boy!” Imrahil said, handing the net back to Boromir. He watched the youngster run the rest of the way to Ioreth whom, Imrahil was certain, had been listening to every word. As he approached the nurse, the pair of boys pelted off like colts towards the kitchens of Imrahil’s private chambers. Imrahil offered his hand to Ioreth to help her up. He watched her eye her charges as they ran, and she brushed a tear from her cheek.

“Wise words, my Lord,” she said to him, nodding her approval. “My Lady Finduilas would be well pleased.”

“I thank you, good Ioreth, for the compliment as well as your guardianship of my nephews,” said the Prince. “Your loyalty to your charges mirrors your loyalty to Minas Tirith, a good example for my nephews to follow. I know the task proves difficult betimes. As fond as I am of Boromir, he can be as obstinate as a bull.”

“I beg to disagree with my Lord!” Ioreth said haughtily, “Boromir, like his brother, is a lamb, I tell you! Hmmph!” Imrahil laughed to himself as she departed after her charges with a flouncing of her skirts, which bespoke her ire at his seeming criticism of his nephew. Looking back over her shoulder, she departed with “A lamb, I tell you!”

Pippin, now so full his belly felt rather tight, handed the tray to Ioreth, who laid it aside. From one of her baskets she produced a sheaf of papers and handed them to Pippin.

“What are these?” The hobbit took the papers and began shuffling through them. “Why, these are all drawings, and is this Boromir’s name here?”

“That they are,” she replied. “Deft was Boromir in hand and eye. He was not always a soldier, you know.”

“These are quite good,” Pippin remarked. “Look, here is one of a crab! They look like this when they are alive, then?”

“They do,” she said. “Keep the drawings, dear. I think he would enjoy knowing you had something of himself to remember him by. And now that you have eaten, you look quite sleepy. You should rest now, the sooner to regain your health.” She took the drawings and set them aside, then tucked the blankets around Pippin and sat quietly until he dozed off.

She looked at the sleeping hobbit, his lids like gold-fringed shells on his cheek. She had heard tales of his bravery, and did not doubt them in the least. She had also heard that hobbits seem soft on the outside, but could be as tough as old roots, but she would have put a description of this particular hobbit a little differently.

She rose from her chair, rubbing her aching back, but despite the pain in her aged bones, she bent and secretively placed a kiss on Pippin’s cheek. “Rest well, little crab,” she said. She paused at the door, looked back at him as he slept. “A lamb, I tell you,” she said softly.

Thanks go to Jay of Lasgalen for continuing the Tale!

Chapter the Twelfth: A Narrow Escape
in which the recovering patient sees double
contributed by Jay of Lasgalen

To Tell A Tale: A Narrow Escape

Pippin looked up resentfully as his door opened again. More healers. More people to fuss at him. More people to tell him to stay in bed. Where would it end?

His visitors this time were Lord Elrond’s sons, the twins Elladan and Elrohir. “Well, Pippin,” one said – he still could not tell them apart – “how are you feeling today?”

“Much better,” Pippin responded automatically. “I haven’t coughed once. I will be able to get up today!” He eyed the twins as they moved about his room, trying to work out which was which. It simply wasn’t right for any two people to look so alike! They were handsome as well, he supposed – certainly the maidens were all aflutter every time one of the twins spoke to them, or looked at them. Even old Ioreth blushed pinkly when they smiled.

The twin who had first spoken sat on the edge of his bed, while the other poured a few drops of some sticky fluid – more medicine, no doubt – into a glass of water. “I will be the judge of that,” the twin on his bed said gently. He placed his hand on Pippin’s forehead, and sighed. “You still have a fever,” he pointed out.

“It’s all very well for you,” Pippin sulked. “You’re elves. Elves don’t get sick!”

“We do not have the same sort of illnesses, but Elladan and I have both had our share of injuries and been forced to stay abed.”

That meant that the twin sitting on the bed was Elrohir. Pippin brightened. “What sort of injuries?” he asked ghoulishly. “Battle injuries, from fighting orcs? Tell me, Elrohir!”

“Battle injuries sometimes,” Elladan agreed as he approached the bed with Pippin’s medicine. “But not always. There were other things – other mishaps – as well.”

“What sort of things?”

The twins glanced at one another. “Will you tell him, or shall I?” Elrohir asked in a resigned tone.

“Well,” Elladan began. “Do you remember Bilbo telling you about the Enchanted River in Mirkwood?” As Pippin nodded, he continued. “Well, El fell in once. He was asleep for a whole day, and when he woke up had lost his memory of everything that had happened there! And another time he was bitten by a spider and nearly died. And then there was the time … ”

“Enough, El!” Elrohir interrupted, laughing. “You make me sound particularly accident prone. You have had your fair share of mishaps too! Do you remember falling out of that tree, when you broke your arm?”

Elladan snorted. “It was your fault. I was only climbing the tree in the first place to get away from you. You were chasing me!”

“And another time,” Elrohir continued, ignoring the interruption, “a horse threw him into a river.”

“Your horse, brother,” Elladan protested indignantly. “Let us not forget that it was your horse!”

Pippin grinned. The twins’ bickering sounded comfortingly familiar. It was just like the amiable arguments he had with Merry. What was more, it had distracted Elladan – he had put the medicine down on the bedside table. “Tell me about the horse,” he begged. “What happened?” He hoped that if he could keep Elladan’s attention, perhaps the medicine would be forgotten.

“It was many years ago now,” Elladan recalled. “And it should have been a straightforward trip. But things are never that simple.”

Pippin lay back, listening avidly, as the tale began.

o-o-o

Elladan’s journey should have been simple – a visit to a settlement of woodmen, who had recently been granted leave to live beneath Elrond’s protection in a remote corner of Imladris; and an opportunity to ride Elrohir’s horse Tathren, in an attempt to train him to accept other riders on occasion. But nothing was ever that simple.

It happened with a devastating suddenness. One moment Elladan was riding along the woodland path, enjoying the challenge of a different horse, and the not quite familiar feel and movement beneath him. In the next instant a wide-eyed youngling, on a horse far too big for him, and far beyond his control, rounded a bend in the track at a full gallop.

Elladan reined Tathren back hard, pulling him to one side in a faint hope that the two horses might have a chance to pass each other harmlessly. Amrûn would have responded instantly, but Tathren, protesting at this rough treatment by anyone who was not Elrohir, hesitated for a moment too long. The track was narrow here, bordered by thick scrub on one side, and by a steep bank on the other, leading down to a swift-flowing river. There was no room. There was no chance to avoid a collision. The other horse, nostrils flared, his eyes wild, slammed into Tathren without slowing or breaking stride.

Tathren was struck, hard, on the shoulder. With a shrill neigh he stumbled and fell on his knees, pitching Elladan over his neck and throwing him headlong down the steep bank. Elladan was aware of a dizzying whirl of colours as he fell, and tried desperately to grab at branches, roots, anything to slow his fall. There was a shock of cold as he plunged into the swirling river. He gasped as he hit the icy water, choking on a mouthful of liquid fire, and pain shot through him as he fell against the half-submerged rocks. There was a blinding flash as his head struck one of the boulders, and then he plunged into darkness.

o-o-o

Pippin drew in a sharp breath. “That could have been bad, Elladan! You could have drowned!”

“Yes, he could,” Elrohir agreed sombrely.

“It’s what happened to Frodo’s parents, you know. They drowned when their boat capsized!”

“Yes, I know,” Elrohir agreed again. “El was fortunate that there was someone to haul him out.”

Pippin shivered. “Who? What happened next? Where was the boy? What was he doing with the horse? Why …”

“Peace, Pippin, please!” Elladan interrupted the stream of questions with a laugh. “Let me tell my tale, and you will find out. The next thing I knew …”

o-o-o

There were hands pulling at him, shaking him, and a distant voice calling. With a groan he tried to push the hands away; wondering vaguely who would prod at him like this. Pain speared through his shoulder as he tried to move his arm, and he bit back another cry. “Stop it, El,” he mumbled. “It hurts!” But the words would not come. Fire spasmed through his chest and he began to choke, coughing up a mouthful of bitter water before he could breathe again, gasping harshly. His head throbbed and spun, and everything hurt.

The shaking stopped, and the voice became clearer. “Are you awake? Can you hear me?” The voice was worried, and totally unfamiliar. As the realisation dawned on him, Elladan blinked, and tried to force his eyes open. A pale blur hovered above him, a blur that gradually resolved into a face – one that he had never seen before. It took him a while to realise that the face he saw matched the voice he had heard.

Elladan blinked again. Leaves danced overhead, flickering against the sky. Slowly he drew his gaze back to the man looking down at him, worry and concern obvious in his expression. “Can you hear me?” he asked again. “Can you see me?”

Slowly, hesitantly, Elladan nodded. He coughed again, expelling more water, and gasped for breath before he could answer. “Yes,” he croaked. Yes, he was awake; yes, he could hear the man; yes, he could see him. He felt sick and dizzy; but yes, he was alive.

The man nodded. “Good,” he smiled. “That’s good. Who are you? What’s your name?”

“Elladan.”

The man stared at him. “Elladan? Son of the lord Elrond? Are you sure?”

Elladan thought for a moment, trying to gather his scattered wits. “Yes,” he agreed at last. “I am Elladan.” He closed his eyes again. The effort of thinking, of speaking, was overwhelming him, and the dizziness and pain growing too much to ignore. It was a relief when the cold and darkness claimed him again.

o-o-o

Pippin was a little confused. “You knew who you were? But I thought you said you lost your memory when you fell in the river?”

“No, no. That was El. And it was a different river. A different time.”

He frowned. “It’s very confusing. Especially when you keep calling each other El all the time! I think you do it on purpose.”

The twins looked at one another with identical raised eyebrows. “We used to, as children,” Elladan admitted. “It is not deliberate now, but merely a habit.”

“One that is difficult to break after so long,” Elrohir added. “Forgive us, Pippin. We do not mean to confuse you. But yes, this was Elladan; and he was fortunate indeed that he was found by such good and kindly folk.”

o-o-o

When he next awoke, he was somewhere else. It was dark, but a red glow at the corner of his vision flickered dimly, and he turned his head slowly towards the fire. There was a scent of wood smoke, but it could not quite hide a sourer smell of unwashed bodies. His wet clothes had been removed and he now lay beneath a rough woollen blanket, warm and dry. The sharp stabs of pain in his shoulder, chest and leg had faded into duller aches, but he was still acutely aware of the various injuries.

“Oh, are you awake? How are you feeling? No, don’t try to move.” It was a different voice, a woman this time. A wooden floorboard creaked as she moved to his side and sat on a small stool. She peered at him by the flickering light of a candle, nodding and smiling.

“Where are we?” Elladan asked her curiously. “How did I get here?”

The woman smiled again, and patted his hand. “My Tom found you. You was hurt quite bad, so he brought you here, to our house. I patched you up, and then waited for you to wake up.”

Elladan nodded. “Thank you,” he said simply.

She turned her head, and called. “Tom! Tom, he’s awake.” Returning her attention to Elladan, she patted his hand again and straightened the blanket covering him. “Now you just stay there, and let me look after you. I’ve some nice chicken soup for you. I’ll go and get it.”

She bustled off, leaving Elladan alone again. Still a little bemused, he tried to piece together what had happened, and where he was now. Things had occurred so quickly that his memory was confused and blurred, but there had been a runaway horse, and poor Tathren had had no chance to avoid it.

His muddled thoughts stopped dead at that point. Tathren. Where was he? “Your pardon, mistress!” he called urgently. She turned and gazed at him. “Tathren – the horse I was riding. Where is he? Was he hurt? Did – did your husband find him?” He waited anxiously, praying that Tathren was unharmed. How could he have forgotten? If anything had happened to Tathren, Elladan would never forgive himself – and Elrohir would kill him.

There was a heavier tread outside, then the man he had first seen – Tom – entered the house. “Hello there! It’s good to see you awake again. You look a little better than you did before! Now, don’t you worry about your horse. He took a bad knock, but not as bad as you did! He’s damaged his leg, so you won’t be riding him again any time soon – but you won’t be going anywhere soon in any case! So don’t you worry.”

Elladan breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you. Thank you. He is not my horse, but my brother’s. If anything happens to Tathren, Elrohir will kill me.”

“Oh now, I doubt that. If he’s your brother, he’ll be more concerned about you, I reckon,” Tom said easily.

Struggling to sit up, Elladan nodded. “Yes. Thank you for your care, but I cannot stay here. My family – they will be worried. I must go home.” He pushed himself upright, throwing the blanket back and trying to ignore the pain and nausea that immediately made themselves felt again.

“Now then, you don’t want to be doing that!” Tom took a stride towards him and eased Elladan back down.

“But I …”

“Just stay there,” Tom insisted. “You’ve got a dislocated shoulder, broken ribs, a broken wrist and a broken ankle. Barra’s patched you up, but you’re not fit to be going anywhere for a week or two.” He suddenly looked grim. “I pulled you out of the river. If I hadn’t come along when I did, you’d have drowned. And I know whose fault it was, too. I saw him. Now, I’ll send word, don’t you worry. I’ll tell Lord Elrond, and your brother. We’ll let them know where you are, and what’s happened. Now, you stay there, and Barra will give you some of her chicken soup.”

Elladan subsided, having the sense to know when he was beaten. Perhaps he would stay – just overnight. His head still ached fiercely, and it was true that he could not move his right arm. He could not ride, and he could not walk – so he would stay. He nodded again. “Thank you,” he repeated.

Barra placed a steaming bowl on a table beside the bed, together with a spoon and a platter of freshly baked bread. She eyed him warily. “There’s soup here. Can you manage on your own? I’ll help if you want.”

“Thank you. I can manage, I think.” He took the spoon awkwardly in his left hand, and tried the soup. It was warm rather than hot, and soothing to his stomach. He dipped a little of the bread into the broth and ate that, too. He managed about half of the bowl before the effort became too great, and he put the spoon down before he dropped it. “Thank you, mistress Barra,” he said sincerely.

She smiled. “You rest now. There’s plenty more for later. And we’ll send one of the boys to Rivendell to tell your folks. Don’t you worry now – just rest.”

Elladan would have protested at the way she was ordering him about, but exhaustion was sweeping over him like a wave. He blinked once, then again – and while his eyes were closed, he fell into a dreamless sleep.

o-o-o

“Mmmm, chicken soup! I like that!” Pippin licked his lips. “But my favourite’s mushroom. That reminds me, I’m hungry. Is it time for elevenses yet?”

Elladan laughed. “Pippin, you only recently finished breakfast! You cannot possibly be hungry again!”

Pippin looked at him reproachfully. “Second breakfast was nearly an hour ago,” he explained simply.

“He is a hobbit,” Elrohir reminded his brother. “You remember what Bilbo is like!”

Elladan nodded. “I think, Pippin, that you and Barra would have got on famously together!”

“She sounds like a queen among foresters’ wives!” Pippin declared. “I should like to meet her! Now, tell me what happened the next day. And don’t forget to describe the food.”

o-o-o

The next morning he awoke to bright sunlight streaming in through the open door. The aches and pains had diminished, and his head felt clearer. He sat up cautiously, and flung the blanket back – then pulled it close again even more rapidly. “Tom!” he called urgently. “Tom!”

The man appeared in the doorway, looking alarmed. “Yes? What’s wrong? Are you feeling badly again?”

Elladan shook his head. “No – I feel a great deal better, thank you. But where are my clothes?”

“We took them to wash them, and dry them. Barra’s just mending some rips and tears. Will you be wanting them?”

“Yes,” Elladan pleaded. “I want to get dressed. I want to get up!”

“Well, Barra will be finished in a minute. In the meantime, she’s got some more chicken soup for you – or a stew, if you’d prefer.” Tom grinned. “She reckons you need feeding!” He pushed the pot of soup back on the stove, and rummaged in a small chest. “There. Here’s some trews of mine. They won’t quite fit, but they’ll do for now. And here’s a stick.” He gave Elladan a knowing glance. “The privy’s out the back!”

Elladan nodded gratefully. By the time he returned he still leaned heavily on the stick, but was beginning to get the knack of walking with it. A bowl of soup had been placed on the table, with more of Barra’s bread. He sat down again, tired and aching, but triumphant.

Barra bustled back in. “There. I’ve mended his clothes – oh, you’re up!” she scolded. “Did you ought to be out of bed yet?” Her accusing gaze switched to her husband. “Why did you let him get up?” she demanded of Tom.

“He wanted to,” he protested.

Her gaze swept them both. “Men!”

Elladan ate silently, hungry now, finishing the soup and all the bread. He looked up at Barra and smiled. “My thanks, mistress.”

“Men!” she snorted again – but her glare was softer this time. She averted her gaze while he dressed, then allowed him to hobble out to the front of the house and sit in the sunlight on a bench there.

o-o-o

“You see? You were allowed to get up the next day! Why can’t I? It’s not fair!”

Elladan ruffled Pippin’s hair sympathetically. “My injuries were not so severe, and I did not have any fever. In any case, Barra would not let me move from that bench for the rest of the morning! She kept watch, to make sure I did not stray.”

o-o-o

She talked constantly as she worked in the small garden, telling him of Tom, and their sons, and how grateful she was to have the opportunity to bring up her family in the peace and safety of Rivendell. “Of course, it’s not all safe,” she added. “There’s accidents, and wild animals, and falls. It’s how I know how to deal with broken bones. But I can sleep safe in my bed at night – even if Tom and the lads are off hunting. And there’s not many places where I can say that!” At mid-morning she vanished into the house, producing a cake and cutting a thick slice for him. “Eat it,” she persuaded. “You need to build up your strength.”

As she spoke, a young boy came out of the trees. “I’m back, Ma,” he announced unnecessarily. “I found one of the patrols, and told them. I thought it’d be quicker. They said someone would come.”

Barra patted his cheek. “Good lad.”

“Thank you,” Elladan added. “My brother will be most concerned – I should have returned last night.”

“Well, at least now he knows what’s happened. Will he come himself, do you think?”

Elladan nodded. “I know he will,” he said with certainty, and smiled. “I must warn you – you will find his appearance something of a shock. We are twins.”

Barra glance at him. “Ah yes, I had heard that. You look alike, then?”

“A little.”

After the mid-day meal – a hearty stew, with potatoes and more bread – Elladan persuaded Tom to take him to where Tathren was stabled. The horse looked up as Elladan approached, then dropped his head again and ignored him. “I know I am not Elrohir,” he apologised. “I wish he was here as well. But he will come soon, I promise.”

Tathren snorted.

“I know. I am sorry – I should have taken better care of you. This would not have happened if you had been with Elrohir,” he confessed.

Tom watched with a smile. “You talk as if he can understand you!” he laughed.

“Oh, he can. He is sulking because I took him out yesterday – and he is missing Elrohir. Soon, my friend, soon,” he promised. He examined Tathren’s shoulder and forelegs. He was bruised, and one leg was slightly swollen; but unburdened, he would be able to walk back to Imladris in a day or so. Holding the stable door open, he let Tathren out into the clearing that surrounded the house.

“I didn’t like to let him out, in case he wandered off,” Tom said.

“No. He will stay.” Elladan returned to the bench to rest, his ankle, shoulder and wrist aching, and dozed in the warm sunshine. He woke and looked up as Elrohir rode into the clearing, leading Amrûn behind him. Elladan pushed himself to his feet, leaning on the stick, and limped to Elrohir’s side as he dismounted. “El! Thank the Valar! I am so glad to see you!” he exclaimed. “But Tathren – I am so sorry, Elrohir. If only I had taken more care of him – if I had paid more attention I might have been able to avoid the other horse. Forgive me, El – I never meant for him to be injured.”

Elrohir cast a swift glance at Tathren, who stopped grazing and walked slowly over to greet him with a snort of welcome. “He looks fine to me,” Elrohir reassured him, patting Tathren absently. “Do not worry, El – you are the one I was most worried about! Are you well? Let me look at you. Are these people looking after you?”

Elladan gave a groan. “Aye – too well! Barra is a remarkable woman, but she insists on fussing over me. She keeps feeding me chicken soup, and stews, and cake. I will be as fat as old Dickon Butterbur in Bree if I stay here any longer!”

o-o-o

Pippin’s stomach rumbled. “Soup. Stews. Cake,” he moaned. “Don’t torment me, Elladan! It all sounds wonderful. I don’t see what you’re complaining about!”

“Because he is an ungrateful wretch, and a most impatient patient!” Elrohir retorted. “Of course, he was far too polite to say anything to Barra.”

“Well, of course!” Pippin declared indignantly. “You shouldn’t be rude to people who are looking after you!” He blithely ignored his own protests, complaints and pleading to the healers who had cared for him.

“Of course not,” Elladan agreed solemnly. Elrohir nodded in silent agreement.

Pippin stared at the twins, wondering if they were making fun of him. “Anyway,” he declared, changing the subject hastily, “What happened to the boy? The one whose fault it was? You haven’t said anything about him!”

“I will, if you do not keep interrupting me! Allow me to finish my tale,” Elladan pleaded. “The boy – he came back home eventually.”

o-o-o

Barra came out of the house to greet Elrohir. She stared at him, then looked accusingly at Elladan. “I know you said you looked alike, but still! Now, Tom told me that young Hal’s just come crawling back home – he’s the one who sent you off the path,” she added. “Do you want to see him?”

Elrohir nodded. “I certainly do!” he demanded, his eyes flashing. “Will you send him over?”

“He’s here,” Tom growled. “I brought him with me. I thought you might want to talk to him! He’d been drinking, too,” he added in disgust. “Drinking his Da’s ale!”

Hal was a thin, sullen boy, who scowled at the ground. “I didn’t steal the horse,” he declared. “He’s my Da’s. And I proved I can ride him!”

“He was out of control, and you know it!” Elladan snapped.

“But I could’ve managed him! If you hadn’t got in the way, I’d have been able to stop him!

Elrohir took a slow, deep breath – an ominous sign that meant he was on the verge of losing his temper. “And what happened,” he enquired in a deadly voice, “when you met my brother on the path?”

The boy scuffed his feet. “He fell in the stream, and I thought he was dead.” He hung his head low, and would not look at anyone.

“So you left him there to drown!” Elrohir hissed in fury. “Did it occur to you to see if he was alive? To see if he needed help?

“Who are you to tell me what to do?” Hal sneered, full of bravado. “You don’t own this valley!”

“Oh, but I do,” Elrohir said softly. “You – and your family – are here by Lord Elrond’s grace. We are his sons. And in my father’s absence, I have the right to give you leave to stay or go.”

Hal blanched. “No – please!” He dropped his head again. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I shouldn’t have took the horse. And I shouldn’t have been drinking. And I shouldn’t have left you like that,” he added to Elladan. “I thought I’d killed you. I was scared. I’m sorry.” He looked up again. “Please don’t send us away. My Ma – my sisters – they feel safe here. Not like when we was in Maldon. Please,” he begged.

Elrohir hesitated for a long time, making the boy squirm. Elladan could sense his true repentance now; his shame at the blind panic that had caused him to flee; and guilt at the cost his foolish actions would have on his family.

“Please,” Hal whispered again. “Not for me – for Ma.”

The silence grew. “Very well,” Elrohir said at last. “You may stay. But know this. Your actions nearly cost my brother his life. If that had happened, no amount of pleading or regrets would have spared you the wrath of my family. Nothing.” He gestured with his hand. “Now go. And I do not want to have you brought to my attention again, or my decision may change.”

Hal nodded. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” he gasped. “And I’m sorry!” he added as he fled.

“You won’t be seeing that one again for a while,” Tom predicted. “He’ll keep himself very quiet. Won’t dare do nothing else!” He glanced at the sky. “Now, it’ll be dark soon. You’ll stay the night, of course? Barra’s made a fine stew!”

o-o-o

Pippin gulped, looking at Elrohir with wide eyes and a renewed respect. “Would you have done it? Could you have? Would you throw them out? His whole family?”

Elrohir sighed. “I could have done. Sometimes, when I think on what so nearly happened, I am surprised I did not. But despite what he may have deserved, I could not punish his mother or sisters. I made a point, though, of making the patrols in that part of the valley very visible. Hal never knew where the next elf would appear!” He smiled coldly. “Yes, he kept himself very quiet after that!”

Pippin laughed, and tried to swallow the cough that gripped him. Elladan frowned, and stepped forward with the untouched medicine. “Enough, Pippin! Drink this, and lie quietly. Try to rest.”

“But I don’t want to rest! I want – ” he coughed again, and took the medicine with resignation, grimacing as he drank it. It did soothe his cough however, and he lay back weakly. He felt Elrohir’s cool hand on his brow, and suddenly a great tiredness rose in him.

“Sleep, Pippin,” the elf said softly. “Rest, and you will soon be well.”

Pippin’s eyes began to close, but as the twins left him to his rest, he raised his head again. “Elladan! Elrohir! You won’t forget to tell them that it’s time for elevenses, will you?”

LEGOLAS’ TALE, contributed by Dreamflower

Somehow this chapter did not get added to the Tale, I don't know why. In a happy coincidence, alert reader KathyG told Dreamflower that this little story had not been posted with the rest, and about the same time Dreamflower mentioned it to me, I had revisited this story and found myself longing for more tales -- why, I don't think we've had Faramir tell of some childish prank, or some shared heroic adventure with his brother Boromir, yet, for just one example; or Prince Imrahil coming to do his part; or one (or both) of the Twins telling of Elessar's youthful days; or perhaps one of the Rohirrim, at Merry's behest, to talk about early days with Éomer; or Bergil, or Beregond or one of the other guards of the Citadel.

It seems an especially appropriate time to post this story, with the final installment of The Hobbit due to hit cinemas next week.

If you leave feedback to the chapter, I will ask Dreamflower to provide a response.

Anyhow, here we are, with another chapter to add to the tale! Anyone else want to play the game?

LATE KNIGHT SNACK
in which Legolas remembers mysterious happenings

Pippin was now being encouraged to sit up for a little while, which was nice enough after lying in bed. But it came at a price: he had to let the healers rub his back and force him to cough. Of course, it was better than what they had done in the Shire when he‘d been sick--pound him on the back to make him cough. He had asked Strider about that and he had told Pippin that they were using gentler methods due to the recent injuries to his ribs. Then he had rubbed just so in a certain spot on Pippin’s back, and he had coughed so hard he saw stars.

Today it was one of the other healers. Strider was busy being King Elessar this morning. He had been told that Frodo was not having a very good day, either, and that Sam was with him. Pippin was worried about Frodo, and this being stuck in bed was no help in cheering his cousin up. And Merry was on duty standing watch over King Théoden’s bier. That meant that either Legolas or Gimli or perhaps both of them would come to sit with him. Not likely Gandalf, though he did come sit with him from time to time. Frodo had made it quite clear to the healers that he did not hold with the customs of Men when it came to leaving the sick alone and unattended by family or friends (although that was only in regards to Pippin--Frodo would just deny he was sick if he wanted to be alone. And he was stubborn enough for it to work on anyone but Sam.)

The healer gave his back one final gentle rub, and when the cough it produced was not very hard, she nodded. “I think we have most of the fluids out, at least for today. Now you need to sit up for at least an hour.”

Pippin nodded wearily. Coughing was hard work, and his ribs hurt anyway, but it was pleasant to be allowed out of the bed, to go and sit by the window in the small chair that had been found for him. He suspected it had come from some child’s nursery.

She helped him into his dressing gown, and watched him sit down, and then turned to leave and allow his visitor to come in.

It was Legolas, and Pippin gave the Elf a welcoming grin.

Legolas gave an answering smile, and instead of pulling the larger chair over, he sat down on the floor next to Pippin and drew his long legs up tailor-fashion.

“It is good to see you out of the bed, Pippin.”

“It’s good to be out of the bed. I could do without all that infernal coughing though.”

Legolas nodded sympathetically. “Do you wish me to sing to you this morning?”

Pippin thought for a moment. “Perhaps before you leave. But I think I am more in the mood for a tale--nearly everyone has told me one save you.”

Legolas laughed, and Pippin’s heart lifted, as it always did to the sound of Elven laughter. “What sort of tale would you have of me then?”

“I was curious about something. Did you ever meet Bilbo when he came through your father’s kingdom on his Adventure?”

The Elf’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I was not introduced to Master Bilbo Baggins until sometime had passed after the Battle of Five Armies. But as to whether I met him before then…well, I shall tell you a tale, and let you be the judge…

“My father was furious at the interruption to one of our feasts--not just once, but repeatedly in one night. Perhaps if he had not been so angry, he would not have left the Dwarves asleep in the dark after their last attempt to, as he thought it, waylay, our people at their merriment. For I assure you it was not his habit to leave people to the mercy of the spiders--still he was very angry.

He had taken old Thorin captive, and as the answers he was receiving, or should I say, not receiving, did not suit him, he sent orders for the remainder of the intruders to be captured. He was determined to find out what was going on, and also, as I said, he was not accustomed to leaving travelers in danger however unwelcome they might be.

Well, of course as Bilbo has often told, soon they were all captive, and most surly and uncooperative captives they were.

Once we had taken them, though, I thought about them little. I was often away leading patrols, and protecting my father’s kingdom.

I came home after about three days, at one point, and found the whole court abuzz about mysterious happenings. Food and wine seemed to vanish inexplicably. If we had any children there, it would have seemed to be merely childish pranks, but I was the youngest Elf in Mirkwood. It had been long since my father’s people had brought children into the world…”

“Why is that?” asked Pippin sadly, remembering Treebeard’s sad tale of the Entwives.

Legolas shrugged. “Most felt that the Wood was too dangerous for children, and were waiting, I suppose for better times. It is different for Elves than for mortals, you know. We do not need a child to carry our memory forward, and only have children when we are certain that they will be loved and safe.”

“But how could you ever be certain?” asked Pippin. “I mean, even Elves should know that there is always some kind of danger around. It’s a wonder you have children at all.”

The Elf gave the hobbit a bemused look. The young Took was often wiser than expected from one of his youth, and frequently showed flashes of insight that were surprising. “You are right, of course, but in those years it seemed wisdom to many.”

He shifted slightly, and carried on with the tale.

“Not having been there when these things had happened, I tended to dismiss it as silly talk. I thought perhaps that some had absent mindedly mislaid things, and then, as folk of all kinds will often do, sought to lay blame on others.

Of course, sometimes others are to blame, yet this seemed highly unlikely.

The second time I came home, I heard more of these tales. I began to think that some of the court had simply lost their wits. Talk of ghosts is not taken seriously by most Elves, and my father was getting peeved at some of these rumors and tales.

That evening, I decided that I wanted to have a late night snack. I came down to one of the kitchens. I poured myself a goblet of wine, and then went to the pantry to see what I could find. I came out with some bread, some ham, a hard sausage, and some fruit. I picked up my goblet, and noticed that it was only half-full. I was puzzled, but decided I had not poured it full after all. I sliced some of the ham and sausage, and tore off an end of the bread, and put on my plate. Then I bethought me that some cheese would be good, so I went back into the pantry to get one. When I returned, I noticed that there were not so many slices of meat as I had thought. I felt a disturbance in the air.

‘Who’s there?’ I said, and then laughed as I saw the kitchen cat, dashing under the table. It stopped, turned, and hissed at nothing, before shooting out the door. Well, of course, I thought then that I had found the thief, and was much relieved at this prosaic explanation. Obviously the cat had made off with some of the meat I had sliced. And so I thought for a good long time.

But after I learned of Master Baggins, and his ring of invisibility, I have quite changed my mind over what happened, and absolved the poor cat of all blame.

So, then, Pippin, do you think I had a meeting with Master Baggins?”

Pippin laughed. “I’m quite sure that you did, Legolas! I should have liked to see your face!”

“I am sure that I looked very confused at first.”

Pippin sighed then, and looked a bit serious. “Legolas, why couldn’t the Ring have been what Bilbo thought it was, just a useful trinket? Why did it have to be the Ring? And how was it that Bilbo used it so much and so long without it claiming him?”

Legolas shook his head. “I am sure that Bilbo took so little harm from the Ring because It was mostly asleep when he possessed it, and too, he had no idea that it was more than he thought it. It never occurred to him to gain power through it. He simply used it to help his friends and to hide. There was no greed or ambition there to wake the Ring up.”

“I suppose,” Pippin said thoughtfully. “A ring of invisibility would be rather useful at times, but I certainly would not want one now.” He sighed and then smiled. “So, would you sing me that song now?”

On the Role of the Yule Dwarf
contributed by Larner

in which Pippin learns of one of Aragorn's earlier responsibilities and duties

(Lindelea's note: I am delighted to be able to post this wonderful addition to the group story! Pippin is recovering from his illness, but he'll never get over his hobbity thirst for stories, of course. One of Strider's kinsmen obliges... and so we have a fitting cap to the Tale, and a happy ending -- one of the essential elements for a satisfying story, to my mind -- into the bargain.)

            “Sir Peregrin!  Are you here?”

            Pippin, who sat in the small garden behind the guesthouse in which those of the Fellowship dwelt in the Sixth Circle of the White City, looked up from the small table on which sat what little remained of his tea.  The voice was that of a Man, but was not one of those he recognized from his time spent amongst the Guard of the Citadel or those from the city who’d fought in the Army of the West before the Black Gate.  The voice was deep, and somehow sounded to be from the north, from the lands surrounding the Shire.  One of Strider’s kinsmen, he thought.  But not one I have talked to enough to recognize his voice.

            “I’m here, behind the house!” he called, and in moments a tall Man, definitely one of the northern Dúnedain, appeared around the corner of the building, carrying a bundle in his arms.

            “Aragorn asked me to bring you this clothing,” the Man said, “but no one was within when I knocked at the guesthouse door.”

            Pippin nodded and indicated that the Man should come closer.  “The housekeeper needed to go to the markets in the Fourth Circle, and the youth assigned as our page has today as his free day.  So, as I do appear finally to be recovering, they trust me to not push myself too far.  Join me, if you will!”

            The Man gave the bundle of clothing, a set of garments more in keeping with Shire fashions than what Pippin had now, into the Hobbit’s hands and sat down on the grass by Pippin’s bench.  “I am glad to have the chance to meet you at last,” he said.  “I was nearby when the Dwarf saw your foot under that troll, and we all but despaired of your life, I fear.  I am Bardamir son of Aldarin.  My family has dwelt always in the village of our Chieftains in the Angle, and I was one of those my lord kinsman trained in my first patrol as a recruit with the Rangers of Eriador.  I was glad to be chosen to come south in the Grey Company to join Aragorn in the final battles with the Enemy.  I understand that you dwell in the Tooklands within the Shire?”

            Pippin found himself wincing at the name of his home region.  “Yes.  You know of them?”

            Bardamir nodded.  “Oh, yes, I do.  I have often had to ride through the Shire on errands to the Havens and our lands about the Firth of Lhûn, and thus have passed through the Green Hills country fairly often, although few Hobbits will bother to speak with me.  But then, few Hobbits of the Shire willingly deal with Men anyway.”

            Pippin shrugged.  “True enough,” he allowed.  “We seem to be far more comfortable dealing with Dwarves than we do Men, although we even tend to ignore them as often as not.”  He checked his glass and saw there was still a swallow of juice within it, and finished it off before asking, “So, you lived in the Chieftain’s village, did you?  Then you knew Aragorn all your life?”

            “Not quite all of my life.”

            “No?  But you said that you lived in the Chieftain’s village.”

            Bardamir smiled.  “Living in the village of the Chieftain means but little when he does not live there himself.  He had not lived there since he was two winters old.”

            “Then where did he live?”

            “In the house of Elrond, in the hidden vale of Rivendell.  Most of our people did not know he yet lived, for it was told about that he’d died of the fevers that swept throughout Eriador that year.  My older brother, who was but three years of age, also died, and but a day before it was said that Arathorn’s son died.  Both he and his mother were fighting the fevers, you must understand.  Word had but recently come that our Lord Arathorn had been slain by an orc’s arrow whilst out upon a patrol, and so taken by grief was our Lady Gilraen that she, too, appeared in danger for her own life.  When it was reported that her son had died as well as her husband and that she was struggling to withstand the loss, none was surprised that she was taken to Lord Elrond for to be healed.  What did surprise my parents and most others was that she did not choose to return to us.  Few mortals are comfortable dwelling for long periods of time amongst the Elves, you see, for they see us all as children, considering how short our lives are compared to theirs.  That she remained there to be with her son as he grew up was something none had considered save for the very few who knew that he had recovered from his illness.”

            The Man sighed and shook his head.  “I must say that I am surprised to realize you did not know of this, as long as you and your fellows remained within Elrond’s home whilst you awaited the time to leave upon your quest.”

            Pippin could only shrug.  “We didn’t see all that much of Strider while we were there in Rivendell.  He was there while Frodo was ill, until after Lord Elrond managed to get that horrible Morgul shard out of him, and then there was the Council, to which neither Merry nor I was invited, and then he was gone, searching with the others for any sign that the Black Riders might remain anywhere about, ready to pounce upon us once we were on our way south and east.  And when he came back, he rarely had time to talk or to share tales, or not with Merry or me, at least.  We worked on our swordsmanship with Boromir mostly, and sometimes explored about.  Frodo probably learned about him growing up in Rivendell, either from him or from Bilbo, and I wouldn’t be surprised to know that Sam had learned about it, too.  But for Merry and me----”  Again he shrugged, his mouth twisted wryly.  “So, you were ten when he returned to your people?  Was that when you got to know him?  How old was he then?”

            Bardamir smiled.  “He was twenty, and was considered a Man grown.  At first I had no idea who he was or why he was in the village.  It was just after Midsummer.  Most of the elders of our people had been called away to a conference at Amon Sûl on the evening of Midsummer, so our usual festivals were not as we children were accustomed to.  And when Lord Habaleg, who’d served as our Steward since the death of Lord Arathorn, returned, he brought with him this strange youth who was dressed much as the Elves dressed, not like any of our fathers or older brothers, you see.  It was about time for the young Men who were training as Rangers to go out upon their first patrol with Malvegern and Baerdion, who worked with our newest trainees, so we were told he was a Dúnedain youth who’d been fostered by Elves, but who was expected to take on the duties of a warrior of our people.  I didn’t see much of him save for at a distance, for when the other young Men in the patrol came to my father’s ale house on the evenings they had free before they must ride out, he did not come with them.  Only after the patrol was over did it come to be known that this was in fact Aragorn, the son of our late Lord Arathorn and his wife, and thus was proper Chieftain to our people.”

            Pippin was fascinated.  “So, he didn’t come to your father’s inn until he came back from his first patrol as a trainee, then?”

            Bardamir laughed.  “It was no inn, not really.  But there is the family recipe for ale that my grandfather and father brewed after they were each wounded and could no longer go out upon patrol themselves, and many times the Men of our village will come to the ale house after a long day of laboring in our fields or in whatever tasks each has taken to himself for the support of our people.  So, as our father’s children my brothers and sisters and I saw more of most of the Men of our village than many others.  But young Lord Aragorn was of a sober sort, and was not given overmuch to the drinking of ale or wine, and rarely came of an evening as he sought to learn more of our ways.

            “Nay, I must admit that the first I saw him face to face was at the Turning of the Year, that first winter after he returned to us.”  His eyes were focused on the memories, and he laughed again.  “He was portraying the Yule Dwarf, you see, and was most uncomfortable in the role—at least he was at first.”

            Pippin straightened on his bench.  “He was playing the Yule Dwarf?  But I thought that this was a Took tradition!  I mean, not many families in the Shire have the Yule Dwarf visit their children besides the Tooks!”

            Bardamir’s laugh was infectious, Pippin found.  “Oh, I know.  But it appears that Aragorn’s grandsire Arador fell ill or was injured one winter when he was riding through the Shire, returning from our lands about the Firth of Lhûn.  The Thain at the time found him laid low in a thicket where he’d taken shelter, and he had his people bring him to the Great Smials to be given what help he needed to recover.  It was Foreyule, as your people know it, when Arador came to stay with them.  And he was fascinated to learn how your people celebrate Yule.  When a particularly fat Hobbit arrived in a sleigh drawn by a pig, wearing armor made of foil and carrying a great axe made of pasteboard, his face half hidden behind a beard apparently made from sheep’s wool, Arador was intrigued.  The idea that the children seemed to believe that this was indeed a Dwarf caught at his fancy, and he saw how pleased they were to receive small trinkets from this person.

            “Arador returned to us a month later, having made a full recovery, and he carried with him great respect for the Tooks, who had shown him such kindness.”

            For a moment Bardamir went quiet, a fond smile on his lips.  “My papa was but a young boy himself that next winter, which was a bad one for our village.  There were several heavy snowfalls, each leaving behind even more snow than the last one.  And, of course there were illnesses, possibly some sent from Mordor to seek to destroy our people.  There was a bad fire that burned down the storage building in which most of our food for the winter was kept, and many found themselves in desperate want.  Lord Arador sent those of our Men who were able to travel through the deep snow to other villages to bring back supplies to see us through, and if it had not been for a line of sleighs from one particular village that was better protected than we had been, and for food sent from Elrond as well, it is likely most of those in our village would have died.

            “Some of those who spent much time carving wood or doing needlework and such had little else to do, and began making all sorts of items to fill the time.  We had a good supply of cloth available, at least—that was one of the things Arador had been bringing back from Lhûn, cloth.  One older woman who loved to sew began making dolls, each more elaborate than the last, while one of those who worked with wood began making a herd of horses, some with jointed legs.  A woman who knitted created soft animals of wool, and another who did hookwork made even more such toys, scarves with which to wrap babies, and soft balls that could be thrown about within the house with no fear of things being broken.  And others made other things.

            “One of those who died that winter was a young woman, a healer and a teacher of children.  She had been married but a few years and had two small children.  Her death caused great grief throughout our village, and particularly in her son and daughter.  They had been weakened by the cold and illness.  Many feared that they would lose all hope and die to follow their mother.  Lord Arador decided that this should not be, so he called as many as would come to the ale house to discuss what might be done to draw the hearts of these children away from despair and to awaken them to the possibilities of life instead.  And he suggested that we find a way to use the Hobbits’ tradition of the Yule Dwarf to encourage laughter and pleasure in all of the children.

            “Those who had made things that might be gifts for the children agreed to provide them as presents, and discussion was held as to how the idea of the Yule Dwarf might be presented.  We of the Dúnedain do not easily lie, not even to amuse.  It was decided that it should be obvious from the start that this was no true Dwarf, and so the tallest Man in the village was chosen to play the part.  There was one who worked land east of our village who stood half a head taller even than Lord Arador, so he was the one who was to do so.

            “So it was that the Man chosen to portray the Yule Dwarf was dressed in outlandish armor, a beard made of horsehair glued to his face, carrying a long axe that had been fitted with a great false blade of foil hiding its true blade, bringing with him a heavy large bag in which gifts had been placed for each of our children.  And the boy and girl over whom all had worried were so amazed to see someone who towered over them so pretending to be a Dwarf that not even they could keep from laughing with the rest.  They began to recover, my papa told me, from that evening, and I remember the woman who had been that girl from my childhood, for she was as dearly loved by all as had been her own mama.  And the tradition was continued from that year, and spread throughout most of the villages within the Angle, always with the tallest Man within the village taking on the role of the Yule Dwarf.”

            “I am glad to hear that the children recovered,” Pippin said, delighted with the tale so far.  “So, Aragorn ought to have felt honored to follow in that tradition.”

            Bardamir grinned widely.  “One would think so, no?  Oh, but when he returned to us I do not think anyone had thought to tell him of this tradition, probably not even his mother.  Remember, he had not been among our people since he was two years old, and most likely had no real memory of going out into the center of the village to greet the coming of the Yule Dwarf after the communal feast, there before the New Fire was lit.  The Elves of Rivendell have their own ways of celebrating the Turning of the Year, ways that included fire, dancing, and song, but far more graceful and beautiful than that to which we mortals are given, I am certain.  And for all that he knew himself to be a mortal, still he had been raised primarily by Elves, and had grown up with Elven sensibilities.  He had been raised with a deeper appreciation for the roles of the Powers than most mortals ever know, and his utterance of the traditional words of praise usually offered as the New Fire flares up can truly lift the heart.  But it was not until that first Mettarë was upon us that it was realized that he had no knowledge of what would be expected of him as the tallest Man now within the village.  He had been in the hall of the Keep with his Uncle Halbaleg as the bundles of gifts to be presented to the children were brought in with as much secrecy could be arranged, and had been told that these were to be distributed to the children after the feast.  That he was to be the one to give out these gifts he did not understand, much less the circumstances under which he was to give them out!”

            Pippin was now laughing.  “That must have been quite the feat, convincing him he must dress up as a Dwarf and come into the village with a sack filled with toys to give to the children!”

            “Indeed,” the Man said, nodding.  “My papa was among those who tried to explain what was expected of him.  If he had no appreciation that he would have to do such a thing, apparently no one within the village had taken thought of the fact that he was likely to not understand just how much this particular part of our Mettarë celebrations had come to mean to our people, and particularly to those of us who were children.  I mean, I was but ten, but realizing he was the tallest Man I’d ever seen I already knew he would play the Yule Dwarf that year, as did most of the other children, and many of us had already approached him with word of what we would like to receive for Yule, and he could not understand why.”

            He shook his head.  “My papa told me of the shock he displayed when his grandmother came to measure him for the armor and to see what alterations might be needed that he could wear the beard properly.  When they tried to explain about the tradition he could not understand it at all.  He kept asking, ‘But why am I to dress up as a Dwarf?  Who would even believe I should be a Dwarf?’  That everyone would understand from the beginning that he was not a Dwarf and that this was part of the reason he and no other should play the role went completely over his head!”

            Pippin was shaking with laughter.  “And considering how tall he is, that is saying a good deal!  We expect our Yule Dwarves to be decidedly fat, but that you should want them to be exceptionally tall….”  He wiped away tears of mirth.

            “Oh, yes!” Bardamir agreed, his smile even wider than before.  “He looked at the armor that his grandmother had brought and objected that it was like nothing he’d ever seen before, and that it didn’t even look like proper Dwarf armor anyway.  He’d seen Dwarves, it proved, there within Rivendell.”

            “Yes, he would have,” Pippin said, thinking for a moment.  “Yes, he would have seen them when Bilbo was there with Thorin Oakenshield and Gimli’s father Glóin and the rest.  I do remember now Bilbo telling us, when we were there in Rivendell, I mean, that the first time he’d seen Strider was when they passed through there going to the Lonely Mountain, and that Aragorn was just a child at the time.  So, he had definitely been in a position to see what real Dwarf armor was like.”

            “I understand that in the end Lord Halbaleg had to shout at him that it didn’t matter at all whether the armor was true Dwarf armor, but that it only had to look different enough from Men’s and Elves’ armor to be accepted as possibly being Dwarf armor for the sake of our children.  At last Aragorn stopped objecting, but mostly because he realized it was doing no good at all.  Then they had to convince him that he couldn’t walk like an Elf, but that he had to walk as if he had real weight to him if he was to be accepted as the Yule Dwarf, and he had to make his voice low and to laugh as if he might be a Dwarf as well.  As for the beard—that, too, was something he could not appreciate the reason for, particularly when he pointed out that it didn’t look like a real Dwarf’s beard.  Lord Halbaleg was at the point of tearing out his own beard before they got him to understand that even though he was being presented as the Yule Dwarf, everyone already knew that he was not a Dwarf after all—that all he had to do was announce he was the Yule Dwarf and get on with the giving of the gifts.

            “Late during the feast of Mettarë he was drawn away from the table at which Lord Halbaleg and his family sat.  It was Halbarad who was tasked with seeing him dressed in the costume and with attaching the beard to his face.  At least since his own beard had not begun to grow as yet he did not have to shave it off so that the glue should not catch in it.

            “As Halbarad told us later, it was quite the ordeal to get him readied that first year, for Aragorn was not at all happy to have to portray a lie, or so he thought of it at the time.  The clothing to be worn under the armor was heavy, and he found the great boots he must wear to be bulky and uncomfortable, but not quite long enough to properly fit his feet.  As for the armor, he swore that it would not protect anyone from any kind of a blow from an enemy.  I understand that he so complained and all but wept at the indignity of it all that Halbarad was reduced to swearing that if he did not cease his whinging he, Halbarad, would punch him in the mouth and that it did not matter who his father had been or that he was intended to be our Chieftain.  He said that this threat so surprised his lord kinsman that Aragorn looked upon him with shock and disbelief, but at least he finally shut his mouth and kept his complaints to himself.”

            Bardamir looked upwards, his mouth pursed with the memory of it.  “I remember how we children were made to form rows, the smallest in front and the tallest at the back.  We could all see him approaching, his legs stiff as he tried to walk heavily as he had been instructed, although he found walking in those boots, which fit him badly to begin with, difficult from the start.  His expression was grim, and my little cousin who stood in front of me was frightened by what he could see of the Yule Dwarf’s face.  Not that carrying that bag of gifts slung over his shoulder was a particularly easy task, mind you.”

            “Did certain people still make most of the gifts as they did that first year?” asked Pippin.

            Bardamir shook his head.  “Some people still made small items that were offered to those children who had no other gifts coming.  But mostly the parents or guardians for each child provided a single gift for their child to be given at that time.  For many of the boys who were approaching fifteen that meant they were receiving long knives or short swords, bows or quivers of arrows, a public acknowledgment that they would be expected to begin training to protect our people within the coming year.  Many older girls would receive sets of mixing bowls, or hand looms, or perhaps shuttles of colorful yarns or thread with which to do their first weavings of cloth upon the looms in their families’ homes.  There were still toys for the younger children, although many whose parents worked the land would receive small sickles or hand plows so that they might walk beside their parents at the harvests or at the spring planting and help as they were able.”

            “I see,” Pippin said.

            Bardamir continued, “A certain chair, almost a throne, has been set out for the Yule Dwarf for as long as I can remember, and when at last he reached it, Aragorn practically fell into it.  He’d been followed by Halbarad, who stood behind him, his own face set as he watched to see that Aragorn did the job properly.  He prompted Aragorn as to what he should say that we would know that he was indeed our Yule Dwarf, and I remember seeing the looks of fury exchanged as he prodded Aragorn to pull the bag of gifts around in front of him so that he might reach within it for the next gift for presentation.  Each present was supposed to have a tag attached so that Aragorn might know to whom it was to be given, but of course some tags had become dislodged when the bag was filled or as he carried it through the village.  Lord Halbaleg, who’d been the Yule Dwarf for several years, could recognize by how the gifts were wrapped who had furnished them, and with a simple glance at the donor would receive an indication as to which child it should be given.  But Aragorn did not know those who lived within the village all that well as yet, and had no idea for whom a particular item might have been intended.

            “I am not completely certain just why he did not throw his hands over the helmet he wore and flee, but he sat there growing obviously more and more frustrated as he fought to remove from the sack objects with odd shapes that seemed intent on catching in the folds of cloth that then had to be held up so that he could learn which child should be called forward to receive them.

            “There was one boy of an age with me, Tennig, whose body was twisted and whose mind was quite simple.  He was often ill, and he only lived three more years after that first Yule our Chieftain returned to us.  He watched with pleased excitement as the Yule Dwarf arrived with his sack, and although he commented to the girl beside him that this was a different Yule Dwarf than he’d seen before, he did not appear to be worried by the fact that this Yule Dwarf appeared to be so clumsy or uncertain.  When the gift for him was held up, he recognized the skin bag in which it was contained as belonging to his papa, and he stood up immediately to claim it, before any of the adults could name him.  Something about how eager he was to receive it from the Yule Dwarf’s hand caught Aragorn’s attention, and his scowl faded away as Tennig approached him.  He took Tennig upon his lap and presented him with the bag, and asked him how he knew it was his own.  And when Tennig opened it before us all and found it contained a gardening fork and trowel, and it was plain that he was so pleased to receive such as a gift that he turned to hug Aragorn about his neck, we could see that Aragorn forgot in that moment how upset he’d been to be asked to take on this role to begin with, and he hugged Tennig in return and set him gently upon his feet so he could return to his place.  Afterward he would show each gift to Halbarad, who would whisper to him the name to call, and he greeted the arrival of the children with smiles and quiet and cheerful words.

            “When it was my turn I received a toy boat my uncle had made for me, and the Yule Dwarf commented on how beautifully it was constructed and of the fine detail it showed, and he reminded me that allowing others to play with it would make it even more enjoyable, although he did tell me that if any mishandled it I should not allow them to touch it again.  I thought this last to be most satisfactory advice, and I remember thanking him for it, and seeing how his eyes shone with pleasure for my delight with the gift.”

            “So, in spite of everything he turned out to be a most satisfactory Yule Dwarf anyway.”

            “That he did.  Although there was one more mishap.”

            “There was?  What was that?”

            Bardamir leaned forward to confide, “Well, the trews of the costume were not of a proper fit for him, and as he rose to his feet and turned around, we could all hear a rip of cloth, and we saw that the seam of his trews had split right up the back.  He stopped and looked back, and he shook his head so hard that the helmet fell off and landed upon the ground with a loud clunk, and he left it lying there as he held his hands behind him, trying to cover up the rent in his costume as he fled into the meeting hall.  We children loved it!  But after that we noticed that the Yule Dwarf now wore quite a bright cloak over his armor, a cloak that would most adequately hide any further such problems.”

            Pippin was still laughing when Frodo returned to the guesthouse from the Citadel a short time afterward.