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

I killed him. Well . . . I suppose it was more an accident but I did nothing to save him.

I was so angry with him last night. It had been just one more time that all he did was take advantage of my short comings, and it seems I have a lot of them lately. The lovely lass that waited on us at the inn now, he didn’t need to make my embarrassment any worse than it was . . . but he just couldn’t resist.

She came to our table with our third helpings of beef stew. A lovely lass. I’d been taken with her from when she had first come to take our dinner orders. I was going to thank her and ask her name. I turned to her, opened my mouth . . .

No subtle thing, no. That would have been easy to cover over. No, this was a window rattler if ever I had heard, or produced, one.

"You must forgive him," he said in his smoothest voice, "the lad barely knows how to speak as it is. When he’s a few ales toward drunk he’s quite unintelligible."

Later, on my way back to our table after a visit to the privy, I lost my footing somehow. (That seems to be happening to me a lot lately.) I knocked her straight into Martin Bracegirdle’s lap. Not the nicest lad, Martin. He grabbed a few things he shouldn’t have, she jumped from his lap, slapped him then glared at me.

"You shouldn’t have done that!" my tormenter said sternly as he stepped up beside the lass. His face wore a scowl but his eyes were alight with taunting. "He really is horribly gullible, my poor cousin is," he said to the lass. "He should have known better than to take that money from Martin, knowing what sort old Martin is."

We were on our way home. We were on the narrow bridge over Trout Creek when his pony spooked.

(I may have jabbed it a bit with my pocket knife. I don’t recall doing that but the open knife was in my hand later.)

His pony spooked and into the creek he went. He must have been too drunk, or had got tangled in weeds or some such thing as he was normally a good swimmer. He struggled. Gasped. Went under.

I didn’t move off my pony. I watched him struggle, I heard him beg for aid, till my cousin floated face down upon the surface of the creek.

"What on earth is this all about?" Merry held a piece of paper up under his cousin’s nose.

"Ah . . . ah . . . choo! What is that thing? It must be . . . ah - choo! . . . full of dust or something."

"It must have got damp at sometime, it’s musty. But Pippin, it’s in your writing. Well," Merry looked at it again, "in your writing as it was when you were younger. But it’s a dreadful thing, dreadful. According to this you let someone, some cousin of yours, drown in Trout Creek!"

"What! That? It . . . Let me see that, Merry." Pippin snatched the paper from Merry’s hand. "I . . . it . . . ah - choo! I thought I had burned this ages ago. The day after I had written it in fact."

The cousins were going through some crates and boxes that Eglantine had sent to Crickhollow from Great Smials.

"Wait a moment!" Merry snatched the shabby piece of paper back. "I remember these things. I remember that night in the Pony and Cart. This is me you’re talking about!"

"I had just become a tween not long before, if you recall, Merry. And . . . well, it seemed to me as if I had got to where I couldn’t do anything right. You know, that point in life when a lad just seems all gangly and befuddled."

"Well, it seemed to me that you were having a grand time making everything I did seem worse. Moving in to say or do things that made you look wonderful and me look an arse. And well . . ." Pippin turned away. He walked over to a window and gazed out at the sunlit lawns of Crickhollow. "I didn’t really hate you, I just was getting very tired of you always coming off better. Then I started having this awful dream." He turned back from the window and waved his hand at the brown splotched paper. "That awful dream. The setting for you shaming me would change to whatever had happened most recently, but suddenly we would be upon the bridge and from there it was always the same." Pippin sighed loudly and turned back to the window. "I’d wake in a clammy sweat feeling absolutely hideous for even dreaming such a thing. I would sneak down the hall to your room, or next door to your room if we were at Great Smials, to make sure I hadn’t really . . ." He waved his hand once again in the direction of the paper. "I finally decided that maybe if I wrote it down it would . . . well, you had told me that if you had some design you kept doodling and couldn’t seem to quit, that if you turned it into a full sketch or painting or such, that you’d stop doodling it all the time. I hoped if I wrote this horrible dream down that it would go away."

Pippin reached up to pat Merry’s hand. "Well, yes. But whether because I wrote it down or just because things started to change that very next night, I don’t know for sure."

"Yes, the next night was one of Vinca’s parties. It was the one where you were talking about going hunting. You were flinging your arms all about and caught the tray of drinks and food that Chrystal Took was carrying." Pippin smiled over at Merry, who smiled and chuckled back.

"Oh my, yes! She was buried under cider and apple pie. I made a complete mess of the poor lass."

"Aye. And I swept up beside her and said, ‘You need to excuse Merry, Chrystal. The poor lad has quite lost control over his arms since he fell off his pony. Let me help you clean up and I’ll see if Vinca has a frock she can loan you.’" Pippin clapped Merry on the back. "She spent the rest of the evening in my company and I had left you looking quite the clumsy oaf. I felt better than I had in months! From that time on I didn’t feel so badly if you got me on something stupid I would do because I was able to get my own back when you would mess up. We were even and the dream never came back."

"Well, cousin mine, I’m glad you didn’t actually try to kill me. Here." Merry handed the smelly paper to Pippin. "I’ll let you have the honor of actually burning it this time."

“I thought it was just so much foolishness. As though the likes of us wavin’ flamin’ sticks about would really scare off Black Riders. ‘Specially with them all together as they were.”

“You’ve the truth of it there, Sam.” Merry looked down at Frodo with worried eyes. “Are you sure we ought to be talking about all this just now, Gandalf? I mean, might Frodo hear this and . . . well, it could be troubling to him.”

The wizard laid a hand upon Frodo’s brow. All was silent for a few moments until Gandalf opened his eyes as he tucked his hand back up the opposing arm’s sleeve. “He is far from us yet, Meriadoc, I’m sorry to say.” He saw the worry lines deepen on the younger hobbit’s brow, so hastened to add, “Though not nearly as far as he was, Meriadoc. He is healing and sleeping deeply. What is said shan’t disturb him I’m sure.”

“Well,” continued Merry, “I’m sure it wasn’t really us that panicked the Riders and their horses. More likely it was Glorfindel and Strider they were none too glad to see.”

“I don’t know about that, Merry,” Pippin said while moving his right arm about as though he were waving his flaming brand in the air. “Glorfindel said they wouldn’t like fire coming at them. I’m certain we helped somewhat or they, Strider and Glorfindel that is, wouldn’t have bothered taking the time to start the fire and all.”

“He did say that, Mr. Pippin.” Sam nodded at the youngest cousin. “But, whether or no, that flood put a quick end to them. I’m thinkin’ Lord Glorfindel knew that would happen, knew the river would rise right up like that when them filthy wraiths set their horses into the water. It was a right good thing that Elf horse got to the top of the bank with Mr. Frodo.”

There was a pause in the telling of their journey and Gandalf looked carefully at each hobbit standing around Frodo’s bed. They all still showed signs of their exhaustion despite their relief that Frodo was finally free of the shard of Morgul blade that had been burrowing into his body. They were all feeling the healing effects of the House of Elrond; Pippin in particular had been light of heart and under foot. But as they had gathered around Frodo’s bed this evening they had begun to speak of their journey and the wizard had made no effort to discourage them.

“Don’t know quite where my head was at,” Sam said softly. “I didn’t even see him . . .” He paused, swallowing at the lump in his throat. “He fell off that great horse and I didn’t see it. Great lot of good I was. Sorry, Gandalf. I didn’t watch out for him as I should’ve.”

Merry spoke instead of the wizard. “As though any of us saw it happen, Sam. We were too busy being scared nearly out of our wits at the thought of rushing at the Riders, then being scared because we were actually doing it. I could scarcely believe my eyes when everything calmed down a bit and I looked across the river and saw the horse standing there without a rider. I nearly fainted away at that point thinking Frodo had got washed away in that torrent.” Merry rested his right hand on Frodo’s shoulder, as though he still needed reassurance that his dear cousin was actually there. He spoke as if to himself. “I barely remember getting across the river.”

“Strider carried you and me, Merry,” Pippin said. “And Glorfindel carried Sam. I had wondered how we would cross as the water was up to Frodo’s feet while he crossed on the horse, and that was before the flooding.”

Merry looked at Pippin as though the lad hadn’t a brain in his head, though it was more irritation with himself that Pippin had noticed that detail while he had not. But then again he had been paying attention to Glorfindel and Strider telling the hobbits what to do. Pippin had obviously been looking around instead. “I know that, Pip,” Merry snapped. “It just . . . I just . . . sorry, Pippin.” He patted his cousin as he calmed down. “I remember that now, but at the time I really didn’t notice or care. Then when we got to the top of the bank and they set us down . . .”

“Set us by the horse with it all wild-eyed and . . .” Sam swallowed hard once again. He had been much too consumed with Frodo’s condition and Lord Elrond’s treatment and care of him to have thought much about what had happened before now. “I think that beast wouldn’t ‘ave let none of us near Mr. Frodo if his master hadn’t been there. Then, when Glorfindel moved the horse aside there was Frodo, lying there on his face . . . just . . . laying in the mud and grass . . .”

Merry and Sam looked at Pippin with slightly shocked expressions on their faces. They had all thought it, at the time. They had all thought it on the long slow walk from the river to Rivendell. They had all thought it, and hated themselves for thinking it, as Frodo was tended that first night by the Elf Lord. They had all thought it until the moment the bit of cursed steel had been removed and assurance given that Frodo Baggins would live. They had all felt like traitors for thinking such hopeless thoughts. But they hadn’t been so lacking in concern for Frodo, or each other, that they had spoken the thought aloud.

“He did. He did and we all thought it . . . well, I thought it and I thought you both thought it. But . . . I didn’t say anything. We none of us said a thing. I . . . we couldn’t, wouldn’t . . . we had had all that energy when we chased the Riders with those burning sticks, and I think if we could have waded the river we would have run up the bank. I could feel it, I think we would have tried to fight our way past the horse if we’d had to until . . .” Pippin gasped in a breath at last, shuddering as he did so. “Do you remember the walk the rest of the way here? Do you, Merry? Sam?” He looked from one to the other.

Gandalf watched them all. They had grown pale. Tears that had come in small spurts before, quickly dried and hidden behind hopeful words to their unconscious friend and kinsman, now ran freely. Merry and Sam shook their heads.

“I don’t either. There was no energy left. There was . . . nothing left because we thought he was dead, or too near to . . .” Pippin stopped, a look of horror in his eyes.

“We none o’ us said naught of that either, but it was like the other. We were all thinkin’ on it and dreadin’ it.”

One by one, without noticing they were doing it, they had each reached out to rest a hand on Frodo while looking at his now peaceful face. Each one was quietly asking Frodo’s forgiveness while hoping he would sense the joy they felt knowing he would live.

“Do you think Bilbo felt the same?” Pippin finally broke the silence. “He looks so much older now. I was afraid for him as well. That is, after we’d had some food and that little bit of rest and I had wits about me enough to notice him looking older and so very worried. I wasn’t at all sure he’d make it if the worst had happened to Frodo.”

“He has aged.” Merry gave Frodo’s shoulder a squeeze then turned to hug Pippin. “I think he’s all right, Pip. I somehow felt he knew more about all of this than we did, having . . . had the Ring himself,” he finished in a low whisper. “I think he’s been blaming himself for everything.”

“I think you are right, Meriadoc,” Gandalf finally spoke. “But I think Bilbo’s understanding of Frodo’s struggle and the love all of you have for Frodo, did much to save Frodo. I think it gave him strength to hold on to this world. And now I think it is time for the three of you to do more recovering yourselves by getting another good meal and some sleep.” The wizard quickly held up a quieting hand, anticipating a protest from Sam. “Ah, ah, ah! You too, Samwise Gamgee. I will stay here with Frodo. You are all to eat well and then sleep. I will have you all sent for in four hours time. Now off with you all before I make it six hours.”

The hobbits grumbled a bit but Gandalf heard their pleasant voices, lifted in jest and laughter, fading into the distance as they went to follow his orders.

They had marched long. Perhaps not so long in time nor distance as it seemed. It seemed an endless age. It was but the sixth day since they had marched away from the White City. They had marched away with the hope of the people and the strength of the horns of Rohan and Gondor emboldening their hearts. There was concern as well, as they seemed headed off on little more than a fools errand . . . but still there had been hope. Hope dearly gleaned from battle won. Hope from the rising of the sun glinting upon the Horns of the Rohirrim, raised in battle cry. Hope from the healing brought by one who could be King.

With every step they had taken away from Minas Tirith and closer to the Black Land hope waned as despair waxed. It had started as a quiet gloom that spread throughout the ranks despite the blare of trumpets and the cries of the heralds proclaiming the arrival in this realm of the King Elessar. A growing heaviness of heart, foot and leg while on the march. No songs, nor jests were heard in their nightly encampments. Talk there was little and that subdued.

Lifeless were the lands lying before the gates. Haunted were the lands that lay before the Pass of Cirith Gorgor. Lifeless and haunted felt the heart of many a young soldier in the small vanguard that was the army of the West. Young men from fair vales and pristine mountains of the realm of Gondor that were not as near to the Mountains of Shadow and the Dark Lands as was Minas Tirith. Riders of Rohan for whom these lands had all their lives been an evil place existing only in tales told by firesides, not a place of substance. And now the dark tales and dark dreams of childhood stood real before them and they were run through with terror.

And he who would be King looked on them with compassion, these who had shown strength enough to come this far, and he said to them, *"Go! But keep what honour you may, and do not run! And there is a task which you may attempt and so be not wholly shamed. Take your way south-west till you come to Cair Andros, and if that is still held by enemies, as I think, then re-take it, if you can; and hold it to the last in defence of Gondor and Rohan!"*

Many were strengthened by his mercy and remained. Others took heart at a task within their reach and, forming an orderly company, marched off to the south-west. Within the army of less than six thousand that now marched through the desolation toward the Black Gate were Beregond of Gondor and Peregrin Took of the Shire.

Finally word came back through the ranks that a halt had been called for the night and camp was to be made. Bedrolls were spread around small fires. Coffee was made, the night’s rations eaten and there was quiet talk of the day’s events; of the men who had left.

"I nearly left it myself," said Derufin. "If I’d not long been a soldier of the city . . ." He paused as he stared into their small fire. "I come from the Stonewain Valley, as did a few of those who left, and I can well say that I understood their fears."

"I hale from Lossarnach and am cousin to our company’s leader." Here Hirgon nodded to Beregond who nodded in return. "If not for that I would have gone. But I will not leave a kinsman to fend for himself."

"But what of that one?" Derufin asked shifting his gaze to a small cloak-draped lump that lay a short ways from the fire. "I thought surely he would take his leave of this with the others. I know he is a halfling and while in the city I heard much of their bravery in the Battle of The Pelennor. Or at least of the bravery of the one who rode with the Rohirrim, but I know this is not that halfling. Truly, he seems more a child than ought else and greatly wearied from this march. Surely it is some folly of this lord they are calling King Elessar to bring such a one to this place?" Derufin looked toward Beregond who was obviously unsettled by his remarks. "What say you, Beregond? It is obvious you know each other somewhat as the halfling has stuck close by you."

Beregond looked to his left where his small friend lay in an exhausted slumber. The march had been hard on the hobbit, with his short stride and the unaccustomed weight of his mail, though he had complained little. "Yes, I know him as well as can be for the short time he has been in the city. Were it not for the fact that he was most talkative that first day, I would not know him well at all. After he was given duties I did not see him as often." Beregond's thoughts went to the night of the siege and the horrors that unfolded in a tomb on the Silent Street. Yes, they had each had their duties. He drew his gaze from Pippin to look into Derufin’s eyes. "His name is Peregrin Took, as I know you’ve heard, though he prefers Pippin, as I also know you’ve heard. He is usually a cheery sort, though this march . . . this place, would take the cheer from anyone." He looked again at the small mound that was Pippin. "I will admit that I had my doubts over some of the tales he told." Beregond looked back to the men around the fire and grinned weakly. "A wanderer’s tales oft get enlarged with each telling. But they all, all the lords that is, treat him with fair respect and it was his cousin who helped . . ." he lowered his voice and glanced about, "kill the Witch king. And Pippin himself showed much courage the night of Lord Denethor’s passing. I find myself more given to believing his tales than I once was."

The cloak covered hobbit twitched a few times and small noises, like a whimpering child, could barely be heard coming from him.

"That may well be, Beregond." Derufin said. "Yet, as I said, he is rather childlike. Do you hear how he is whimpering?"

A low moan came from Pippin and for a few moments he thrashed about. The cloak slipped from his torso and the emblem of the tree glinted in the fire light as he struggled with his unseen foe. He ceased to move, his back now to the men sitting by the fire, and the whimpers began again. The men listening who had children found their stomachs knotting up within them as the sounds were clearly like those of a child in great pain.

"The fear is taking him," Derufin whispered. "He should have left when he had the chance. The lords had no business to bring a child to this place."

Beregond glared at Derufin. "He has seen twenty-nine years," he sharply stated before rising and walking around Pippin so the hobbit would be facing him when he awoke. Beregond knelt and shook Pippin’s shoulder as he called his name. At first the hobbit merely twitched while the sounds coming from him grew louder. Finally, Pippin jerked hard enough to break free of Beregond’s hold on his shoulder, his eyes flew widely open and he panted for breath. Pippin’s eyes then quickly took in his surroundings.

"Yes, it is me, Pippin. You . . . you appeared to be having a bad dream, my friend. Will you be all right?" Beregond again placed his hand on Pippin’s shoulder. The hobbit’s face was pale in the dim light of another nearby campfire and he was trembling beneath Beregond’s hand.

"Dream," Pippin said absently and he stared blankly into his friend’s eyes. "Dream. Yes. It . . . had to be a dream. Nothing was . . ." His eyes slowly lost their glazed look. "Nothing was quite the way it happened so it . . . yes, it had to be a dream."

Beregond heard a soft "hrumphing" noise from over by their fire. He knew it was Derufin. He could imagine the look on the man’s face, the roll of his eyes belittling Pippin. "What did you dream, Pippin?" He asked loudly enough for those by the fire to hear. "Tell me." Beregond heard the shushing sounds, he was aware of the men quietly moving closer.

Pippin licked his lips. He closed his eyes "It was the orcs. You remember I told you?" He opened his eyes to search Beregond’s for any sign of rememberance. "I told you about the orcs that captured me and Merry?"

"Yes, when . . ." the hobbit’s eyes squeezed shut as the painful memories ran through his mind. "When Boromir died trying to save us."

Beregond hoped the others caught that Pippin spoke of Captain Boromir without use of rank or title, that he spoke of him as one would a friend using only his name.

"In the dream we were with them. Merry and I, I mean, not . . . not Boromir. And they had . . ." Pippin paused and his eyes opened once more. "This is one of the parts that wasn’t right. It wasn’t what actually happened, Beregond, so it had to be a dream. Such a real dream though." Pippin’s eyes took on the look of one seeing things that were distant. For a few long moments he said nothing before taking in a deep breath and sighing . His eyes returned to the present. "Do you remember, Beregond, remember the . . ." again the hobbit’s eyes clenched shut in a grimace of pain. "The palantir Denethor had?" he whispered, but the men had drawn near enough to hear him.

Pippin nodded but his eyes remained tightly closed. "There was another. There was one at Orthanc." A shiver ran through him and Beregond squeezed his shoulder to reassure the lad. Pippin’s eyes slowly opened. He was once more seeing the events of the past instead of the face of his friend with the soft glow of the fire’s light upon it. His voice sounded stiff and without emotion. "I touched it. I picked it up. Gandalf took it from me. He was gruff about it. But it called to me. It and my own curiosity. I’m curious . . . always curious . . . too curious. I took it. Took it from Gandalf." Pippin gave out a strange humorless chuckle. "So proud of myself. Oh yes, so proud of myself for managing that. So frightened at what I had managed to do. It burned within. I saw . . . His tower. I saw . . . nazgul. I saw . . .Him."

The tremor Beregond now felt was his own. He had not heard this before, Pippin had not shared this story when they had spoken together of his travels. Beregond did not take his eyes from Pippin’s face but he could feel the tenseness and fear in the others as they listened. Pippin’s odd sounding voice continued his tale.

"He questioned me. He . . . He hurt me. Hurt me." Suddenly he grasped at Beregond’s arm, his expression desperate. "But I didn’t tell Him anything. I . . . I told him that I’m a hobbit . . . that . . .that was all . . . all I told Him."

Then the tension went out of the lad and he lay there breathing raggedly. When he spoke again his voice was more his own, though it still quavered, his eyes were no longer wild. "That was why I ended up in Minas Tirith with Gandalf. Why I had to leave Merry behind." Pippin sighed and looked at Beregond. "But the dream you see, the dream was different because the orcs had the palantir and they were forcing Merry to look into it, and it was driving me mad. I didn’t want . . . you-know-who, to hurt Merry. But then it was like we were both inside the stone and there was no escape, and He was hurting both of us." He once again took hold of his friend’s arm and looked deeply into his eyes. "We can’t let Him win, Beregond. We just can’t. There will be nothing left . . . nothing. Just darkness and . . . pain."

The men and the hobbit all jumped a bit at the sound the voice. A man had come up behind them while they had listened to Pippin’s recounting of both memories and dream. Beregond looked over the heads of his soldiers at the newcomer. Pippin looked back over his shoulder and now saw the men who had been listening.

"It would appear so, Strider, though I hadn’t realized it." The hobbit’s voice was still shaky.

Beregond lept to his feet. He knew "Strider" was the name Pippin used to address Aragorn son of Arathorn, whom the heralds had been announcing as King Elessar. The others stood as well. Only Pippin remained as he was.

"Thank you, gentlemen, but you may be as you were." Aragorn said as he walked over to kneel where Beregond had knelt a moment ago. "You should get your rest while you can, Pippin. I fear this dread that hangs over us will only worsen and by evening tomorrow I’m not sure any will find rest.

Aragorn had laid his hand upon the hobbit’s head and was lightly rubbing his fingers in the lad’s hair. His healer’s touch did its work and Pippin soon became drowsy.

"I am tired . . . Strider," he mumbled. "But I will be . . . ready . . . as I can be." Pippin yawned. "To help . . . to not let . . . Him . . . . . . win."

Aragorn stayed where he was, running his fingers through Pippin’s hair. Pippin wasn’t the only one who had taken comfort from the gesture.

Hirgon spoke quietly. "My lord. Is it true? What the half . . . what Pippin was telling us. Of being captured and of looking into one of the Stones of Seeing?"

"Then I owe him my apology come the morning," said Derufin. "For I scoffed at his being here, thinking him too childlike to endure the Dark Lands."

Aragorn rose and went to Derufin, placing a hand upon the man’s shoulder. "No need. It would only embarrass him. Just treat him as you would any other soldier. I’m sure that will be what he will most treasure." He looked around the small group. "My thanks to you all for remaining with us and continuing on. Good night to you all . . . well, as good a one as can be had."

The next day would be a long and difficult one. The men slowly went, each to his own bedroll, and sought what rest they could get.

"You’ll have a wonderful afternoon with your Da and sister, dear one. You won’t even miss me," Mum had said this but she really couldn’t have meant it . . . could she have? Well, the "won’t even miss me" part at least. She couldn’t have meant that part. He did miss her.

Da had been fun, Faramir granted that. Had been. Even Beryl had been fun. Had been. They had played hide and seek. They had built Minas Tirith with his blocks. Then Da had read a story. All had things.

The now things were no longer being much fun. Da and Beryl now were asleep. That seemed to happen when Da would read stories. Even Faramir would occasionally fall asleep to stories. But only occasionally. He was a big lad of eight not a faunt of three as Beryl was. Which didn’t explain why Da would usually fall asleep, seeing as he was even bigger and older than Faramir. He would have to remember to ask his Da about that sometime. For now, though, he just stood there looking at them sleeping on the sofa in the everyday parlor.

They looked rather cute, Faramir thought. Da on his (Faramir thought a few moments to work things out) Da on his left side, with his back against the back of the sofa. His left (a moment to think it through just to be sure he was correct) his left arm wrapped around Beryl, his hand resting on her shoulder. Beryl had her back against Da’s chest and her head on Da’s arm near his shoulder. Da’s other arm was tucked up by his chin, elbow bent, with his right hand (yes, right hand if he’s got his left around Beryl as decided before) right hand still holding the small book from which he had been reading.

Faramir gently tugged the book away and closed it. Da wouldn’t like that the book was splayed wide open and two of the pages curled wrongly against the pillow. He set the book on the little table beside the sofa then looked back to see if this had disturbed his Da. It had not.

Faramir looked at his father’s hand, the one on the pillow. He gently took hold of the shirt cuff and raised the hand off the pillow.

It hung there on the end of Da’s wrist, fingers gently curved though mostly straight.

Always the same. The fingers would straighten out quite a bit when the hand was lifted but would end up curled again by the time the hand came to rest on the pillow. While doing this, Da’s other hand had slipped down off of Beryl’s shoulder and now lay sticking out over the edge of the sofa. Palm up. Fingers curled in.

Faramir turned his father’s wrist. The hand rolled over and as soon as the palm was facing towards his Da’s feet . . . the fingers had straightened out a bit.

Palm up. Palm toward feet. Palm up. Palm toward feet. Fingers curled. Fingers straighter. Fingers curled. Fingers straighter. Wrist and arm rolled over a bit more so the palm was facing the floor. Fingers a bit straighter, though not much. Fingers that were asleep seemed to do interesting things.

Faramir tucked his father’s arm up over his little sister, uncurling the fingers so the palm rested on Beryl’s shoulder. Beryl wiggled ever so slightly. Da didn’t move.

For a while Faramir played with his blocks, but it wasn’t as much fun without his Da telling his stories of the great White City and her King. He looked about for something else to do. A smile lit his face. It was very nearly Yule and the parlor needed better decorating. There wasn’t near enough things in here compared to the formal parlor where his Da and Mum would entertain guests. But then Faramir frowned a bit. He couldn’t just go running off to get things, what if his Da woke and he wasn’t there? He’d be in trouble, that was what. He got up and went over to the sofa.

They hadn’t moved, his sister and his Da. Very asleep they were. Faramir knew that if he said, "Da?" his father might wake up and that would wake Beryl and that would spoil his surprise. He would have to be careful.

That was a "Yes" to Faramir’s mind. He scampered off to the Great Smial’s store rooms and soon he was back with a large ratty looking basket balanced across his hips as he struggled to carry it with both hands. It was nearly an hour’s worth of work before Faramir surveyed his efforts. He was not quite sure it was right but his tummy rumbled and he decided to eat whilst thinking it over.

He went over to the figures on the sofa. To be honest, he did check to make sure they were both breathing as they really hadn’t moved much.

"Tar’s," his father muttered. "Ras’erry tar’s . . . cus’ar tar’s . . . treacle tar’s . . ." His Da had a smile on his face. "Li’ ras’erry tar’s bes’.’

Faramir went and got all the tarts he could from the pantry. By the time he was full he had decided what the parlor needed. Auntie Pearl had done something like it in her apartments, though she had used paint, and so he knew it was something mama’s liked. He fetched his pastels and began to work.

Diamond’s cheeks were rosy from the cold, her fingers a bit numb, but her spirits high as she balanced her packages against the door frame and fumbled about for the knob. Perhaps she should have let the stable lad help her carry the parcels but she had wanted to do it herself. Seeing if she could manage them was part of the fun of a day’s Yule shopping. She finally managed the knob and pushed the door open only to be assailed by a horrid musty smell. Then she saw the writing on the wall. Not really writing but very small blue and red connected circles, like one might make when they were learning to write. She set her bundles down, shut the door and pinched her nose closed before following the line of circles along the wall of the short entry hall into the Thain’s private apartments. They went toward the parlor. She got to the parlor and looked in.

The red and blue circles circled the room at about the height of a certain hobbit lad’s reach. Large dusty pink and purple bows were hanging from the tops of the book shelves. (The shelves had wobbled while Faramir climbed up them, but not too badly, only a few things had fallen to the floor.) A large bunch of dried flowers, complete with dust, cobwebs and small spider, hung from the lamp that hung over the table in the corner. The table cloth had stains running down the sides and something was still dripping from the edge onto the floor. (Faramir had hoped that stuff in the mug that fell over wasn’t anything important.) Odd cut pieces of musty fabric hung over the backs of the chairs in the room as though it were laundry day and too rainy to hang things outside. The floor was covered with blocks, what looked like a good many tart crumbs and one squished custard tart. (Faramir hadn’t liked the way it felt when he stepped on that one custard tart but he took his Da’s waistcoat from where he had hung it earlier when they were playing hide and seek and wiped the custard and crust off his foot so he wouldn’t track it all over the carpet.) There was a big note in childish print, written in blue and red pastels, propped on her rocking chair, "Qiet Mum. Da and Beryl are sleping. Hop you like the decoshuns I did. Faramir" She walked carefully though the mess to the sofa.

Pippin had a dusty blue bow tied in his hair, Beryl had a dusty pink one in hers. One of her husband’s feet was hanging off the edge of the sofa, a tag tied around the big toe read "To Mum" in the same printing as the sign. Faramir was laying between Pippin’s bent legs and the back of the sofa, head resting on his father’s thigh which had a dark spot on the trousers just below Faramir’s slightly opened mouth. Beryl was tucked up against her Da’s chest, her head on his upper arm. There was a dark spot on his sleeve from her drooling on him as she slept. And Pippin, her dear husband. His right arm lay along his side, his fingers entwined in Faramir’s hair. His left hand was holding onto Beryl’s shoulder. There was a dark spot on the pillow beneath his slightly opened mouth.

Morning brought no encouragement. It brought only what it had brought the day before . . . a view of the devastation of his realm from the window of his study and the presence of his keepers. He could feel the slow thoughts of the Ents. Wood-demons. He much preferred to think of them thus. He knew there was naught to be done quickly with them. He would have to be slow and patient in toying with their thoughts. Added to that he was weary. The loss of his staff . . . Saruman bristled at the memory. Anger mixed with dread within him causing him to feel both the heat of wrath yet to have the hairs on his flesh rise as though chilled. How dare that old fool splinter his staff! He sighed heavily. Over all else, however, he was weary. Drained of more than he would have thought possible.

He looked eastward. Beyond the spur of the Misty Mountains, beyond the Great River and the Mountains of Shadow to where Mordor lay enveloped in it’s manufactured gloom. Movement caught his eye. A flock of ducks passed Orthanc and splashed to a gentle landing on the dark surface of a pool of water whose bottom was once the smithies of Isengard. He brought his fist down hard upon the window sill then raised his arm in a menacing manner, but the ducks swam peacefully about. For now, Saruman of Many Colours had not the power to rid himself of a filthy flock of ducks.

“But it will not be so forever, Gandalf the White,” he spat out. “You may strip me of my rank and my staff but you cannot change what I am, old fool. I have no colour you say? I shall need none. I will have time and that is all I need.”

Yet he trembled a bit as he turned from the disgusting scene to lower himself gracefully into the chair beside his huge desk. How much time did he have? He had felt the Nazgul which circled the tower just last night. It did not call to him, but it had to have seen all. It had to see the ruin. It would have felt the wood-demons. It would make a report to their Lord.

And there was something else troubling his thoughts. A tremor. A feeling that had crept up his spine before the Dark Lord’s winged servant had arrived last night. Not cold nor even chill. A knowing of something . . .

It was in the night that it came. High above the soggy mass of earth that remained of Isengard. The Ents stirred. The ducks, resting on the mud at the edge of the still pool opened their eyes, glanced about warily before once more tucking their bills into the feathers of their wings.

Saruman climbed to the top of the tower to stand where he had once imprisoned his fellow wizard who had stolen his glory from him.

“What do you want? It is cold and I’m weary of dealing with the ruined spirits of once arrogant mortals. Your master can come to me himself if he wishes to converse.” He turned to leave . . . but could not.

Saruman snorted. “You really need to improve your vocabu . . .” His chest was gripped by a cold that burned leaving him unable to draw breath.

The old one sank to his knees as breath seeped back into him ever so slowly. “Where is what?” he gasped.

To his mind came an image. It seared itself into his thoughts, into his very being. A halfling. It stared with eyes frozen open in pain and terror while inside its spirit writhed in agony.

The vision departed and he knew what it was he had felt during the night. It was one of the pair that had come with the wood-demons. One of Gandalf’s dangles.

“It was useless,” the old liar’s thoughts said to the heartless spirit high above him. “The Halfling was useless. Not the one.” Saruman paused. It was no longer so easy for him to hide his thoughts, but hide them he would. His existence depended on it. “I killed it.”

Endless fragments of moments fell into the void in which the game player awaited the result of his move.

“The fool that was my spy in Rohan thought it a weapon and threw it at one of the wood-deamons. It rolled into one of the pools of water the wood-demons made. They are bottomless. It is gone.”

Saruman of No Colour fell to his face on the cold impervious stone of Orthanc. The Old Fool had pulled long standing power from him. The Dark One pulled that power more recently acquired from their partnership. But . . . he lived, and he laughed coldly, reveling in his victory. It would be morn and past before Saruman would crawl back into his den to lick his wounds . . .

The common theme is Yule. Elements: Sleet, Bywater, and the Gaffer

With Love

It was a brilliant day. A wonderful day. Marvelous day. The perfect day before First Yule. Hamfast Gamgee had a bounce in his step and a whistle on his lips. He wouldn’t have thought he could feel so good.

But then again, why not? He was in his first year of being the gardener to Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, The Hill, Hobbiton, and he was in his first year of a quick, but so far reasonably happy, marriage. So much had happened in not even a year’s time that it sometimes set Ham’s head to spinning. The working for Mr. Bilbo, now that was the easy part of it all. Ham knew his gardening and knew he was good at it. But the being married . . .

It had taken a some getting used to. He shook his head, a wry grin replacing the pucker on his lips from whistling. He’d had hobbitesses caring for him nearly all his life, excepting only the few months he lived alone at #3 Bag Shot Row between taking on his position at Bag End and his marriage to Bell. But the being married was different . . . he hadn’t had to be the one taking care of the female of the house until then. There had been arguments over how things should be run, how she cooked and what she cooked, what he was doing with his salary, what days were wash days, how often he needed to fill the wood box. So many little things.

And their intimate life . . . Ham blushed a bit. Well after a shaky start (they really had hardly known each other before they were husband and wife) that was all good as well.

Now he was on his way to Bywater to get her very first Yule gift from her husband. Bell had seen them on a trip to Bywater several months ago when they had walked by Nod Smallburrow’s furniture shop.

“I see Nod’s a new table in his window,” Ham said as they came abreast of the shop. “Not many as put such a good turn to a piece o’ wood as Nod. Right clever with a lathe and that be a fact.” He was surprised when Bell stopped. #3 was furnished, they needed no furniture. It was nothing fancy, mind, but good solid furniture that would do just fine till they decided to start their very own brood of Gamgees.

“Yes,” he heard her say softly, “a good hand at turnin’ wood.” Bell sighed and they went on their way, but not without Ham noticing what had caught his wife’s eye.

Knitting needles and crochet hooks.

The next time he went to Bywater, Ham made sure to go by Nod’s shop for a better look. They were fine work indeed. What Bell had for her needles and hooks were merely sticks smoothed and shaped as well could be, but just sticks with a hook carved into one end for crocheting and string wound thickly round the ends of the needles so the yarn didn’t slide off the end. These in Nod’s window were works of art. The knitting needles were black walnut or oak turned to smooth dowels with smoothly tapered blunted points, each with fancy turnings and glass beads for the stops at the ends. Each was a perfectly matched pair with the pairs coming in evenly increasing thicknesses. The larger crochet hooks were in the same woods as the knitting needles with decorative turnings on the end that wasn’t hooked. The smaller ones were bone. Even Ham could appreciate the beauty of them.

“Ah, those are a right joy o’ mine, Ham,” came a voice from the shop’s doorway. Hamfast turned to see Nod leaning up against the door frame, smiling broadly. “Some there are that say they be naught but foolishness, but they’re a fun thin’ for me to make and they sell well bein’ as the lasses love them.”

“Aye, I know that as my Bell was drinkin’ in an eyeful o’ them the other day when we were in town. She’s naught but homemade, not that that ain’t good mind, but these . . .” Ham let a soft whistle pass his lips.

“My Daisy says there’s naught better. Mind I supposed she might be a bit leanin’ in their favor as I’m her husband, but she n’er won at the fair with her hand work until after I started makin’ her needles and hooks like these ones. Now she most often takes a first and no worse than third.”

Ham slowly nodded his head as he continued looking at the needles and hooks. “How much?”

Nod named his prices. Ham frowned and shook his head.

“Let’s not be hasty, Ham. There just maybe somethin’ we can work out betwixt us that’ll get ya some of those for your Bell.”

Work it out they did. Ham did some gardening for Nod. He found him some top quality raspberry bushes and set them in his garden. Rearranged his vegetable garden so that the right plants were near each other while keeping others apart. With the gardening help and what Ham could save from his salary, he was now on his way to Bywater to make the last payment on a set of three pair of different sized knitting needles and three different crochet hooks - one of wood and two bone. Small sized, medium sized and large sized of each.

He took his luncheon at the Ivy Bush.

“What did ya be getting Pansy for Yule, Olo?”

“A rollin’ pin and a rug beater. What’d ya get for Violet?”

“Fryin’ pan.”

Such was the conversation that circled around the inn that day. Ham was rather pleased that, at least for this first Yule together, he had bought Bell something that was pretty as well as of good use.

“Hoy, Ham Gamgee!”

“Hoy there, Toby!” Toby came and eased himself down beside Ham. They had known each other ever since Ham had started working in Hobbiton for his uncle. Toby Grub was old enough to be Ham’s grandfather, but still a hearty old gardener.

“What be bringing ya o’er here on a day like taday, youngster?” asked Toby with a nudge to Ham’s ribs.

Ham looked out a nearby window at the sunlit day and wondered what the old hobbit meant. “Tomorrow bein’ First Yule, I’m here to be gettin’ Bell’s gift. I bought her some o’ Nod’s knittin’ and crochet tools.”

Toby laughed. “Yer goin’ to get her spoiled there, lad. She’ll be ‘spectin’ such grand things all the time now.”

“Not Bell,” Ham blushed as he grinned. “She’s a right sensible lass. But she’s a fair hand at her knittin’ and such and since we aren’t having to spend money nor time on gifts for any little ones yet . . . well, I reckoned I could get her somethin’ real special this year.”

Toby nodded and patted Ham on the back. “For all their fancy looks, they be a right useful gift, lad. She’ll be usin’ them for years ta come. Ya chose well, Ham lad.” Toby began to rub his right shoulder while he stretched his muscles and popped his joints. “In for a nasty bit o’ weather afore the day be out. Sleet I’m thinkin’, n’ maybe snow. Ya might best be gettin’ yerself back to Hobbiton, Ham.”

Ham looked out the window once again. The sun still shone brightly. He couldn’t figure out these old hobbits with their thinking they knew the weather because of their achy joints. “It’s not that far,” he said to Toby. “I’ll have a good fillin’ luncheon and then be headin’ home.”

“Suit yerself, lad, but I wouldn’t be too long with fillin’ yer corners.” Toby slowly stood, gave Ham another pat on the back then left the inn.

A half an hour hadn’t passed, Ham was sure, when he looked once more toward the window, this time to see spatters of rain on the glass. Once he got to the doorway, he quickly realized that the rain wasn’t rain. An icy wind ruffled his hair and went right through the coat he was trying to wrap more closely about himself. “How’d old Toby do that?” he muttered to himself and, with a shiver, stepped firmly out into the sleet.

He lost count of the number of times he slipped and fell. Even the grass along the edge of the road was too slippery to walk upon easily. Always, no matter if he fell forward, backward or on his sides he kept a sure hold on Bell’s gift, keeping it so it wouldn’t be under him when he landed. He wasn’t going to give her broken knitting needles and crochet hooks for her very first Yule gifts from him.

He slid onwards. Down hill was treacherous. Level was perilous. Up hill was practically impossible. He had no hat and his hair was both dripping and crunchy. He had holes in his gloves, though it mattered little as they were sopping wet anyway. Finally, after three times the time it normally would take him to walk home from Bywater, he pushed open his front door. He nearly slipped into the hole, barely catching himself by hanging on tightly to the doorknob.

“Ham!” Bell cried out at the sight of her ice covered dripping wet husband. “Oh, Ham! Why didn’t ya just stay in Bywater? It be so nasty out. Well listen to me, as if ya don’t know that for yerself, just comin’ in out of it like this.” She was bustling around him and he found himself stripped bare, wrapped in the quilt from their bed and sitting in his chair before the hearth nearly before he knew what was happening to him. She started rubbing his hair with a towel. “Ya’ll catch yer death, ya will. Then what’ll become o’ me?” She paused long enough to kiss his cold, red cheek then went back to the brisk rub down she was giving his head. “It be a good thin’, Mr. Hamfast Gamgee, that I know a thin’ or two about helpin’ chilled folk warm up.” She felt his hair, seemed satisfied with it and set down her towel. She poured him a mug of tea, let him take a few sips then attacked his head once again. “You just open up the front of that quilt, Ham, and be lettin’ in some o’ the heat from the fire. Whatever made ya decide ya had to get home in all this?”

He nodded toward the small table that stood beside the door. “Ya took it from me along with my clothes.” He grinned mischievously at her.

“That little parcel? Ya went through bein’ froze near ta death for that little parcel?”

“It be your Yule present. I wasn’t goin’ ta let ya have yer first Yule as a married lass and have no husband at home and no gift.”

Bell’s eyes were wide, her mouth softly open in surprise. “Ya . . . ya bought me somethin’? Somethin’ from a shop?” She hung her head and a tear escaped her eye. “I hardly ever had a shop bought gift. I . . . made yours.”

Ham started to jump up to hug his wife, but remembered his state of undress and took a moment to grab the quilt, then wrapped his arms and the quilt around Bell.

“Has always been like that for me as well, my dearest Bell,” he said softly in her ear as he rocked her a bit. “Home made is just fine. It’s just . . . well, it’s just that I’ve been feelin’ as my life couldn’t get much better. I have the best job a gardener could want and a sweet, lovely wife takin’ care o’ me. I wanted to make this special.” He pulled back a bit and lifted her chin to look into her eyes. “Why don’t ya open it now? I don’t know what is hurtin’ me worse, all the bruised places I’ve on me or the wantin’ to know that ya’ like what I bought for you.”

Her eyes twinkled like a child’s. “Then ya must get yours now as well.” Bell wriggled out of his arms and ran into their bedroom to fetch Ham’s gift. He picked up her gift before sitting down on their settee. He patted the seat beside him when she returned and she plopped down next to him.

“I’ll take mine first. I’m the husband,” Ham said in a stern tone that his smile belied. She handed him something knitted, rolled up and tied with a bright red bow. He eagerly pulled the ribbon and discovered a hat, gloves and scarf of dark brown wool in cabled pattern. “Aw!” he said as he pulled the hat down over his still damp hair before flinging the scarf about his neck. He then pulled on the gloves. “How did ya get the size right on these gloves? My hands are rather big from all my gardenin’.”

“I measured them as I went along by holdin’ them up to yer hands while ya napped.”

They both laughed. Ham gave her a firm hug and a gentle kiss. “Thank ya, my love. I could have used the lot o’ these on my walk today. Your turn now.”

Bell looked at her parcel. It was a rolled piece of cloth with ribbons stitched to it at the top and bottom. She wasn’t sure she wanted to open it or sit and enjoy just looking at it. A shop bought gift. Like what well to do folk would get for their Yule gifts.

Ham was about to burst with wanting Bell to open her gift. “Ya can open it. Truly ya can, Bell.”

She smiled up at him with her shy smile then slowly pulled open the top then the bottom ribbon and started to unroll the piece of cloth. It all nearly fell to the floor as her hands flew to her face in astonishment. A quick grab by Ham caused him the loss of the quilt around his torso but saved Bell’s gift from falling off her lap.

There were long and short narrow pockets sewn into the cloth and sticking out of each were either the tooled and beaded ends of a pair of knitting needles or the tooled end of a crochet hook.

“Those fancy made needles and hooks,” Bell breathed in disbelief. “Ya noticed me lookin’ at them. Ya noticed.”

“Yes. I’m sorry there are only three of each. I hope . . .”

“Only three of each! Only?” She threw her arms around him holding him tightly for a few moments before noticing the quilt had fallen off of him. She pulled it back into place then hugged him some more. “It’s a treasure, that’s what. A treasure like . . . like . . . a dragon’s hoard! A treasure.”

Ham held his wife and smiled, filled with a warmth a quilt could never provide.

"But they'll miss Yule, Mymmy!"

Eglantine looked at her little lad’s worried face. They had been discussing this ever since her husband had left to fetch Pearl. She reached out her hand to gently stroke his cheek, then wound one of his curls around her first finger. “Well, Pippin dear, as I said yesterday your Da should have arrived at the Great Smials late in the day yesterday and I’m sure they will have left bright and early today. What is the date today, Pippin?”

“30 Foreyule, Mummy.”

“Yes, the last day of Foreyule. And tomorrow is?”

Pippin giggled at this. As if every hobbit child in the Shire didn’t know what day followed the last day of Foreyule. “First Yule, of course.”

“They may miss First Yule, Pippin, though I’m certain they will try to get here tomorrow evening. But they should be here in plenty of time for Second Yule.”

Pippin scowled. “That mean nasty old . . .”

“Pippin!” His mother’s tone was low and threatening, though she actually agreed with her son’s description of the current head of the Took clan.

“Sorry, Mummy.” Pippin lowered his eyes, looking contrite. “If only Mistress Lalia had changed her mind sooner, then we would have got Pearl on our way here and Da wouldn’t have had to go back for her. Now they’ll miss things they shouldn’t miss. They will miss the First Yule feast, and the singing and maybe even miss the treats before bedtime. They may even be late for giving presents.”

“I’m sure they will not miss much, Pippin.” Lanti hugged her lad tightly, chuckling over his concern for his father and sister missing the bountiful food of the Yule season being mentioned before their possibly not being at the Hall to give him his Yule gifts. “If you wish, you can save giving your gifts to Merry and your other sisters until Pearl and your Da arrive. Would you wish to do that, my dear?”

A faint glimmer of the lad’s usually bright smile came to his lips. He nodded his head as he spoke. “Yes, Mummy, that would be best I think. It wouldn’t feel right without Da and Pearl.”

“Will they really be back in time, Mum?” Pimpernel quietly asked. She had been busy doing her best to keep Pippin’s spirits up. He loved Yule to the point that this complication was causing him to lose much of his usual bright outlook.

“Your Da said he would push the pony as much as he could, Nell. He said that he will even try to change ponies at the Quickpost stops if he can so as to get back to the Hall faster,” her mother answered as she reached around to softly rub her middle daughter’s silky hair. “They will be back as fast as can be, dear.”

*********

It was deep into the night and Took’s pony trap was well past the halfway point between Great Smials and Brandy Hall by the end of their first day of travelling. Paladin and Pearl stayed at the Stock-Hall Inn at the junction of the road to Woodhall and the road to Stock, which then went on to cross the Brandywine River, and then on to Brandy Hall. They had changed ponies twice while stopping as little as possible for any other needs. Paladin wasn’t sure he’d be able to get out of the small vehicle, his muscles were so stiff, while Pearl, even being only twenty-six, didn’t exactly hop lightly to the ground. Dinner was a small loaf of bread, cheese and tea before what would be a short night’s sleep. The two Tooks were on their way again ere the black night turned to grey day on First Yule morn.

They were about half the way to Stock when the first drops of rain drummed against the roof of the pony trap. They were perhaps one eighth of a mile past that when the skies poured like water from a newly drawn bucket full of water - hard and fast. It was about half an hour later, as they rounded a bend in the road, that they came upon the stuck farm waggon.

Paladin had felt the road becoming soft beneath the wheels of the trap. He had mentally patted himself on the back for bringing the light weight trap instead of the family carriage. The farm waggon up ahead was no lightweight vehicle, even if it had not been loaded past its sides with the cargo held in place with a tied down tarp. The terrain dipped and in the low spot the rain had created a swift moving stream that washed across the packed dirt road. Paladin knew well what the road had become. Either it was totally washed away and the deep rut had trapped the wheels of the waggon or it was now a bog of soft, thick mud into which the wheels had sunk and were now held fast. A farmer and a lass, soaked to the skin, mud covered where it had clung to them so thickly that even the driving rain couldn’t beat it off of them, were struggling to get the oxen to pull the waggon free.

“Hoy there!” Paladin shouted against the roar of the wind and rain. He hopped down from the pony trap then turned as he thought about Pearl. “Stay put, Pearl!” She nodded and he went back to walking carefully along the part of the road that was still somewhat firm.

“Hoy there, sir!” Paladin called out a bit less loudly as he was now only a few feet from the struggling hobbit. The drenched and filthy hobbit turned to stare at Paladin with weary eyes. “You’ll not budge this. Best to unhitch the oxen and just leave the waggon be.”

“Done that. Oxen be stuck too. Can’t be leavin’ them ta the mud.”

“Indeed not. Let me unhitch my pony. We’ll see if he can at least help the oxen out.”

The farmer nodded then made his slow way toward the lass who stood at the head of one of the oxen while Paladin returned to the trap. Pearl had been listening, as well as she could above the noise of the storm. She jumped down and was already at work unhitching the pony. Her father gave her a scolding look that quickly changed into a smile. Pearl had disobeyed him, but he would not have her do otherwise in this situation. Paladin would rather his children were moved to help whenever help was needed than feel bound to blind obedience. Soon he was leading the frightened pony through the swift water to where the road once again became as firm as was possible in the continuing downpour. Pearl slipped and fell. Paladin slipped and fell. The pony nearly slipped and fell but kept his feet. Gradually the four hobbits and the steady pony gave enough extra pull to get the oxen free.

“Thank ya, Mister Paladin,” the farmer said, extending his shaking hand toward the startled Took.

“How . . .?”

“It’s me, Mister Paladin. Bolkin Pincup, at your service.” The farmer bowed his head a bit. “More like in your debt.”

Paladin laughed. “We are all a good sight messier than I thought. I’m sorry for not recognizing you. Glad to be at your service, Bolkin. Now let us get to some shelter.”

But Bolkin balked at the mention of leaving his waggon. He looked at the load a long moment before turning back to Paladin. “Don’t much like ta be leavin’ it here, Mister Paladin,” he said loudly as the storm hadn’t abated in the least. “There’s . . . it’s . . . well . . .”

Paladin ducked his head a bit to try to look the old farmer in the eye. “Out with it, Bolkin, before we all drown standing up. No one will trouble your waggon. You can come dig it out day after Second Yule.”

“ ‘Twill be too late then, sir. ‘Twill be too late if I wait till then.”

Paladin glanced around then tugged Bolkin in the direction of a stand of thick bushes. “Pearl, you and Tulip watch over the animals a moment,” he called over his shoulder as he and Bolkin ducked under the lowest branches. As he had hoped it was a bit drier in the midst of the bushes. Drier and quieter.

“Too late?” Paladin queried.

“Aye, Mister Paladin. We’ve kin here ‘bouts ‘n we’ve heard o’ a couple o’ families what had a right poor time o’ it this Foreyule. One had a field fire what wiped out their crops and took one o’ their byres. T’other had some sort o’ blight or such what tainted their stores o’ grain and made both hobbits and beasts ill. ‘Tall had to be burned. What the both of them didn’t lose to nature they had to sell to get by. My waggon be loaded with goods and stores for them ta have a brighter Yule, Mister Paladin, n’ that won’t be much help for Yule if it don’t be gettin’ there till after both Yule days be come and gone.”

“Yes, I see that,” Paladin said softly. He stood a moment, crossing his left arm over to rest on the ridge of his stomach. He rested his right elbow on the crossed arm, rested his chin on the thumb of his right hand and rubbed the space between his nose and upper lip with his forefinger. If there was anything Paladin Took was good at it was planning and organizing. He quickly reviewed every aspect of the situation, presented himself with a few different options for action then made a decision.

“We’ll have the lasses hold up the tarp as best they can while we sort through your load, Bolkin. Then we’ll load up one families worth of goods in our trap and on our pony and walk it to the nearest of the two farms. Then we can come back and do the same with the rest.”

“But . . . but sir!” Bolkin’s mouth hung open in surprise as he shook his head. “That’ll be makin’ you and your lass late for where ere ‘tis you be headin’.”

“This storm is already doing that,” Paladin chuckled. “I doubt that we’d make it to Brandy Hall in time for any of today’s festivities.” He sobered a bit and looked eastward. In his minds eye he saw his children who were at the Hall awaiting his return. His very feminine Nell whose looks were oftimes compared to a porcelain doll. Sharp tongued Vinca who could more than hold her own playing rough games with the lads, but whose heart was tender. Pippin, his only lad, whose sunny disposition and mischievous green eyes were so like Paladin’s sister Esme’s. He then looked back towards the road where his eldest, his Pearl, stood with Tulip watching over the pony and oxen. She wasn’t of age yet either so she would have also been giving and receiving gifts today with the other children at the Hall.

But what he, Pearl and the Pincups would be doing today was in keeping with Paladin’s heart, in keeping with the spirit of the Yuletide. Home and hearth. Family and friends. The bonds of kin and kindred.

“Let us get back to the lasses and start unloading some of those goods,” Paladin said as he laid his hand on old Bolkin’s shoulder.

********

The children of Paladin and Eglantine Took sat, together with their first cousin, Merry Brandybuck, in the parlor of the best guest quarters in Brandy Hall. Esmeralda Brandybuck and Eglantine Took had left the room just a few moments before to speak together out of the children’s earshot. It was late into the night, much later than they might usually still be awake even on First Yule. In a corner on a table and flowing off onto the floor were their Yule gifts . . . unopened. The children sat in a row before the fire; Vinca, with Pippin between she and Merry and Nell on Merry’s other side. Pippin’s eyes and nose were the reddest of the group but all the young ones showed signs of tears having been shed. Earlier the children had been anxiously gazing at their Yule presents, hoping the day would be somewhat as usual and they would soon be tearing open their gifts. But Paladin and Pearl had not arrived and concern for the missing Tooks replaced the desire for presents. As the youngsters had decided the day before, gifts simply would not be as much fun if all of the family were not at the Hall. There had been no word from Paladin and Pearl.

“I want Da,” little Pippin whined once more.

Vinca and Merry both leaned into the lad to comfort him as his tears started anew.

“I want Da and Pearl.”

“They’ll be here, Pip. They’ll be here soon,” Vinca said after a few moments had passed. She normally tormented her younger brother, who could drive even a patient adult to distraction with his pesty questions. She had thought to say “Perhaps they decided they would like First Yule better without being pestered to death by you.” But she was as worried as everyone else and the sharp comment fell flat in her mind. It was fine by her if she sent Pippin running to their Mum in tears, yet let someone or something else hurt the lad and all the sisters were fiercely protective of their brother. Their friends and relations already knew it was best to avoid the wrath of the Terrible Took Sisters. Mistress Lalia had no right to do this, to Vinca’s way of thinking, and it was breaking her heart that not only were her father and oldest sister very late but that it was frightening Pippin so badly.

“You said that an hour ago, Vinca, and an hour before that and they aren’t here yet, and it’s ever so dark outside and it’s still raining and nasty, Vinca.”

Merry tugged on a lock of his youngest cousin’s hair as he pulled the lad’s head onto his shoulder. “Uncle Paladin is smart and strong, Pip. He’ll be taking good care of himself and Pearl. They are most likely safe and warm at an inn, wishing they were here instead of there.”

“But they’ve not sent word, Merry.” Pippin’s face turned up, his red-rimmed green eyes looked deep into his cousin’s red-rimmed blue-grey ones. “If they’re all right oughtn’t they have sent word?”

Merry’s stomach clenched. He had been thinking the same thing. It was most unusual that Uncle Paladin hadn’t sent word, but then, the rains had poured down all day. “Perhaps the messenger hadn’t been able to get through all the rain, Pip. There may be streams that are too high. Ones that normally don’t need a bridge but are now too deep to ford across.”

Pippin’s head slowly lowered back to Merry’s shoulder while he hugged his youngest sister tighter with his other arm. Merry, Nell and Vinca all exchanged worried looks.

*******

Dividing up the waggon’s load took longer than Paladin had thought it would. Loading half the goods into the pony trap and figuring out how to secure a load to the driving pony had taken longer than Paladin had thought it would. The grey light of the dreary day was fading as the Tooks and the Pincups arrived at the first of the two stricken farms. The Haymowers were overcome with joy at the goods they received and Pearl gave their lad and lass the gifts she had packed for Pippin and Nell. Some of the food was shared with all then the Tooks and Pincups were bedded down on the parlor floor for the night.

“Da,” Pearl whispered as sleep started to over take her, “we didn’t send word to the Hall.”

Paladin was well aware of this. It had been gnawing at his heart all day that their loved ones were expecting them for at least part of First Yule. “I know, dearest. I know. We’ll just have to do what we can tomorrow.”

But the morrow, being Second Yule, was more of the same. The rain was not as torrential, but it was still pouring down upon the Shire and only those with a desperate need to get somewhere other than where they were ventured out on the roads. There was no way to send word to Brandy Hall.

Paladin and Pearl once again helped Bolkin and Tulip with transferring the rest of the goods to the trap and pony. At least this time they had an earlier start on the job and arrived at the Burrow’s farm around noon. Once again there was joy in the hearts of the needy hobbit family. Again those who were helped shared with those who gave them aid. It was near to three o’clock in the afternoon when Paladin and Pearl waved their farewells from the seat of the pony trap to head down the Stock road toward Buckland.

*******

The weak light of the cloudy Second Yule morning found the family of Paladin Took and the family of Saradoc Brandybuck asleep in various places in the parlor of the Took’s guest rooms at Brandy Hall. No one had wanted to leave the company of the others. Saradoc, Esmeralda and Merry, as Heir of the Hall and his family, eventually had to join the crowd of revelers in the main rooms of the Hall, though the revelry wasn’t quite what it usually was. Everyone was concerned about the missing Paladin and Pearl. Eglantine and her children had come to the dinning hall for meals, but then retired to their quarters, being in no mood for festivities. The day dragged on.

Word had come to Master of the Hall, Rory Brandybuck, that the Brandywine River was rising. The bridge looked solid enough but there was question of how useable the ferry would be. Worried looks passed amongst the adults of the Hall. Esme, Lanti, Nell, Merry, Vinca and Pippin wept and hugged one another. Once again the evening found the two families in the Took’s parlor. Saradoc read a story to which none of them were really listening. They drew comfort from the steady sound of his voice. The hours slipped by.

A short, sharp knock upon the parlor door was followed by a stable hobbit throwing open the door without having waited for a word from those within.

“Back . . .” he gasped, “They . . . be back . . . Mister Saradoc.”

The stable lad was nearly trampled by the suddenly joyous families. Just within the smial door nearest the stable yard they met with the soaked and weary travellers. Everyone talked at once, hugging each other until those who had been out in the weather were somewhat drier and those who had awaited them were considerably damper. Pippin fastened himself around his father’s neck and waist like a stubborn ivy and would only be pried lose when it was threatened that he would then end up in the bath with Paladin.

Soon they were all once more in the parlor, Paladin and Pearl sitting nearest the blazing fire in their warmest nightclothes and dressing gowns. Paladin shared his heaped plate of food with his son who had attached himself once more and would not be moved from his father’s lap.

Paladin continued his telling of their journey to Brandy Hall between large mouthfuls of food. “And so we barely got . . . poor Star unhitched before the trap tipped off the ferry . . . and into the river. We all clung to each other like leeches. We would have been here a bit sooner . . . if we hadn’t had to walk from the ferry.”

“And I’ve no gifts for any of you,” Pearl said quietly, looking down at her plate of food that sat on her lap. “I gave them to the children of the Haymowers and the Burrows.”

“That’s all right, Pearl,” Nell said and gave Pearl a kiss on the cheek. “They needed them more than we do.”

“And we have you and Da,” Pippin said drowsily from the warmth of his father’s arms which were wrapped firmly around the lad. “Much better than gifts, you and Da. Although . . .” He sat up a bit and craned his head toward the corner where the family’s gifts still sat unopened.

Everyone laughed heartily at Pippin’s obvious hint that it was time for the gift giving to begin as Saradoc rose and began to distribute the gifts to those who were nearest and dearest to his heart. They took their time, sharing the fun of the occasion, the pleasure of each other’s company. The older girls eventually stumbled off to bed, Merry and Vinca were nearly asleep and Pippin had nodded off before all the gifts had been opened. Soon all of Brandy Hall was quiet as outside the rains stopped, the clouds parted and the moon shone his light on the peaceful Shire.

Galadriel sat calmly surveying her realm. In her mind’s eye she could be anywhere within its boundaries with ease. With effort she could be nearly anywhere in Middle-earth. She had been keeping watch over the Fellowship, a concept that could be taken more than one way. This day she was merely observing, out of curiosity, their comings and goings.

The youngest had wandered off alone into the woods and in her thoughts, she followed him, this child of the Shire with the blood of the fey folk in his veins, though he seemed to know it not. When first they had arrived the youngest, the Ringbearer and Estel had borne more than grief at the loss of Gandalf: they had borne guilt. The Lady had labored much to use the healing nature of her realm to bring them succor. For this little one it had been granted that he would meet the one whose blood flows within him and Cullassisul* had indeed brought healing to her child.

Now, with a light and open heart, he walked the Lady’s woods. Peregrin grew stronger with the rays of the sun, the songs of birds and the laughter he could evoke from the Fellowship. The hobbit Meriadoc drew healing by learning; listening to the history of Arda from Legolas or Estel and those of her folk who speak the languages of the world beyond Lothlorien’s borders. Samwise had his hands in the soil, assisting some of the Elves with planting the gardens and so being given hope that there would yet come another Spring. The Ringbearer, what healing could be his whilst still bearing his burden, took comfort from seeing his kinsmen regaining themselves.

A smile touched Galadriel’s lips. The youngest hobbit was soon to come upon one of her people’s youngest in a glade amongst the towering mallorns. What would happen, she wondered, between he of but a moment’s time and she of an age of this world?

The sunlight drew Pippin along to the opening in the woods. He had grown a bit cool, walking in the dappled light and thought to warm up a bit in light not filtered through leaves. That and he could hear the playful sound of moving water and thought he would like to sit and listen to its music. He had walked three steps into the full bright sunlight when he noticed her . . . an Elf lady sitting beside a brook that was dancing merrily over smooth stones of many colors. Their eyes met, but he quickly looked at her cheek instead. He had ofttimes felt strangely when looking one of the fair folk in the eyes. It had become easier with Legolas, but even with him Pippin often felt Elves were seeing too clearly into his heart and mind. Oddly, he sometimes felt he was seeing into theirs.

She had heard him coming and known it had to be one of the hobbit children, for children they were to her and her kindred, though she knew these were adults of their kind. Only Elves moved more quietly through the woods than did the little folk, and now he stood a few paces in from the trees at the edge of the glade, surprise showing clearly on his features. She had a glimpse of green eyes before he flicked his glance away. Perhaps, she thought, he is shy.

“Now what?” Pippin thought. “I’ll look a fool if I just stand here.” Then a touch of sadness came to him, why shouldn’t he look a fool? He was one. “But . . . well, I should be friendly at least,” his thoughts continued, “they have all been most kind to us.” He smiled at the Elf.

She smiled at him. She could feel that he was uncomfortable and unsure of what to do. What should she do, she wondered. If she rose and began to approach him, would he flee? Best to stay as she was. “But I know not his language,” she thought. “I would like to become aquainted with this one who has come so far and through such trials, all to give support to his kinsman who . . .” She stopped her thoughts. She was uncomfortable even thinking about what had been brought into her land.

Pippin looked at the Elven lady. She was as fair as the sunlight that glinted off her hair and sparkled upon the waters at her feet. For a moment she seemed to embody everything that was this strange land he and the others had entered. That in her dwelt the light, the timelessness, the peacefulness and the music. Without forethought, Pippin sang.

A tremor ran through her. She had not known any of the small ones had such a voice. It was like birdsong. Like the singing of the breezes. Though the words were strange his song fit well in Lorien. She closed her eyes and let the singing flow within her until it ceased.

He was blushing now, he knew he was. “Whatever came over me?” the question squirmed about in his head. “As if my singing is anywhere near to what singing here is like. I know, I’ve heard it.” But his thoughts quit their badgering. She was singing. Pippin looked at her and she was looking at him and she was singing. Their eyes met a few moments before Pippin let his eyelids slide closed. There was a richness in her singing that was not heavy, a sorrow that was not sad. There was earth and tree, sun and starlight. He was carried away on the music.

Galadriel smiled. The Elf sang, the Hobbit sang, and the whole of the afternoon passed as the child of the gentle Shire and the child of the Golden Wood became friends.

*The title is part of a quote from Victor Hugo. “Music expresses that which cannot be put into words, and that which cannot remain silent.”

*Cullassisul is an OC of mine first encountered in “While We Dwelt in Fear”. She is the fairy whom a long-ago Took ancestor married, as alluded to by Tolkien.

“You’ve five minutes to get dressed, son. Be in the main entry.” I hear my father add in an equally strange tone. As soon as I reached the tunnels nearer to outside walls, I heard the horns. I grabbed the first hobbit I saw as he was running past me.

“The Horn-call, Berilac! It’s the Horn-call!” he exclaimed as he tried to tug away from my grasp.

“Don’t know the why nor wherefore of it. Just know it is and the Master and your father are waiting for you in the Entry.” Madoc wrenched free and started away. “Go, Berilac. Just go!” And he was gone around a turn in the tunnel.

As I run, I realize that terror was what I had heard in my father’s and uncle’s voices. Terror in Madoc’s voice. Not worry nor concern as I’ve heard in the past. They were terrified. Now, hearing the horns crying out, so am I. I get to the Main Entry and, still with no explanation, I’m running out the doors, onto the back of a waiting pony and flying away from the Hall east on the Ferry Road then north on the Buckland Road. Racing along with my father and uncle to the continuing sound of the horns, heading I know not where.

Finally, the Master chooses a small farm lane leading off the road to the east. We slide our ponies to a halt in the farm yard. My uncle is off his pony with the speed of a youth, running into the small farmhouse without as much as a knock nor calling out a greeting. Father and I are on his heels, following him into the main room of the simple home.

There, lying beneath several quilts upon the sofa, shivering as though he were outside in the dead of winter, face pale as the moon, is my best friend, Freddy Bolger.

Uncle Saradoc has stopped. He turns and, grabbing my arm, flings me toward the sofa. “Comfort him, Beri. Speak to him. See if you can make sense of him.”

I barely manage to stop before falling atop poor Freddy. Hands grab me and push me down upon a stool that has been hurriedly placed beneath me. My face is now barely two feet from Fredegar’s.

His eyes are clenched tightly closed, as though he fears what he’ll see if he opens them. His voice is small and tight with a terror greater than any of the voices I’ve heard this night. I lean even closer, trying to hear his muttered words.

“Black . . . big black . . . not . . . I don’t have it . . . gone . . . not me . . . gone . . . horses . .
. black, big . . . I don’t have it . . .”

I listen a while to this stream of nearly meaningless words before I take hold of Freddy’s hand with my right hand while idly brushing sweat-soaked curls away from his face with my left. His eyes fly open. He looks at me but doesn’t see me as he continues his stream of words.

I feel a gentle, though trembling, hand upon my shoulder and Uncle Saradoc speaks as softly into my ear as his terror will allow. “He was at Crickhollow, Beri. With Frodo and Sam, Pippin and . . .”

I hear my uncle swallow hard. I hear him take a deep breath. “They aren’t here with him, Beri, and he has given Caladoc the impression that there are enemies abroad in Buckland.” The trembling hand pats my shoulder then is withdrawn.

“Freddy, lad. Freddy, it’s Beri. I’ve got hold of you. I’ve got hold of your hand, Fredegar. Freddy?” I’m babbling away nearly as nonsensically as my dear friend. I try patting his face. It’s cool and clammy beneath my fingers. “Freddy? Come now, my friend. Do you see me, Freddy? Freddy?” Still he has the glazed, terrorized stare of a cornered animal. Still he mutters his chain of words.

I let go of his hand. Grimacing in pain myself as I do so, I strike him firmly across his colorless cheek.

There is no cry of pain or surprise. His eyes and mouth both close and he lies there, no longer even shivering.

A clock ticks slowly from its place on the mantle. I hear the shuffling of hobbits leaving the room and I know without looking that the Master, my father and I are now the only ones in this vigil by the sofa.

I almost don’t hear Freddy speak, if he hadn’t said my name I might not have. Interesting how your name will most always catch your ear. His eyes are still closed. He recognized my voice.

I feel a bit of the tension leave my shoulders. It is a long standing jest between us. My friend has come back to himself.

“They were . . . sneaking up . . . on the house, Beri.” He swallows, or tries to, he gagged a bit instead and at the side of my vision a small mug appears. I hold up Freddy’s head, helping him drink until he moves his head aside. “Big People, Beri. They . . . they were big . . . Big People. All cloaked. Black. All cloaked in black. Drink.”

I hold the mug to his lips until he once again is finished. He lays his head back a moment. He opens his eyes but stares at the ceiling, he doesn’t look at me.

“I ran. Remembered this farm . . . that this farm was somewhere west of the house.”

Freddy chuckles nervously as he finally turns his head a bit, focusing his eyes on me. “How did I manage to remember that, Beri?” His chuckling grows sharper, higher in pitch as the wild look returns to his eyes. He has wormed his other arm out from under the quilts to grab my hand tightly with both of his. “They . . .They were . . . were . . .” He finally looks about, eyes flitting over the room, stopping to widen at the sight of Uncle Saradoc and my father standing behind me. He now speaks to them. “Did they . . .” he hastily swallows, “. . . follow me? Did I lead them here? Is everyone . . .”

“No, Freddy,” comes the Master’s voice. “No, lad. They didn’t follow you. No one . . .” He pauses and I know why. “No one has been hurt . . . unless . . .”

Freddy’s eyes widen. “No! No, sir, they’re gone. Gone. Several days now. Gone.” He falls back to the sofa, covering his face with his hands.

“Gone,” Freddy mumbles from behind his hands. “Gone. Gone from the house. Gone from Buckland and the Shire. Into the Old Forest through the private entrance. Gone through the Hedge and into the Old Forest and . . . just gone.”

I’m suddenly chilled as though the door or a window had blown open. The room seems darker. Gone? Into the Old Forest? I didn’t miss that it sounded as though Freddy started to say more and had stopped himself. I feel cold to my heart. Gone?

I hear a scuffling behind me. My father barely catches his brother as he falls to the floor. I look at them, sitting on the floor, heaped together. They look as bloodless and cold as I feel. Son. Nephew. Cousins. Friend.

“G’way,” I mumble. I don’t even want to open my mouth to answer, let alone open my eyes. I was out all last night, and most of this day, sneaking two more families into the Hall. Two more families and four loads of goods from caches some of the farmers had managed to keep hidden. I’m tired. I’ve done my share.

Drat! I’ll have to open my eyes. I’ll have to actually get up. These days a request from the Master is an order, even when it is given to his nephew. Poor Uncle Saradoc, he hates that dealing with these Ruffians has driven our lives to that point.

“Now, Berilac.” Madoc knows he doesn’t need to be overly concerned with propriety if the matter is important. Apparently this is. “I was told to bring you naked if you were fool enough to be sleeping that way. Your uncle means right now.”

I throw off the covers, grab my dressing gown off its hook and put it on while heading for the office of the Master of Buckland.

“No idea, Mister Berilac. So there’s no need to ask.” Madoc is back to propriety now that we’re in the hallways and tunnels. He is escorting me as though I haven’t lived in the Hall my whole life and have never been to my uncle’s office. We walk hurriedly along in silence. All sorts of horrible thoughts are swirling about in my head. So many things that may have been discovered by the Ruffians and the punishments they may be doling out upon the hobbits of Buckland. Arriving at the office door, Madoc opens it for me then shuts it behind me.

My Uncle Saradoc sits behind his desk nearly glowing, my father sits in the secretary’s chair looking very much the same. In a chair before the desk, turned round to see me enter, is Theobald Bolger, one of the few from Freddy’s band of rebels who escaped the Ruffians. The thought of my dear Freddy away in the Lockholes clenches my heart, but even Theo has a look about him as though he’s a new father. I’ve not seen such happy faces for over a year.

“Your news, Theo. Tell Beri your news,” Uncle Saradoc says, his voice like a child’s at Yule.

“They came riding up after dark, dressed in armor and with swords. They climbed the gate and Merry chased off the Chief’s Big Man and . . .”

I must have swooned as I am now sitting in the other chair before the Master’s desk and I’ve no recollection of sitting down. I can feel it, I’ve the same sappy smile on my face as the others do.

"I saw it with my own eyes." Even Theo’s voice is smiling, his hair bobbing with his nodding. “Yes. Yes, all four of them. It is the first time I've been glad to be the Master's eyes and ears at the Bridge as I've finally something good to report." He drew a deep breath and continued his tale. "The four of them were all done up in clothes like in the storybooks, with armor and swords and Merry and Pippin have shields as well. They were put out at how things are. Merry seemed to be in charge and tore up the no admittance notice then called to Pippin and they climbed the gate first. Merry ordered the Chief’s Big Man to leave. Threatened to run him through if he didn’t. Then Pippin tore up the rules in the Shirriff’s building and broke Rule 4 by stoking up the fire. Frodo said his family, meaning himself, needed to be dealing with the Pimple. That he needed putting in his place. It was a bit later that I took Merry aside and told him I was there for the Master and he sent me straight off to the Hall to bring my report.”

“Hobbiton, of course, in the morning, to deal with Lotho-Pimple,” says Theo.

I’m already heading for the door. I shall leave as soon as I'm dressed. I need to see them for myself. I need to hear my cousin's voices. I need to hug them close and feel that they're real, then I need to throttle Merry for not telling me about all this to begin with. “Send word that I’m headed for the ferry and to have one of the ponies hidden at Maggot’s ready.”

They don’t ask where I’m going as I open and shut the office door to run through the hallways to my room. They know where I’m going. I want to welcome them home and then be there when my cousins and Sam set Freddy free.

”Come away from the window now, Gaffer,” Rosie said as she took hold of the old hobbit’s shoulders. “They’ll be back soon enough.” She looked out the window herself at the group of hobbits leaving the yard and marching down the road. Sam looked so wonderful riding at the head of the group with Mr. Frodo and his cousins. She brought her thoughts back to the Gaffer.

“Least we know where ‘tis they’re heading this time. Lotho won’t be able to trick them. They’ll be settin’ him ta rights.”

Ham shrugged her hands off his shoulders. “I can turn m’self about, lass. I’m no faunt needin’ ta be took hold of and placed where ya wish it.” But he let her hand, now gently placed in the middle of his back, guide him to the rocker by the fire. He sighed as he lowered his aching bones into the chair. No denying that it was more comfortable beside the fire, nor that he was feeling his after-luncheon-nap starting to creep over him.

How strange it all seemed. He had said he was no faunt, needing to be watched over . . . and yet. He chuckled softly. Wasn’t that the way of it? Isn’t that how life goes?

“First ya be needin’ watched o’re nigh all the time and takin’ lots o’ naps.” his voice said in his
thoughts. “Then ya be the one doing the watchin’ and never nappin’. Then yer back to bein’ the one they be keeping an eye on whilst yer nappin’.”

Then there was this having your hearing start to go amiss. He chuckled again. He knew full well he was the one with a problem, but it was just so much fun riling up the younger folk by telling them to stop their mumbling. Ham smiled as he sighed. He often heard more than he chose to show. Again, as though he were a child, his grown children seemed to think there were things he shouldn’t know. He learned a great deal letting them think his hearing was worse than it was.

The Gaffer squinted a bit to see as far out the window as he could. It didn’t help that he was now all the way across the room from the window.

No. His eyes weren’t what they used to be either. But that hadn’t been the reason he’d needed a moment to recognize Sam last night. How was he supposed to know his son, with Sam all dressed up so oddly and with only the light from a candle in that shack they’d put him into?

Sam, all dressed like folks in those story books Mr. Bilbo would let the lad borrow.

Sam, in an iron weskit and cloth as fine as that on young Mr. Frodo and his cousins.

He continued to stare out the window, though his eyes were slowly closing. They had just come back from fighting a battle. A battle in the Shire. Hamfast shivered at that thought. But pride quickly warmed him. His son was leading hobbits of Bywater to gain back Bag End. To gain back Mr. Frodo’s home. And his home. And the Shire.

Written for Grey_Wonderer because she wanted a story for when she got home from the LOTR Symphony in Cleveland.
*****************

They had asked him to do it. He felt unsure, it had been long time. But they had cheered and clapped and generally insisted he meet their demand.

They had wielded that same sword against the ruffians that had defiled the Shire.

He didn’t know how it had got from Great Smials to Hobbiton, but it had.
He took the fiddle from it’s case. He tuned the strings. He tightened and rosined the bow.
He ran a gentle hand over the worn wood.
He tucked his fiddle ‘neath his chin, hugging his old friend.

A bit halting at first, a bit scratchily, the notes sounded. Then the notes flowed. A year and more of homesickness and his hobbit heart’s love of the Shire echoed in every tone. Pippin’s music filled the heart of every hobbit in the Green Dragon on the old inn’s first night back in business.

Pippin and Sam puffed a few more times at their pipes without a word being said.

“Well,” Sam said, “As they say, one puff’ll be enough if the weed lights rough."

“That’s more to do with the pipe than the weed, Pippin.” You could almost hear Merry add, “you goose” to the end of the comment.

“Not so, Merry. I had some stuff once with a smoke as thick as treacle that nearly flowed down from the bowl. ‘Twas near impossible to draw and you know, hard to draw is a flaw.”

“All right, all right!” Merry was getting quite impatient. He was starting to suspect that his dear cousin and friend were dragging this along on purpose. “But what about it? What do you say, yes or no?”

“It does have a rather different flavor, Merry,” said Pip. “Not unpleasant, mind. It’s quite pleasant, just different.”

“Of course it’s different. I couldn’t very well say it’s a new variety of pipe weed if it weren’t different from the others.”

“Exactly!” Merry beamed for a moment but his broad smile quickly faded. “But what do you think of it?”

“Me too,” Pippin said tipping his head to his cousin while saluting Merry with his pipe. “Has it a name? Perhaps something like Merry’s Minty Weed? Master’s Own? Brandybuck Best?”

Merry sighed a bit and blushed as he shrugged his shoulders. “After my mother and the beautiful green of the plains of Rohan and Estella’s favorite gem.”

And so it is called to this very day in the shops of the Shire and throughout the realm of the King.

Ah, summer! The sunny days. The warm breezes. Flowers. Birds and bees. And food aplenty.

And various diversions. Tossing ponyshoes. Fishing the ponds and little rivers. Gardening. Swinging. Fairs and festivals. Draughts matches on the outside tables at the inns and taverns. Pony Races. And food aplenty.

In the Shire there are pony races and then there are pony races. There are the posh folk’s racing their pureblood light ponies. All done up fancy are these races with owners having set colors for their stables and the races run upon courses either around in a fenced circuit or set across open country as though on a hunt. But ask the average hobbit as he lifts his half at his local inn and he’ll tell the real racing is done by working lads and their draft ponies.

The course is always upon one and one half mile of ordinary road. Each pony pulls the same size waggon loaded with the same weight of hay. They set off in pairs, as that is all there is room for upon the road, so it usually makes for a full day of elimination heats, and rests for the winners as the heats get closer, before the final two ponies have their race. Excitement is high and so are the bets when the last race is sounded.

Now mind, ‘tisn’t as though the gentry don’t have draft ponies, nor that many of the working hobbits don’t have light ponies, ‘tis more that over time it has been the way things fell into being. Thus it was quite the surprise when, near the end of summer last, that talk and posted notices declared that a draft pony race was to be held in Hobbiton, sponsored by Messrs. Baggins, Brandybuck and Took.

“What be this!” Molo Underhill exclaimed loudly at the Green Dragon. “Since the thirty-first of what month have the draft pony races been of any interest to the gentry?”

“From what young Mr. Frodo has let slip my direction,” said the Gaffer, “ain’t that they be plannin’ on racin’ any o’ their ponies or such. He said that the young masters, being the Brandybuck and Took lads, had been hearin’ their fathers sayin’ as how their own stock was needin’ some new blood in it. They were likin’ ta have the race in Hobbiton, us being in the middle o’ the Shire so ta say, and so asked their cousin to be in on the affair with them. Mr. Frodo livin’ here and all, they said ‘twas the proper thing ta do.”

“And what’s them snobbish lot needin’ new blood in their herds got ta do with our pony races?” Ted Sandyman sneered.

“Sorry, sorry! It be this.” Gaffer Gamgee replied, holding up a hand to still the rising chatter. “Though ‘tain’t mentioned on ta notices I’ve been told, the point is they be hopin’ ta buy the winner, if it be a mare, or to offer handsome coin for stud service if it be a stallion. That n’ o’course, there be a prize as well.”

“Well,” the Gaffer said as he rose to leave, “we’ll soon be a’knowin’ what be what. The race be this comin’ Highday.”

Mersday the contestants from other Shire towns began to arrive. This race was not the usual race, being more like the races held at the Lithe Days or various festivals and fairs. The usual races were amongst locals and not bringing in those from very far off. But this race . . . well this race, being sponsored by such noteworthy hobbits, was one none of the families that normally raced wished to miss. Every inn was full along with them every livery stable, and many a Hobbiton farm had family from elsewhere visiting them. No one seemed to notice, on that moon lit night, shadowy figures barely to be seen as they flitted in brush and shadows near a few of the farms and stables.

As always at such events, there were favorites to be noted amongst the many entries. Five ponies there were who were showing up at the top of every betting board. Sunflower of the Bunces of Hobbiton. Dander of the Jumpswells of Frogmorton. Steadyfoot of the Mudruffins of Rushy. Sassy of the Tunnellys of Oatbarton. And Steelbawes of the Sandymans of Hobbiton. Of these, Sunflower and Sassy were mares. Steadyfoot was a gelding. Dander and Steelbawes were stallions.

Highday dawned a perfect dawn, nearly raining sunshine. There was a buzzing in the air that had nought to do with bees. Dander and Sassy had got the colic during the night and though neither pony had gone down with it, neither was in a shape good enough to race. Sunflower had come up lame and was also withdrawn. Of the favorites, only Steadyfoot and Steelbawes remained.

The races were overseen by Messrs. Brandybuck and Took, with Mister Meriadoc officiating at the starting line and Mister (more like Master but no one spoke different on this day) Peregrin officiating at the finish line. Since there were no Took or Brandybuck ponies in the field, they had each brought a few cousins with them to stand post along the route of the race to encourage fair racing by all those entered.

The horn blew on the last race at nearly seven o’clock in the evening. As many had figured ‘twould be, it was between Steadyfoot and Steelbawes. A fine and fierce race it was, with each driver glaring down the other as they stayed neck and neck over most of the course. But the victory was clear. As they rounded a curve in the road nigh to the finish line, Steelbawes easily pulled ahead of Steadyfoot, to finish a full two pony and waggon lengths ahead.

The ponies needed walking-out anyway, so the awards were set to be handed out back at the start, on the green of Hobbiton. Mr. Baggins presided over the giving of the awards.

“Hobbits of the Shire, there are prizes to be given out this evening.” The crowd hushed as Frodo raised his voice to be heard. “With a fine attempt in the final heat, Brushjumper, owned by the Spinner family of Needlehole is our third place finisher!”

There was loud cheering and applause as Norbert Spinner came to claim his pony’s ribbon.

“Our second place pony,” Frodo shouted and again the crowd hushed, “with a hard fought race in which he performed admirably, is Steadyfoot owned by the Mudruffins of Rushy!”

Sandy Mudruffin swaggered forward to claim his silver cup and red ribbon. “I’m no’ such a loser as I won’t buy a round fer all at the Dragon when this here awardin’ is said and done!” he declared and the crowd nearly went wild. Someone blew a horn and quiet slowly returned to the Hobbiton green.

“I will now turn this over to my cousins, Merry Brandybuck and Pippin Took,” said Frodo, “as this race was their idea. Merry and Pippin.” Frodo waved the two onto the small platform.

“Would Ted Sandyman come up,” said Merry, and Ted shoved his way through the crowd till he stood next to the young Brandybuck.

“Your pony is our winner,” Merry said, and though the crowd cheered, it was less enthusiastic as it might have been. There were a goodly number of hobbits who wouldn’t swap stories with the Hobbiton miller’s son.

This last brought the murmurings of the crowd to a dead halt. Whatever was this strange Brandybuck going on about? But it was the Took that spoke next.

“There’s been a bit of an interesting pattern going on at draft pony races this summer, and word has made it’s way to The Took.” A surprised muttering spread through the crowd at these words. Every hobbit there gave some credence to the authority of The Took and Thain. Every hobbit there knew who this Took lad’s father was. Despite the lad’s own reputation as a prankster and bit o’ a fool, there was some weight in the lads words. Pippin continued. “It seems that the favorites at a number of the races would be scratched the day of the race. This happened often enough that some Tooks began to wonder if something was amiss My father felt something should be done and so it was decided that my cousin, Meriadoc, son of the Master of Buckland, and I, along with our cousin Frodo should sponsor this race to see what we could discover.”

Merry took up the tale. “Last year neither Dander nor Sassy lost more than a couple of races. Sunflower was a bit of a mystery, either a strong winner or in last place but a winner more than not. Steadyfoot was top pony three years ago, and though still a strong contender not as much a threat as before.”

“But this year,” Frodo took a turn, “it seems that these ponies have had a run of ill health and minor injuries.” Frodo paused and looked squarely at Ted. “So we had a race here in Hobbiton where my cousins and I know the area well. We know the roads and lanes, we know the farms, we know where there is brush or shadows to hide in. It wasn’t hard for various Brandybucks and Tooks to keep an eye on the farms and stables where the favorites where boarded.”

“Interestin’,” Sam Gamgee suddenly stepped up onto the platform, “how no one seemed to be visitin’ your barn durin’ the night, Ted lad.”

Sam continued. “We made sure neither Dander nor Sassy ate the mouldy hay that got put in their hay nets, but we couldn’t help Sunflower’s bruised frog.”

Pippin stepped forward. “The offers to purchase a winning mare or pay stud fee to the owner of a winning stallion are extended to the Jumpswells, owners of the stallion, Dander, and to the Tunnellys owners of Sassy the mare.”

“The other prize,” Merry said, “will be awarded to the pony that won today's race.”

The crowd gasped. How could these daft gentlehobbits do this? How could they give a jewelled necklace to a cheat? A sly look grew upon Ted Sandyman’s face. He would make good use of such a prize.

Pippin and Sam had stepped down off the back of the platform and soon appeared coming around the front leading Steelbawes. Around the pony’s neck was a collar of carrots, apples, sprays of alfalfa and wee bags of sugar cubes.

“Wha . . . Where . . .” Ted stammered. “Where’s ma necklace o’ jooles?”

Pippin and Sam laughed heartily. Merry crossed his arms over his chest with a look of pleased superiority. Frodo gestured toward Steelbawes with a sweep of his arm and said, “ ‘Jewels are what the heart desires, Ted. He’s the one who ran the race. He’s the winner and that is his jewelled necklace!”

To this day, Sam swears that he could see smoke comin’ out o’ Ted’s ears as he stomped away with everyone’s laughter chasing after him.

“Weary, dreary, and my eyes are bleary from the rain in them,” Sir Peregrin Took mumbled aloud to himself as he sent droplets flying with a shake of his head. “Sound’s a good chorus for a song,” he chuckled, though the chuckle was no more lively than the day, and it finished with a sigh.

He had just come off duty. Having walked to the Citadel in the rain that morning then listening to it falling all through the day, he now was out in its light but steady fall once more. Pippin scuffed along the street, eyes downcast, watching his feet swishing, not splashing, through puddles and rivulets in his path on the white stone pavement.

The rivulet before him, somewhat wider than most, was grey. It was nearly black at times as Pippin stood watching its waters flow by. Grey. Dark grey. Light grey. Black. Never clear. He slowly turned and began to walk along it, against its flow. He would see why this water looked so dark.

Pippin kept his head down; the dark water flowing past him on its way through the City stayed to his left. No need to look up to see where he was going. Just follow the water. He didn’t see, until he arrived at the guarded portal; the rivulet ran beneath Fen Hollen, it flowed from Rath Dinen. Pippin looked at the door ward, who looked solemnly back at him. They did not speak, yet the man turned and opened the door for the Ernil i Pheriannath to pass through.

Once again, Peregrin Took did not look up. He followed the small stream of ash-filled water.

The young Knight of Gondor stopped when he saw the water flowing down a few deep but shallow steps.

Pippin finally looked up. Looked at the ruined, blackened, burned remains of the House of Stewards.

He stood and stared at the desecrated tomb as an eerie crawling feeling made its way from the soles of his feet up his legs and spine, eventually closing his eyes while sending a shiver throughout his body.

His eyes slowly opened, pulled not toward the source of the stream but to something off to one side. A man on a horse. At first, fleetingly, he thought they had moved but now saw it was a statue of some long forgotten king of Gondor. A white figure upon a white horse made of the white stone that made the White City that was set into the eastern most end of the White Mountains.

He was wrapped well against the wind, the wind stirred by the running of the great white horse, held firmly yet gently by the arms of the White Wizard.

*Tall ships and tall kings
Three times three,
What brought they from the foundered land
Over the flowing sea?
Seven stars and seven stones
And one white tree.*

*“I wish I had known all this before,” he heard his small voice saying against the rush of the wind as Shadowfax ran. “I had no notion of what I was doing.”*

*“Oh yes you had,” the voice of the White Wizard chided. “You knew you were behaving wrongly and foolishly; and you told yourself so, though you did not listen.”*

He had. Pippin had said that to himself while standing over the Wizard with his prize in his hands. And Gandalf had heard, though he had seemed asleep. Was asleep. Like the game Pippin and his sisters had played as children with their father. They would say something strange over Paladin as he lay napping. Then sometimes, later in the day, he would get an odd look on his face and ask about what they had said, unsure of when he had heard it. For Pippin knew that if the old wizard had truly been awake, Gandalf would have sat up, grabbed the wrapped stone away and most likely shaken him till his teeth rattled loose in his head while again reminding him that he is a fool of a Took.

And Pippin had stolen away by himself. And he had removed the cloth from around it. And he had looked into . . .

Pippin’s eyes flew open, his mind flying away from the memory of the vision at the heart of the Stone. A voice filled his ears. Not His voice. A caring voice.

*“No, the burned hand teaches best.”* Pippin heard Gandalf say in his memory. Unlike Paladin, in Pippin’s childhood, Gandalf had had no trouble placing in his mind when he had heard Pippin scolding himself. Pippin had understood the wizard’s meaning then and it still rang true in his heart, an old adage of the Shire from the lips of one well acquainted with hobbits and their ways.

Had Denethor not known? Had the Dark Lord not hurt the Steward as He had hurt the small hobbit at whom He had laughed? Denethor had used the Stone, used it many times, used it until it used him. Until it used him up and sent him to the flames.

The people of Minas Tirith would soon clear away the rubble of Denethor’s pyre. Another house for the dead would be built, for there was still a line of Stewards. Rain would eventually wash the ashes away or they would become part of the earth surrounding the tomb. The Rath Dinen would no longer be scarred; the horror that had once marred its peace would someday be forgotten.

Sir Peregrin Took turned away from the charred tomb, suddenly grateful for the pain he had endured. Pippin stood straight. He no longer scuffed his feet as he left the Rath Dinen to join the Fellowship in their house in the King’s City. He had learned the lesson taught by his burned hand.

*quotes and bits of quotes from “The Two Towers”, the chapter “The Palantir”

“You’ve a huge smial here, Merry, and Faramir’s a small lad. You know he’s one to go off hiding.” Pippin shook his head. “He has a bit of his grandpa in him. Faramir told me once that he likes to hide so he can hear himself think.”

That does make him different from his father,” Merry smirked. “You could have all the quiet you want and you wouldn’t hear anything.”

Diamond didn’t hide her giggle well, and her husband gave her a nudge with his elbow. She only giggled louder.

“Clever Merry. Very clever.” Pippin looked past his cousin. “As I was saying, Estella, I’ll go look for the lad after elevenses if he doesn’t show up for the meal.”

It was nearly time for luncheon when his father found him in the wardrobe in his bedroom.

“I thought you were in here,” Pippin said looking down at his tear-streaked child who was huddled into a corner. “When I came in before I noticed the door was shut tight and we know how often your Mum has to remind you to shut the wardrobe.” Pippin squatted down to appear less threatening. He didn’t reach for his son yet. He knew his lad well. He knew at Faramir’s age he didn’t always wish to be held, he would wait and see what Faramir wanted him to do. “When you didn’t answer my calling for you, I figured you still needed some time. But it’s nearly luncheon, and you don’t need to be missing two meals, so I thought I’d come and see what’s the matter.” He sat on the floor and tipped his head a bit to one side, his expression encouraging a response. None was forthcoming. “What’s the matter?”

Faramir threw a small book at the floor by his father’s legs. He still said nothing.

Pippin picked up the book. It showed signs of attempts to tear it apart. The title was “How Faeries Behave”. Pippin looked at Faramir. “This is what has you so upset?”

“Some of the Brandybuck cousins and their friends were reading it and,” Faramir paused. “Not Theo,” he added quickly. “Theo wouldn’t do this . . . well, he wouldn’t do it so meanly nor for so long.”

Pippin nodded. Theodoc was Merry’s son, and he and Faramir were as close as their fathers were. “Where was Theo?”

“He had to go and visit some old Brandybuck auntie, and Aunt Esme said, “The poor old dear will have quite enough with one lad in her apartments, I’m afraid. You’d best not go with us, Faramir. Theo will only be a few hours, then you can have him back.” So Theo wasn’t there.” Faramir scowled. “He ought to have been. They wouldn’t have . . . well they still might have, but it would have been better to not be alone.”

“What did the lads do, Faramir?” Pippin was having to work hard at being patient. He knew he was getting his own back. Faramir might be like Paladin in some ways, but in others he was very much his father’s son. He could take forever to get to the point of things.

“They read that book,” Faramir fairly spat the word out. “Then they had me read it and then they started on about how Tooks have Faerie blood and so Tooks are like that book says. I don’t know why they were reading it anyway as it’s a faunt’s book. They kept at it; saying all sorts of things were all the Tooks fault. That they shouldn’t even play with me, as I was a Took and something nasty would happen to them if they were around me too much. And . . . and . . .” Faramir was getting quite worked up and was barely bothering to breathe. “And then they started saying that Uncle Merry shouldn’t be the Master as he’s half Took and he’ll make everything in Buckland go badly. Then I punched Morimas in the nose, grabbed the stupid book and ran to my room, and I hid in here in case they came after me, and I tried hard not to cry nor breathe too loud so they wouldn’t hear me if they did come after me.” The lad drew in a short breath. “Then I tried to tear the stupid book up, because it’s stupid and . . . but, I couldn’t as it’s a child’s book, and the paper is thick, and I was too upset and . . . Da, why is it sometimes when you’re upset you don’t seem to be as strong? Anyway, it’s a stupid book.”

Pippin had to fight the urge to grin; there was no doubting this lad was his son. He looked at the battered book. “May I read it, Faramir? I want to see what has you so upset in our family’s defense.”

Faramir nodded as he crossed his arms over his chest. “It’s a stupid, mean book,” he mumbled.

His father opened the cover to find that “How Faeries Behave” was a poem, done with one verse to a page with prettily colored drawings to illustrate them.

When the earth goes bad
and the crops won’t grow,
It’s Faeries we must blame.

When the rain’s a torrent
or there’s none at all
It’s just a Faeries’ game.

Pippin hadn’t quite finished when he heard his son ask, in a small sad voice, “Is it true, Da?”. He finished and looked up. Faramir crawled out of the wardrobe and sat beside him, turned so that he could look at his father’s face. He rested one small hand on Pippin’s leg.

“Is it true, Da? Is that what Faeries are like, or is it just a stupid book? And . . . and were the lads right, Da? I’ve heard before that we have Faerie blood in us and that it makes Tooks strange, but . . .”

Pippin pulled his son onto his lap and Faramir did not protest. He cuddled into his father’s chest, suddenly a little lad again. Pippin held him close.

Memories flooded into Pippin’s heart. Thinking his Aunt Esmeralda was there when Merry had fallen from a tree - but she hadn’t been there. Times on the Quest when dark fears had gripped him, and there had been her comforting presence - and the presence of another. The scent of autumn leaves on the forest floor swirled around him, borne on a gentle breeze that somehow made its way inside Brandy Hall.

Green eyes met green eyes, and green stars danced. Autumn leaves rustled. Cullassisul smiled.

A/N: Cullassisul was introduced in my story "While We Dwelt in Fear". She is the faerie who married a Took ancestor.

The odd sensation wasn’t completely foreign to Faramir Took, he had felt it before. There had been other times, times when his father caught and held his gaze. The world seemed to . . . not quite fade, but to look as though he was underwater with his eyes opened. Faramir’s ears felt that way too, as though sounds around him were suddenly muffled; except for his father’s voice.

That was what he heard his father’s voice say and suddenly that sounded wonderful to Faramir, despite the fact that asparagus was one of the few things he would not eat.

“I think I . . . I . . . want . . .” Something in the lad halted his words. This wasn’t right. His mind was slowly shifting away from the strange pull it was feeling to agree with his father, but the gentle urging was strong. “I . . . want . . .”

“Now you know what you do to your sister.” Pippin said softly. Faramir opened his mouth to deny it but his father continued. “No use in saying you haven’t, Son. I know better. I’ve stood by and watched you do it.”

Faramir blinked a few times as his chin dropped towards his chest. He had indeed performed his trick on his sister, and on Theodoc and a few other cousins as well. It had been a curiosity to himself the first couple of times it had happened, but later it was great fun to have the others say or do things he told them to do. He had even managed to avoid or lessen a few punishments that his mother would have dealt him, but not often nor lately as he had begun to feel it was disrespectful to do to his Mum. It had never worked on his Da. Just now, it hadn’t been pleasant nor fun having it done to him.

“Why didn’t Beryl just do it to me sometime?” the lad, his head still lowered, softly asked his father. “Why didn’t Theo?”

Faramir’s head jerked up so fast his neck popped, his eyes were wide, his mouth hung open.

“ ‘Don’t look a Faerie in the eyes, You know not what you’ll see’,” Pippin quoted, holding up the battered copy of “How Faeries Behave”, waggling it back and forth as he did so. “That’s nearly the only bit of truth in this mess of superstitious nonsense. The ‘we’ll see no more of thee’ being the other as a good many of those whom the Faeries led away either didn’t return or returned besotted with the wonders they had seen.”

Faramir had thought his head felt oddly before. It was in total upheaval now. The taunts of his cousins and friends were dancing about with lines from the poem, weaving in and out with his Da’s voice saying, “They haven’t the Faerie blood in them.”

Pippin watched his son intently. He could nearly see the thoughts rushing about in the lad’s mind. Faramir began thinking aloud.

“ ‘They haven’t the Faerie blood in them.’ Father just said that. But, said that way it makes it sound as though there are some as do have Faerie blood in them. And Da said that because I asked why Beryl has never done my trick back on me, nor has Theo, nor the cousins here at the Hall who were teasing me. But they were teasing me that Tooks have Faerie blood in them. If Da says that ‘They haven’t the Faerie blood in them.’ as though there are those who do have it then they were right. They were right! Then Tooks are terrible, awful, danger . . .”

“Stop, Faramir!” Pippin gently moved his son off of his lap. He sat the lad on the floor in front of the open wardrobe then took hold of him by the shoulders, the book that started all this still in his hand. He looked squarely into Faramir’s teary green eyes, but this time no stars danced and the feel of the world about him didn’t change to the lad. He only saw his father’s kind but worried green eyes. “You were doing well, fine logic, till right there at that last. Tooks are not ‘terrible, awful, dangerous’ beings any more than Faeries are. They aren’t and we aren’t.” Pippin paused and his head tipped slightly to one side. “Well, most of them aren’t and most of us aren’t, there have been a few . . .”

The room was quiet a moment as Pippin remembered some of his Took family history, including Lalia the Fat . . . eh, Great. No, all Tooks weren’t the best of hobbits. He shook himself a bit to chase off the thoughts and come back to the matter at hand. Like his son’s, Pippin’s mind easily flitted off its topic. He shook the book again.

“As I also said, most of this poem is nonsense. Lies. Superstition. Gobblety Gook.”

“Yes,” His Da said softly as he set the book down. “That part of things is true as well. A long time ago, I’m not even sure how long but it was a long time ago, a hobbit lad married a faerie lass.”

“How is it that there is still enough of her blood in us to cause some of us to be a bit faerie-ish?”

Pippin’s eyes held a soft and distant look, his voice was nearly a whisper. “It was her gift to us. It was allowed that some of her descendants would carry her traits.”

“She did not say. Only that there would be some of us in every generation of Tooks, born to the name of Took, not those who are Took by marriage nor those of a different clan or family but with Took blood in them. It is only for some of us that are born to her family. We would have her knowing of things. We would have her eyes.”

“ ‘She did not say?’” Faramir’s voice was an astonished whisper, stars began twinkling in his eyes. “You . . . you make it sound like you’ve talked to her, Da. That’s . . . impossible.”

“Like Elf-kind.” the elder Took muttered. “They are like the Elves. They don’t die. Faeries don’t die. She gifted us. Blessed us. Secret. It’s a secret. The others . . .”

The small bedroom in Brandy Hall slowly faded into woods in the waning of the year. A voice, like flutes or small chimes, spoke.

“The others do not understand, my Tookling Jewel, but my children do if they seek the knowledge.”

Green fireworks filled in her eyes. Breezes blew through her golden-red hair and stirred the leaves at her feet. Cullassisul’s smile brought his own smile to Faramir’s face.

I know earth. I know it well. I knew it when it was
first made. I have walked upon it, sat upon it, slept
upon it. I have felt its life, for it does have a
life of its own. Earth breathes, moves, and sighs. I
understand what is meant by “living” rock. I have
felt it in its infinite forms. Sand and dirt. Grit
and pebble. Soil and rock. Mountains and plains. I
have climbed its high crags. I have clung to the edge
of the abyss.

I know air. I know it well. I knew it when it was
first made. I have breathed it, exhaled it, and
breathed it in again. I have felt its caress, felt
its whip, seen it tear things asunder, seen it sink
the ships upon the seas. I have smelled the seasons
in its breezes, and the warm fragrance of congenial
pipe smoke filling it in a comfortable sitting room.
I have been where air is. I have been where it is
not.

I know fire. I know it well. I knew it when it was
first made. I saw its first glowing in the darkness
of the void, mysterious and ephemeral. I have made
use of its light and heat. I have watched it dance
among the embers. Tool and weapon. Blessing and
curse. Pain and comfort. I have sat beside it. I
have been engulfed by it.

I know water. I know it well. I knew it when it was
first made. I have drunk it, washed with it, washed
in it, swum in it, waded through it, and ridden upon
it. With its partner, air, it supports life. I have
listened to it drip, trickle, burble and roar. It has
fallen upon me gently. It has lashed me as it poured
from the clouds. It has cloaked my enemies and myself
in its mists. I have delighted in the play of light
upon it. I was immersed in its icy blackness.

“This place is not for me nor my kindred. It is for
the Children. Why am I here?”

“All that I have been given to know is that you will
have need of having been here in a time that is to
come.”

It was in that moment of time that is between times,
between one day and the next, that I felt the earth
beneath me. I gasped in the icy air. Four of the
world’s hours passed as I listened to the messages of
the winds, felt the agonies of the earth. At the
stroke of morning’s fourth hour, I was gathered up and
borne away. Borne to where there was water to quench
my thirst and fire to warm my flesh. I knew much . .
. I knew that I knew little. I ventured forth. It is
my calling, my need and my deepest desire to aid in
the coming of the fourth age of this world.

I passed over plains and through forests. I passed
through mourning and through battle. I rode like the
winds themselves to end up here.

Now I sit staring into eyes clouded with doubt and
dread, set in a pale face smudged with soot and grime.

“I didn’t think it would end this way.” Peregrin
Took’s voice is small and plaintive.

I smile. I hope the comfort I wish to give him, the
love I have for him, shows in my smile, my eyes, and
my voice. “End? No, the journey doesn’t end here.
Death is just another path. One that we all must
take. The grey rain curtain of this world rolls back
. . .” I tell him, while in my thoughts I hear
someone telling me, “ . . . you will have need of
having been here.”

S.R. 1400
Pearl is 25 = 16.5
Nell is 21 = 14
Merry is 18 = 12
Vinca is 15 = 10
Pippin is 10 = 6.5

Elements from the word “FIDDLE”: Pervinca, Brandywine Bridge, An eagle, A dangerous fire, A throne room, Rory Brandybuck.

Of the Took children only Pearl and Pimpernel really understood the reasons they and their sister and brother had been sent to Brandy Hall. It was because of the limp leaves on the trees, the shriveled crops in the fields and the creeks that had disappeared. It was because of the animals of the Took herds that were getting noticeably thin. It was because of the drought.

Pervinca and Pippin knew it was dry, they knew that Mum and Da were worried, the farm hands not as willing to jest and play as before, but they didn’t really know how bad a drought could be for the inhabitants of the Shire. Paladin and Lanti had sent the children off before he and their workers began the slaughtering of the flocks of sheep and the small herd of cattle. It would be hard enough on the older lasses but they feared the two youngest would be badly upset by the desperate action.

Things were a bit better in Buckland. The Brandywine flowed from Lake Nenuial and apparently there were rains still falling upon the Hills of Evendim, for the river was still flowing strong and full. Though it was back breaking work, the fields of Buckland that ran along the river’s edge were kept alive and growing with water hand pumped from the river. Teams of hobbits worked the pumps at intervals around the clock to keep the thirsty fields supplied with life giving water. Hobbits of the East Farthing also were pumping the Brandywine to water their fields so there was a belt of green along the west bank from a bit south of the Hills of Scary to the Brandywine Bridge, then along both banks from the Bridge to where the river and the border of the Shire parted ways. They were all willing to work as hard as they could. Other than the strips of land along the river, only the North Farthing north of the Bindbale Wood was having normal rains. The hobbits of the north and those on the banks of the Brandywine knew they were most likely going to be feeding the whole of the Shire come next winter.

After the Took children’s initial excitement of being at the Hall, of staying with their aunt, uncle and cousin, and the Brandybuck’s joy at having them there, the days began to plod by. The youngsters hadn’t known that clear, sunny days could feel so heavy. Indoor games had become boring and they could only play outside in the very early morning or when the sun was barely hanging above the horizon in the evening. The rest of the day was simply too hot with nary a breeze to stir the stagnant air.

Then, there were the lightening storms. All flashes of light and booming noise . . . but no downpour of rain. It was the nineteenth of Afterlithe, the Tooks having been at Brandy Hall nearly seven weeks, when another of the lightening storms struck.

“What’s the matter with everyone?” Vinca asked her sister Pearl. “Why are the grown-ups looking so afraid of the storm? You’re the oldest, Pearl, do you know?”

Pearl knew. She hugged her sisters tightly while Merry and Pippin huddled together. She wouldn’t lie to them. Not that the adults had lied, but they had hedged the truth.

“Fire, Vinca.” The words were soft, Pearl’s voice nearly steady. “They are afraid of fire. The grass is dry. The trees are dry. Buckland is dry except the land right along the Brandywine. The lightening can start fires and with everything so dry the fire can travel quickly over the ground.”

Vinca’s voice was shaky, her eyes were large with concern. “And birds and squirrels and field mice and . . .”

“Yes, Vinca,” Pearl cut her sister off before she named every small creature she could think of. “Unless they run away they will . . .” She really didn’t want to use the word ‘die’. “They will be gone too,” Pearl finished in a small, quiet voice.

Oddly, it was Pippin who grasped the worst of it. “And byres and houses and holes and hobbits. They will be gone too, won’t they, Pearl, if they don’t get out of the way? But the byres and houses and holes can’t run away. But the hobbits will, won’t they, Pearl? Won’t the hobbits all run?”

“Yes, the hobbits will run, Pippin.” Pearl hoped she sounded more confident than she felt. She knew, as she was sure Nell did and maybe Merry too, that the grounds around the Hall had not been watered as much as the nearby fields. There had been talk amongst the grown-ups that they had best see to the crops above all else. The level of water in the Brandywine might start to drop. The drought might spread through the North Farthing to the region of the Hills of Evendim. They would be needing food more than Brandy Hall needed green grass and shrubbery.

“Grandpa Rory will make sure the hobbits run to safety, Pip.” Merry said, hugging his young cousin before tousling his hair. “Either run or go deep inside the Hall to the inner most rooms. There’s been droughts before Pippin and the Hall has always been safe.”

Vinca and Pippin looked at each other. They weren’t really all that sure of their siblings’ and cousin’s confidence, but they had no choice but to trust them.

Pearl, Pimpernel and Merry all looked at each other. They knew it was fear of fire that had caused the Took’s parents to send them to Buckland. Their home in Whitwell was a house, not a hobbit hole, and much more vulnerable to fire. Also, the Tookland was drier than Buckland.

“How about a story?” Pearl asked. “How about the Elf King and the Day the Eagle Flew Into His Throne Room?”

It was a silly tale, long in the telling. All the heads around her nodded, so Pearl began the story. “Once upon a time, in the halls of an Elven King . . .”

It was after midnight when the messenger arrived at Brandy Hall and The Master’s personal servant ran to Rory Brandybuck’s bedchamber.

“Master Rorimac! Master, sir! It’s happened sir. Fire. Fire near to the Hall, sir.”

Old Rory Brandybuck quickly shook off his drowsiness as Old Tom held out his dressing gown. “The runners?” He asked as he stuck his right arm in its sleeve. He looked at his wife who had rolled over, blearily blinking her eyes. “Fire, Menegilda,” Rory said, raising his voice so she could hear him.

“Send Buttercup in to help me on your way out, Dearest,” she replied as loudly.

“The runners are out already, sir. You did well havin’ those meetin’s and goin’ over what’s been done before when the droughts have come. There’s been no bad panicin’, sir. Just everyone goin’ about what they know to be doin’. No need even to be soundin’ the Horn Call as it seems the only spot in much danger is right near the Hall and the Hall itself, and well, we know what to do.”

Tom helped the Master get his left arm in its sleeve and immediately, the old hobbit was fumbling at tying the belt. “It be to the north and east with the winds bein’ nearly out of due north.”

“Not good then.” Rory finished with the belt and was moving as quickly as his old legs would go toward the door. “At least that is not the side of the Hall where most of the windows are. But that still doesn’t guarantee that the smial won’t be breached. I’m off to my small office, Tom. Send anyone not sure what they ought to be doing to me there.”

Pippin looked out of his bedroom window. He and his sisters along with most of the other residents of the Hall had been wakened then herded into several of the tunnels and apartments that were the deepest into the center of Buck Hill. They were to stay there, away from the rooms with windows or rooms with walls close to the surface of the hill.

But this was Pippin Took. He had sat just fine in Merry’s Aunt Lilly and Uncle Marmadas’ everyday sitting room while Merry had been with him. But Merry had got distracted by cousin Merimas. He stood up to talk to him and had not said anything to Pippin for what seemed to be a very long time to the little lad. During the first moments of those fifteen minutes, Pippin’s mind had been running at high speed with questions. Where was the fire? How big was the fire? Could you smell the fire if you were near to a window? Did it look like any old fire? Like a fire in a grate in a fireplace? Like an outside fire like the ones they would sing songs around and cook sausages over most summers? Was it loud? Could you hear it snap and crackle from the Hall? Could you see it, smell it, hear it from a window? Could he see it, smell it, hear it from his window? Seven minutes into the fifteen that Merry spent talking to Merimas, Pippin got up and quietly left the apartment.

The fifteen minutes had only seemed a few minutes to Merry. “Pippin, what do you . . .” Merry didn’t finish his question to his little cousin. He turned back sharply to Merimas. “Where’s Pip?”

The two lads split up to search around the room full of people. Then the bedrooms in Merimas’ family’s apartment. Then the other rooms.

The sky was orange. Orange and grey and black. Sometimes, it was bright white and light grey with only a hint of the orange. That was when more lightening flashed. The orange would flicker and dance on the grey and black of the clouds in-between the flashes of lightening.

Pippin decided that the orange must be the fire. Well, the light from the fire at least as it looked like firelight on the walls and ceiling of a room. And really, he thought, weren’t the clouds like a ceiling over Buckland? He was up on top of a cedar chest that normally sat at the foot of his bed. It had taken a good bit of shoving to move it beneath the window which was only a few feet away, but he had been forced to get under the bed to start his pushing. Pippin was good at bracing himself as best he could with his hands and pushing with his feet and legs.

He opened the window. Yes, he could smell the fire. It smelled like a campfire. Maybe they really should go out and roast sausages, he thought, and his tummy growled. The air was getting warmer. The orange light was getting brighter. He could hear an odd roaring noise.

Rory Brandybuck’s small office was a place he usually went to be alone. It was tucked away at the quiet end of a quiet tunnel deep inside Buck Hill. His official office was on an outside wall with windows overlooking the fields that rolled softly down to the Brandywine River. The door to the small office was thrown open.

“ ‘S changed, sir,” Tom panted. “Wind’s changed. ‘S comin’ straight for the Hall, Master Rory.”

Rory moved around his desk to stand beside Tom. “All the adult hobbits that can be spared from other tasks are to go one each to every room with a window on the west side of the Hall and see that all windows are closed and shuttered. Each one is to carry a bucket of water with him and one of the small horns to sound an alarm. Hopefully, the windows and shutters will hold the blaze out, but in case it doesn’t . . . Well, I don’t know how much good the buckets of water will be, but better than nothing it’s to be hoped.” They started out the door. “I’ll go to the north end of the smial, Tom, and gather all the hobbits I can find that direction. Get some others to help you get as many of us as possible sent to the west-center and southwest sections.”

They gave each other a sharp nod and once more parted company in opposite directions.

It really was rather fun, standing on the chest, leaning out of his window. Pippin had always loved the smell of a campfire. The lights on the clouds had changed. Yellow had joined the orange that pulsed and danced, lighting the fields and trees now as well as the clouds. And he had never heard a fire make that roaring noise before. It nearly drowned out the more familiar popping and crackling noises that the lad could also hear.

The breeze became oven hot and Pippin’s hair floated on the updrafts. Sparks began falling like fireworks. It was all so pretty. The roaring was growing louder. He didn’t hear the door to his room bang against the wall as it was flung open. Pippin screamed as Saradoc grabbed him about the waist with one arm while reaching to close the window with the other.

Pippin and Saradoc saw flames licking the outside of the glass for a few seconds before Merry’s father slammed the shutter closed. As he ran from the room Saradoc heard the sound of the window shattering mixed in with the roaring of the furious flames. He set a horn to his lips and blew a harsh grating screech. It was all he had thought and breath for. Saradoc ran down the tunnel, Pippin still dangling by his waist, tucked under his uncle’s left armpit.

“Forth room . . . on left,” Saradoc shouted as best he could to two hobbits carrying sloshing water buckets who suddenly appeared in the tunnel. They nodded and ran on, turning into the door of Pippin’s room.

Saradoc ran down three more tunnels, going ever deeper into the hill, before he stopped and slowly slumped to sit cross legged on the floor. He clutched his nephew to his chest, his right hand kneading the lad’s golden brown curls. It had all been much too close. Like his own Merry, Pippin was his family’s only male child, the only heir to Paladin’s line. That and the lads were both simply good, solid, lovable youngsters who were very dear to both families. Pippin had been crying a bit hysterically as Saradoc had carried him off, but he was slowly relaxing and drawing slower breaths as he wrapped his arms around his uncle’s neck.

“I’m sorry, Pippin-lad. But you know, you scared us. Your Aunt Esme and I, your sisters and Merry were all very frightened when they couldn’t find you. You should have stayed at Cousin Marmadas and Lilly’s sitting room.”

Some hobbits walked by swinging empty water buckets in their hands. “It’s all well, sir,” one stopped and said to Saradoc. “The shutter got hot but held. The fire has passed over now, but the outside of that shutter is all scorched.” The Master’s son nodded and the hobbit went on his way.

Pippin pulled back a bit to look at his uncle. There were soot smudges on his small face that tugged all the more at Saradoc’s heart. Too near. It had been altogether too near a thing.

“But I found out all my answers, Uncle! I had all sorts of questions about the fire that everyone was talking about, and I found out all my answers. I could smell it, and it smelled like an outside fire. And I could see it lighting up the clouds like a ceiling. And then, I could even see the flames, Uncle Saradoc. And it made ever so much more noise than an indoor fireplace fire and even more than a campfire fire. And I thought perhaps we should roast some sausages, and my tummy growled because that sounded good and I was ever so hungry.”

Pippin finally paused to catch his breath. He put his small hand up to his uncle’s cheek, finally noticing the odd, strained look on the grown-up’s face.

Saradoc kissed the lad’s sooty cheek. “I know, Pippin. I know. You had questions you needed to have answered.” He hugged his nephew tightly again. “You Tooks and your endless questions,” he said under his breath, but he was smiling as he said it. “What do you say to finding some sausages to roast over the indoor fireplace fire in our sitting room hearth, Pippin?”

“Yes!” the child happily replied as Saradoc rose to his feet to find the rest of his young charges, Pippin still held tightly, tenderly to his side.

My word was “BANJO” and my elements were: Bilbo, Buckland, An unruly pony, A wolf or warg, Fixing a meal.

“Take care! I don’t care. Don’t you worry about me! I am as happy now as I have ever been, and that is saying a great deal. But the time has come. I am being swept off my feet at last.” **

The dwarves let him lead the way for a while. Away from the sounds of his party as it carried on without him. Away from his heir. Away from the old wizard. Away.

They stopped for a bite to eat, talking happily but quietly in a sheltered dell. But soon they were on the move again, single file with no words passing among them.

Thought of a journey long ago when he had run off much less prepared. Of climbing to the very roof of a forest and seeing large black butterflies floating in the sunlight. Of trolls and spiders. Of Beorn the Changeling. Of High Elves and of Wood Elves. Of dragon hoards. Of rings.

Of the dark places. The dank places. Of those who hid there, dwelt there, crept about there. Of riddles. Of his ring.

“Go away and leave it behind. Stop possessing it. Give it to Frodo, and I will look after him,” ** said the strong, warm, caring voice in his mind.

He let out the breath he had been holding. He did not turn. He squared his shoulders which for the second time this night felt oddly light and unburdened.

This is written, with much love, for my husband. He has been wanting me to write this story for quite a while, but the elements hadn’t come together until a few months ago.

One of Marigold’s Challenges consisted of getting to select our elements from four groups of four elements each; we were to use one element from each group for our story. Just looking at those four lists of four items boggled my brain, so I printed them up, cut them apart, folded each wee piece up and had a #1 pile of four slips, a #2 pile of four slips, etc. I drew one slip from each pile until I had four sets of four elements. Suddenly I had a story to go with each group of four elements. One I used for the challenge, which was the story “The Singer”. The others I will write up as I have time. This will be the second story from those starters.

The title is the name of a band for which, long ago, my older brother was lead singer.

Elanor stood facing the east. Behind her the setting sun painted with fire on the clouds, before her the tree tops blazed with light that inched towards their crowns before vanishing in the gloaming. West lay the glorious sunset. East lay the growing night. East lay the Shire, and that was where Elanor’s heart was this evening.

She had rarely regretted her decision to move to the Far Downs, she loved Fastred and moving to the home of his ancestors was simply the way things were done. Excepting some of the Tooks and Brandybucks who would often move to the home of the wife if that home was Brandy Hall or the Great Smials, a new hobbit bride would always go to her new husband’s home. No, she hadn’t even minded moving further west, out to Undertowers. It was an adventure, and Elanor the Fair liked adventures.

But there were times it was difficult, this living so far from the Shire proper, this living so far from Hobbiton, so far from what had once been home. There were things she missed, or nearly missed. The births of nieces and nephews. The deaths of loved ones. Whether it was those to the east waiting for sign of her coming or her waiting for sign of theirs, the waiting was not easy.

Today she could not draw her eyes away from the east. Her kitchen window looked south, yet Elanor had found herself staring at the windowless wall on the eastern side of the room. Out setting plants for the planting of her vegetable garden, she had glanced eastward with each slight pause in her movements. Now she looked at the gradually brightening stars, reluctant to go inside and settle to her knitting for a while before she sought her bed.

She packed her bags without word to anyone. Three days passed. She waited for the Quick Post rider she knew would be coming to arrive.

“Aunt Diamond is not long for this life. Please come as soon as you are able.”

Elanor left in the company of the Quick Post messenger, the easier to switch ponies at the Quick Post’s stops. They rode fast, they rode hard, they rode without truly stopping. They ate as they rode or during the short moments it took to have fresh ponies saddled for them. They both knew the urgency of the matter.

She was dirty and weary when Great Smials was finally reached, but she went directly to the Thain’s quarters. A tableau opened before her as she approached the door into her aunt and uncle’s bedchamber. So like a painting it looked, that for a moment she felt it was not real. In the gentle glow of light from a small porcelain oil lamp and the modest fire on the hearth, Pippin and Diamond’s family was gathered on either side of the bed with it’s small blanketed occupant. To his wife’s right sat Elanor’s Uncle Pippin. His head rested upon the pillow, his lips moving as he spoke private words into his dearest one’s ear. He held her hand in his left hand, his right hand was clasped between both of his eldest son’s hands. Meriadoc Brandybuck stood beside Faramir Took, his arm around his “nephew’s” shoulders. Estella Brandybuck stood with her arms around Pippin and Diamond’s eldest daughter, Beryl, who sat nearest the death bed on the far side. There was no sound but the murmur of the fire in the fireplace.

Elanor began to move toward the left side of the bed, but Goldielocks motioned her to the right, moving aside and gently pushing her older sister into place directly behind Pippin. Elanor placed her hands upon his shoulders.

A gasp and a moan of the name “Diamond” escaped the lips of Peregrin Took as his wife sighed her last breath from her lungs.

They let the Thain remain at her side awhile. His shoulders gently shook beneath Elanor’s hands, his breaths were ragged and often held for long moments as he wept. Finally, he lifted his head, looked ‘round at his weeping children, released his wife’s hand and allowed his eldest to lead him from the room.

That was a problem Elanor had faced many times. Burials followed close on the Death’s heels, and she usually was not there for her loved one’s interments.

But this time had been different. There had been enough time for the message to arrive. There had been enough time to ride like the winter wind. That and she had known.

Uncle Pippin had sat straight and tall, wearing his uniform as a Knight of Gondor, through the memorial, through the many many good byes and tenderly told memories that the Great Smials historian wrote down for posterity. Uncle Pippin had walked straight and tall, a soldier of the King, behind the pallbearers as they carried the coffin from the smial. He stood straight and tall, one of the revered Travellers, as they lowered the coffin into the hallowed burial ground of the Tooks of Great Smials, in the area reserved for the Took and Thains and their wives.

And his children worried over this. The Tooks of Great Smials worried over this. Elanor worried over this. It wasn’t the same as with others they had known who so obviously were putting on a brave front. Yet it was she who counseled the others not to speak of the matter to her uncle, but to bide their time.

A week passed and Elanor sent word to her own family that she was well though she was delayed. She could not say when she would be home. She loved them and missed them but she was needed where she was, and asked her family to bide their time.

A week passed. Thain Peregrin went on about his duties. He seemed quite his usual self, occasionally jesting with family members or singing short bits of songs as he walked the tunnels and corridors of Great Smials. Merry had remained to comfort the family and help them through their grief. He was shocked at his dear cousin’s behavior. This wasn’t like Pippin, this wasn’t like his cousin who wore his heart on his sleeve, who wept more easily than he liked to. Something was wrong, something needed to be said or done. Elanor felt the tension growing in her Uncle Merry, and bid him to bide his time.

“For what, Elanor? For what purpose should I hold back?” Merry demanded. “There’s something oddly amiss here. It doesn’t seem to show nor can I put a finger on it. I simply know it. I know Pippin.” He tipped his head a bit, a gesture reminiscent of his first cousin. His eyes narrowed. “You know it as well, Elanor. Why should we hold back?” If it had been anyone else asking him to do such a thing, he would not even consider holding back.

She sighed and embraced her uncle tightly. “I’ll know when it comes, Uncle Merry, but it hasn’t yet arrived.”

Elanor watched her Uncle Pippin. She knew he often went to the huge library, shutting the massive oak doors behind himself. She knew, as did his close family members, that it had long been a place he went to hide away.

Elanor watched her Uncle Pippin. He talked with friends and family, he sang as he always did as he went about his business in the huge smial, he played noisily with his grandchildren.

She watched him and on occasion their eyes would meet. In those fleeting moments she would see beyond what others saw. There was a trapped, haunted look in the depths of her uncle’s eyes. A look of yearning for help would brush across his features, then, barely to be seen, he would shake his head and the visions - the insights - would be gone. He would look at her and smile.

She woke up in the grey of a fog bound morning. The time had arrived. She hastily dressed and went out a small side door that was one of the Thain’s private doors into, and out of, Great Smials. She followed a solitary set of foot prints in the fog bedewed grass.

Pippin sat on a bench at the edge of a small wood. The morning mist shrouded the landscape. Shrouded him. He had heard the voice, that familiar voice, in his head, calling him “Falcon” as his dream showed him the bench and the wood and the fog. Now he sat and waited for he knew not what.

A figure emerged from the mists. And she came to stand before him and she held out her hand. Her skin soft and smooth, her chestnut hair curling from the moistness of the air

“May I have this dance, Peregrin of Great Smials?” Diamond asked in her most formal manner.

“I hear music,” she said, “don’t you?” And she started to hum a familiar ballad.

A slow song. An old song. One played at hobbit dances so those in love could dance slowly together. One he had once hummed to her in a garden by a grape arbor.

Gradually a glow came to his face, lighting his eyes and his smile. He took her hand and she drew him to his feet and into her arms. Humming the ballad softly, they danced around the small bit of lawn before the bench.

“It is a beautiful place, Peregrin,” she whispered into his ear. “It is as you saw as you lay beneath the troll, though your time had not yet come and is not yet come.”

Her head nodded against his. “I await you there, where there is no waiting. I long for you there, where there is no longing. I love you there, where all is loving.”

“I had feared . . .” He caught his breath amongst his weeping. “I had feared that it wasn’t really so. That I had lost you . . . that we would never be together again. It has been so hard, Diamond. I’ve been dying inside . . . but inside it all stayed. Part of me, the part that knows you would scold if I mourned over much, that part has carried on. But I’ve been drowning inside myself, gasping for the breath of life you have been to me for so long. What shall I do?”

She eased him down to sit upon the bench though she did not sit beside him. She smiled her young-old smile. “My dear mad Took,” she chided him. “Gather our chicks and their chicks to your side. Tell them with tears of joy all you will of our life and love. Tears of anguish for the times we faced troubles.” She paused to let her fingers comb his golden brown locks back from his eyes, “Tears of sorrow for the partings we have faced, those in our life and in my death. Tears of love for love is over all.” She laughed and her hair turned white, age returned to her hands and face. “Then live, my dear one, live, for your time is still not yet. Love our chicks and their chicks. Love our families. Love your dearest cousin. Live, my dearest Peregrin, and know I am here when you come.”

He saw two figures at the far edge of the glade. He knew them both. One tall and slender, white and golden. The other small, with leaves of autumn entwined within her golden-red hair. Diamond, her chestnut curls steaming out behind her, ran to join them and was gone.

“The White Lady told me to be ready for word from you, word that Aunt Diamond was leaving us. She drew me here this morning.”

Elanor and Pippin looked into each others eyes. His eyes were clear and bright into their depths; no longer haunted. Elanor knew of her uncle’s heritage, though she had kept her knowing a secret. The knowledge had come to her on her twentieth birthday, long years ago. In this moment, this meeting of their eyes, he knew that she understood.

“Daddy always said that I was a gift from the Lady Galadriel to the four of you. My birth, he told me, brought to Uncle Frodo knowledge that all would be well, easing his heart about having to leave. And I have been able to bring comfort to my father, Uncle Merry and you as the years have passed.”

Pippin gave Elanor a squeeze before moving out of their hug to smile at her. “I’ve been given orders to go weep with my chicks, and their chicks and all the other chicks.”

Tears glistened in his eyes and on his cheeks. He was grinning and they caught in the corners of the grin to glisten upon his lips.

“Come.” He stood and offered her his hand. “Come, Sam’s little chick, and weep with us. Then you can laugh with us, eat with us and sing with us because I’ve also been given orders to live.”

Elanor stood. They began to walk arm in arm back to Great Smials. “And live you will, my dear Uncle Pippin. Live you will.”

For Marigold’s Challenge #13
My starter was:
What was Merry's journey to and arrival in Ithilien like?

A/N: Oh dear, what to do with such a question?
It isn’t as though this hasn’t had innumerable
LOTR fanfiction stories written about it.
But then again . . .

Supper had been eaten. The table had been cleared of dirty dishes, which were then washed, dried and put in the cupboard to await first breakfast on the morrow. The embers in the parlor hearth had been nudged about, blown upon with the small bellows, then a couple fresh logs placed just so upon them. Soon a proper blaze was brightening the room.

The middle aged, nicely dressed hobbit tending the fire turned as an elderly, similarly well dressed hobbit came slowly into the room.

“Merrin, my son,” the elder said as he eased himself into the rocking chair. “You always have laid a right nice fire. It’s one of your gifts, m’lad.”

“Well, thank you Father. ‘Tis good to know you feel that way.” Merrin smiled lovingly at his father, the old hobbit said that nearly every evening.

Soon the young ones, Other (pronounced like the “o” in “o’clock”– ther) and Jebbin, scampered into the room. With an upheld hand, their father brought them to a halt.

“You’ve both had your baths? I can see you are in your night shirts and dressing gowns, but you didn’t go skipping on your baths to get in here sooner,” he leaned down to the lads’ level and squinted his left eye at them, “did you?”

“Well then . . .” Their father paused to achieve the full effect. “I would suppose it is alright for you to have a story.” Merrin held up his hand once again to still the bouncing up and down before it started. “If, and only if, that is acceptable to Grand Da.”

Soon everyone, including Merrin’s wife, Clary, were comfortably seated and ready for a tale.

“Well,” began Grand Da Othin. “Shall we continue on where we left it all off last night?” Everyone nodded. “Well then, I’ll just ask you two bright lads if you remember what I’ve been telling you about and why.”

“All about the Travellers, Grand Da, because it is S.R. 1819 and four hundred years ago this very year they saved the whole world,” said Jebbin with the authority of a lad well schooled.

“De-scen-ded,” Other got his mouth around the word. “ ‘Cause we’re descended from Meriadoc the Magnificent.” Other smiled proudly at getting all those big words out correctly.

“Yes indeed, my smart lads, that is the what and the why of it. Well done! Now where was I . . .” Old Othin thought a bit before smiling broadly. “Yes, yes. With our own Meriadoc the Magnificent on his way to the Happy Reunion.”

“Our noble ancestor had remained behind in the Houses of Healing in the great White City of Minas Tirith. Not, mind you, that he needed any healing himself, for he had not allowed himself to faint from the evil Black Breath of the Witch King, nor to be wounded by him. He hadn’t tried to kill the evil Witch King, only struck the legs off of him, because when the foul being had proclaimed, “No living man may hinder me!”, Meriadoc the Magnificent was unsure if race or gender was being referred to. When he saw that his mighty blow had only de-limbed the creature, he thought he would let the Lady of Rohan have a go. Of course she, being taller, went for the Witch King’s head thus killing him. But she swooned, so our noble ancestor lifted her up and bore her upon his sturdy shoulders from the battle field to the Houses of Healing.”

“You’re forgetting stuff, Other,” Jebbin sighed while rolling his eyes. “Meriadoc the Magnificent had already drank that Ent drink that made him and Peregrin the Peerless grow. They were both a whole five feet one and three quarter inches by then.”

“Yes, most correct, Jebbin,” the lads’ Grand Da said, then continued on. “He carried the White Lady across the battle field, dodging arrows and spears while hacking and skewering every orc in his path with his mighty sword, Orc Slayer. Peregrin the Peerless came upon them as he finished killing all the orcs that were cluttering up the main street of the White City. He said, ‘You just worry about carrying the Lady, Meriadoc, my cousin. I’ll safeguard you both with my trusty blade!’ His deadly sword, Troll’s Bane, had not yet earned its name.

When the time came for the Army of the West to march forth to the Black Gates of Mordor, Meriadoc the Magnificent would not abandon the one who had taken his side against the wishes of Good King Theoden by bearing him upon her horse into the battle. ‘She cared about me in my time of need, I shall not leave my Lady Eowyn in hers.’ So it was that Meriadoc the Magnificent stayed behind while Peregrin the Peerless went forth, the lone representative of the Shire Folk in the Battle Before the Gates.

While he remained in the city of Men, our noble ancestor saw to much of the early efforts of repairing the damage inflicted by the Armies of Sauron. Everywhere the people turned, he was there directing the builders and tending to the needy, while never neglecting the care of his Lady. When the gloom of despair threatened to swallow the hope of the Big Folk, he strove to rally them, and the arrival of the Eagle was no surprise to him. ‘Did I not tell you, foolish Men, that the Hobbits of the Shire do not fail? Did I not tell you that my cousin, Frodo the Faithful and Fearless, along with Samwise the Stalwart, would succeed where others would perish? Prepare now! Soon you will receive your King, whose reign has been given to him by the Hobbits of the Shire!’ The crowds cheered as with those words he inspired the Men to even greater efforts in making their repairs.

The day after the next, riders arrived. Supplies and healers were urgently needed to tend those wounded before the Black Gates. Meriadoc the Magnificent had observed the Men-healers, he knew their ways and their herbals. He took charge of the ordering of the workers and supplies then rode his mighty horse, Stybba . . .”

“You’re forgetting again, Other,” said Jebbin. “He’s really tall. Him and Peregrin the Peerless were the tallest hobbits ever. Now quit interrupting the story.” He turned to his Grandfather. “Go on, Grand Da.”

“Meriadoc the Magnificent rode upon his mighty horse, Stybba, at the head of the long column of wagons bearing the supplies and healers to Osgiliath, where he directed the loading of the goods onto ships which then went down the river to Cair Andros. Being a Brandybuck and an excellent boat-hobbit, he took command of the lead ship. After they made land again, he once again ordered the loading of wains before leading the way to the encampment in Ithilien, knowing the way as he had studied all the maps in the library of Minas Tirith before heading on the journey.

When Meriadoc the Magnificent arrived at the encampment, after directing all the unloading of the provisions, he oversaw the work of the healers. With his vast knowledge of tonics and poultices, he took charge of many of the injured soldiers. In particular, Meriadoc tended to the needs of his injured cousin, Peregrin the Peerless, who singlehandedly killed two trolls only to be crushed beneath the second as it died. Due to his Brandybuck cousin’s skills, he rapidly recovered from the brink of death and was up and about in one week’s time.

Meriadoc the Magnificent and the High King Elessar worked together to save the lives of Frodo the Faithful and Fearless and Samwise the Stalwart. It was only because of the presence of our noble ancestor, that the Ring Bearers survived. And so it was because of The Brandybuck, because of Meriadoc the Magnificent, that the Travellers had the Happy Reunion. The High King and King Eomer of Rohan, realizing that they would have been helpless without the knowledge and strength of Meriadoc the Magnificent and the prowess in battle of Peregrin the Peerless, would have made them princes of their realms. But the cousins refused. ‘We have our own people to help. Our own country to serve.’ And so it was they were instead made Knights of the Realms of Rohan and Gondor.”

“And now,” said Clary. “It is time for two hobbit lads to give their good night hugs and kisses all round and head to their beds.” She set aside her knitting and rose from her chair. Jebbin and Other thanked their Grand Da, hugged and kissed he and their father then went with their mum down the tunnel to their room. Soon only the small lamp on the night-stand was burning and the lad’s room was quiet.

“What ya think, Jebbin?” Other muttered sleepily. “Four hundred years is a long time . . . yawn . . . I can’t count that big. Do ya think Meriadoc t’ Magnificent really . . . yawn . . . did all that?”

“Of course he did, Other. Brandybucks have told Brandybucks that story all those years. You aren’t going to say they were lying, are you? You know we Brandybucks only tell the truth.”

For Marigold’s Challenge #32
My elements were: A magic flask, Great Smials, Pippin, Boromir
A Mother and/or A sibling.

This story brings back two young hobbits, Jebbin and Other (oh-ther), who were featured in a story entitled “Remember” that was in Marigold’s Challenge #13.

It had been a long spell of drizzly, grey days. Stay inside days. Not a great deal of fun for two hobbit brothers full of the energy of youth. So they had wandered deeper into the corridors and tunnels of Brandy Hall than they ever had before; two little Brandybucks off on an adventure.

At the end of a long dark tunnel they found a mathom room they had never seen before. It opened before them dusty, musty and large enough that their candle’s glow dimmed before it quite reached all the walls. They each took a deep breath, each one gave a sharp nod of his head to the other, then, blowing out the breath, entered bravely into . . .

“Where are we this time, Jebbin?” Other asked before crossing the threshold of the room.

“Eh . . . we’re . . . Fangorn. This is Fangorn Forest, Other.” The room felt very old to the elder brother, but not as scary as he always imagined Moria to be, so it had to be Fangorn Forest. And, of course this being Jebbin Brandybuck, they were on The Great Quest of the Travellers.

“All right,” the younger exclaimed cheerily, following his brother and the candle light into the forest.

Soon Other was climbing up stacked crates and discarded furniture while Jebbin was digging into crates and rummaging through drawers.

“They didn’t climb the Ents, Other, the Ents picked us up and carry us about.”

“Oh yes. I’m Peregrin the Peerless, because I have green mixed in with the blue in my eyes, climbing the trees of Fangorn Forest!”

Jebbin smiled as he pried open a large trunk. There was, indeed, Took blood in him and Other. More it seemed in his brother than in him, showing up in his green-blue eyes and nosey nature. Other was very proud of it and always wanted to be Peregrin the Peerless, which was quite all right with Jebbin who much preferred being Meriadoc the Magnificent.

“Yes, you get into everything,” Jebbin said aloud but under his breath added, “Into trouble. Into mischief. Into danger. Fool of a Took.”

“Hmm,” Jebbin grunted in reply. His attention was at that moment focused on what felt like a book, wrapped in the old clothes he was digging through. It was a small book, one that would fit in a grown hobbit’s jacket pocket, which was exactly where it was. Other was happily scampering about getting covered in dust and cobwebs, putting on an old cap and shawl that were transformed into a helm of Gondor and an Elven cloak. Jebbin opened the little book and started to read.

“I’ve just come back from a visit to cousin Orgulas Brandybuck’s hole and am, I hate to say, more than a bit upset. He was telling stories to the youngsters and they were full of the myths and exaggerations that have started to spring up regarding The Great Quest of the Travellers. I have decided to set down what I have learned of those events from my father, Periadoc ‘Cheerful’; whose father was Theodoc ‘Magnanimous’, son of Meriadoc the Magnificent. Hopefully my elder brother, Saradoc II, who is Master of Buckland (although as of yet untitled) will see fit to insist that these properly recorded remembrances will be what is henceforth taught to young Brandybucks. To the best of my knowledge, this will now be in accordance with records kept at Great Smials and The Red Book kept by the Fairbairns of the Towers.”

Jebbin’s eyes glowed. He was holding real treasure in his hands. He sat down and began to devour the words before him. Nearly twenty minutes passed before Other, wondering what on earth was keeping his brother from joining the playing, wandered over to stand behind Jebbin.

“I should’ve known that you would have your nose stuck in a book.” Other pouted.

Jebbin didn’t respond. He was held entranced and horrified by the words he was reading.

“Our great-great-great something Grandfather Jebiamac has The Great Quest all wrong, or well . . . at least this part that I’ve read. He has it all wrong but he said that he was going to set it all down properly.”

Other plopped down next to Jebbin and leaned in to see the writing in the book for himself. He could pick out a few words here and there, but the style of the writing was different than what was in his primer, making it hard for him to read.

“Well, we’re in Fangorn Forest so I went ahead to that part of the story. But it’s all wrong. He says that the orcs captured Meriadoc and Peregrin instead of them tracking the orcs to take revenge for their killing Lord Boromir.”

“Yes. And it gets worse. He has that the orcs . . .” Jebbin paused. He didn’t think he should tell his younger brother what he had read. This story had the orcs being cruel to the two hobbits; whipping them, dragging them over the ground by their bound arms, hitting them, kicking them and not feeding them proper meals. “He has that the Uruk Hai were in charge and the two Travellers were tied up.”

“That’s not right,” Other said with a small trembling in his voice. He shook his head for emphasis even though Jebbin hadn’t looked up from the old book in his hands. Other was starting to get an odd feeling about this book, and the room they were in.

“No, it isn’t right at all. He has the riders from Rohan killing all the orcs instead of Meriadoc and Peregrin using their swords that were hidden under their Magic Elf Cloaks. And there’s no mention of Peregrin the Peerless using the Magic Flask of Miruvor that he stole from Gandalf to heal Meriadoc the Magnificent’s wound on his head. Treebeard doesn’t bow to them and ask for their help to rid the forest of Saruman and his Uruk Hai. He has Treebeard thinking they’re little orcs and nearly stepping on them to kill them!”

He stood at the edge of the candle light, almost blending into the darkness behind him. “Well?” he said. “I asked a question of you, if you’ve been taught any manners at all you’ll answer me.”

Jebbin cleared his throat. “It’s . . . it’s this book cousin . . . eh, cousin . . .” Jebbin was having trouble seeing the hobbit’s face clearly and what he could see really wasn’t all that familiar looking. The only thing he was sure of was that the grownup was a Took, his accent gave him away. But Jebbin’s mind was still on the falsehoods he had been reading, along with a need to defend the history he loved. “It’s this book,” he went on more firmly. “Great-great-whatever Grandfather Jebimac wrote the most horrible lies, but he says at the beginning that he was going to write the truth. I love history, Cousin . . . eh, Cousin Took, I love history and work hard at my studies and this is all wrong.”

“He has our great ancestors being weak and frightened. He has them not being . . .”

But the grownup had been distracted by Other. He quickly realized that Other was the younger of these two lads and that, for whatever reason, the little lad was becoming increasingly frightened. He always had a soft spot in his heart for the youngest of a pair or in a group. He stepped closer, coming fully into the candle’s glow. He bent and reached his hand towards the small lad who pulled away as the hand came nearer.

“There now, lad. There’s naught to be afraid of. You aren’t in any trouble, as far as I know.”

“Him who?” the big hobbit paused, stopped by the lad’s statement and by the glimpse he had of his own hand.

“Peregrin the Peerless.” Other breathed as Pippin noticed that it seemed he could see the candle stick and it’s flame through his hand.

“Peregrin the what?” Pippin muttered, his thoughts now busier with this illusion than with the child’s words. He turned his hand this way and that, held his hand then his arm between his eyes and the candlelight. “This is really rather odd. I seem to be able to see through myself. Not completely, mind you, but I’d swear I can see the candle and such even with my arm in the way. Peregrin the what was that you said?”

Pippin looked at the two brothers. They sat ridged and pale on the floor before him. Two sets of huge eyes stared at him. They were trembling.

“Sounds like a Brandybuck title. Well,” Pippin said, still looking at his hands and arms against the light. He had decided to see if his left arm was acting as strangely as his right one was. It was. “I’m no Brandybuck, though I’m guessing you two are from your accents and your faces. I’ll also guess that this is Brandy Hall and not the Great Smials.”

The lads nodded slowly as the odd hobbit noticed a mirror on the wall and shifted his weight to lean over and look into it.

Pippin slowly sank to sit on a crate. He had seen nothing in the mirror but the mathoms behind him.

“But, I have to be here because we’ve been talking to each other. Haven’t we?”

Pippin blinked a few times before sitting up straighter. “All right then, what do I look like? I mean, I know I got old, I suddenly remember growing old. Do I look old?”

Jebbin and Other didn’t think anything could startle a ghost, but the Peregrin ghost gave a noticeable jump when the other ghost appeared as it spoke.

“Merry,” Pippin said warmly as he stood. “Then I guess I’m the ghost of a Pippin past.” The two ghosts laughed as they embraced each other, patting one another’s backs.

“Who are these two?” Merry asked, pulling back from the embrace to look over his cousin’s shoulder. Pippin turned his head to look at the lads.

“Eh, I think I heard Jebbin and Other, with Jebbin being the bug-eyed, gaping fish out of water on our right and Other being the smaller bug-eyed, gaping fish on our left. Odd names, but then what can one expect, they’re Brandybucks.”

“Good solid names then, if they are Brandybucks, even if I’ve never heard the like before. Why are they staring at us like that, Pip? They look as though they’ve seen a ghost.”

The lads nodded and Merry looked at, and suddenly through, Pippin. His cousin helped him onto a crate as his knees gave out under him.

Suddenly, Other found his voice. “I was thinking that if only you could be here, if only Peregrin the Peerless, who I’m a bit like because I’m a bit Tookish even though I’m a Brandybuck, well, if he could be here with our great an . . . an . . .”

“An - ces - tor. Yes, thank you Jebbin. If only Peregrin the Peerless and our great an-ces-tor Meriadoc the Magnificent could be here, *they’d* set everything right and Jebbin wouldn’t need to be all upset by this stupid book and worried that everything he had learned, and me too really, that everything we had learned was wrong.”

“Let me see the stupid book.” Merry said and held out his hand toward Jebbin. Jebbin placed the book in the ghost’s hand.

“What do you know, Merry,” Pippin exclaimed, “it stayed! You can hold things!” He turned and picked up the jacket in which Jebbin had found the book. “Ha! I can too. We can’t see ourselves in mirrors though.” he added, nodding with his head toward the mirror on the wall.

“That’s nice, Pip,” Merry said but his nose was already in the old book. Pippin leaned over and read over Merry’s left arm.

They read a few pages. They looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. They looked at the lads.

“This all seems in order,” Merry said gently. “Does the Uruk Hai hurting us have you upset?”

Jebbin hugged his brother to his side while looking up at the ghosts. “I hadn’t told him that, Mum wouldn’t like it.”

“I should have thought of that.” Merry turned to Pippin. “Estella and Diamond made us wait until Theodoc and Faramir were fairly old before we told them.” He turned back to Jebbin and Other. “I’m sorry I said that, but is that what was troubling you?”

Jebbin shook his head. “No. It’s that it isn’t right. It isn’t . . .” He stopped. He looked down as his expression turned to a scowl which cleared away to disbelief. He looked Meriadoc the Magnificent’s ghost in the eyes with a pleading look. “But you just said that it seems to be in order. That means that it is right. That means that what you read in there is right.”

“Well,” Peregrin the Peerless’ ghost cut in, “we’ve been . . . eh . . . gone awhile it seems, and it did take me a bit to remember having grown old and . . .” Pippin paused. He almost said ‘dying’ which didn’t seem a good idea to mention just then. “. . . and being gone. Maybe we’re a bit befuddled.” He felt Merry tighten up, getting ready to interrupt, and shook his head slightly. Merry relaxed. “What have you learned?”

Jebbin took a deep breath. “I’ve learned . . . we’ve learned, that you were the biggest hobbits ever.”

“You are,” Jebbin answered. “Though I’ve heard the Tooks say you were shorter.”

“Where was I? Oh, yes. You were the tallest hobbits ever. You led the Walkers through Middle-earth because you studied all the Elf maps and knew the best ways to go. That you knew Frodo the Faithful and Fearless and Samwise the Stalwart had to go to the Dark Lands alone, so you held back the orcs that tried to stop them. You were fighting orcs in one part of the woods and heard Lord Boromir’s horn and ran to his aid, but the orcs slew him just as you got there. They ran and you both tracked them and killed them all. You, Meriadoc the Magnificent got hurt on the head and Peregrin the Peerless used the Magic Flask of Miruvor, that would always become filled with whatever tonic was needed to bring healing, to heal your forehead.”

“Look, Jebbin!” Other interrupted. “I can see his scar a bit. Can you see his scar, Jebbin? I
can see it!”

Jebbin looked. It did seem that no matter how the Meriadoc ghost moved it’s head, there was a darkish spot above his right eyebrow. “Yes, I see it, Other. Now let me finish. Um, oh yes. Treebeard had heard of the mighty hobbits who had been sent to destroy the Ring and he came out of his forest, bowed before you both and begged you to help clean away the filth of Saruman. And you did. And then . . .”

“Enough, Jebbin.” Pippin cut the lad’s recitation off, holding up a hand as well to stop him.

“Where did you learn all that? You’ve obviously learned it well.” Merry smiled at the young Brandybuck lad.

“From the Hall’s tutor, Mistress Woodsorrel. She told all of us I was the best student of history she has ever taught.”

Merry and Pippin looked at Jebbin’s proud, shining face. They turned to look at each other, then back to the beaming student of hobbit history.

“A moment, if you would.” Merry said as he and Pippin rose and moved off into the gloom, not knowing they actually faded nearly to the point of disappearing as they did so.

“We can’t do this.” Pippin whispered as he caught at his cousin’s sleeve.

“I know, Pip. I know. It would crush that lad to have me of all hobbits say what he’s learned is a load of rubbish.”

“It’s quite the mess, isn’t it though? I barely recognized our own story.”

“Yes, it is. I wonder?” Merry turned toward the lads, becoming more solid in appearance as he did so. “Other, do you know what year this is?” he asked, giving the younger lad a chance to show his knowledge.

“It is Shire Reckoning 1819, Mr. Meriadoc the Magnificent Ghost,” Other answered with a big smile.

Merry swallowed a few times before he could answer. “Well, I guess that explains what happened to the story of our Quest. I remember stories of things that happened to me when I was a little lad being told slightly differently by my family by the time I was a grandfather. With four hundred years of time, no wonder we barely recognized it.”

The two ghosts sighed, nodded to each other then walked back over to the crates and sat down. Merry handed the book back to Jebbin.

“Well, Jebbin,” Merry began. “You see, I said this book seems in order because that was the story we told most people when we returned from the Quest.”

“Yes,” Pippin spoke up. “We didn’t want to make things any worse than they already were.”

“Worse,” said Meriadoc. “All the hobbits already thought we were making up things to make ourselves seem important and such. Thought we were just bragging, you see. So we made this other story up, the story that is in this book. In that story we’re weak and frightened for much of the journey.”

“And I make a lot of foolish mistakes and nearly ruin things in that story.”

“Exactly,” replied Pippin, while he was wondering where the lad had heard that phrase.

“We still had ourselves come out well in the end, but we cut out all the wonderful and magical things we learned and did. And all the hobbits in the Shire were much more comfortable with our story that way,” Merry continued. “They started to stand us drinks again and to treat us like regular hobbits.”

Merry nodded. “Well, yes, as regular as that.” He turned back to the brothers. “But now it seems that the truth found its way out eventually, and what you both are learning is the real story of the Quest.”

Jebbin’s relief was easy to see. He sat up straight and proud. “Then great-great-great-great . . .”

Jebbin nodded at the ghost. “. . . Grandfather Jebiamac has it wrong after all.”

“I think you’re right, Pip.” Meriadoc the Magnificent turned back to his descendants and smiled. They were good hobbit lads, no matter what they had been led to believe. “You’re a smart, wonderful lad, Jebbin, and you as well Other. I’m proud of you both.”

Other suddenly jumped up. He leaned close to Peregrin the Peerless’ ear. “I knew it was you! I knew you were here before you said a word. I knew!”

Pippin moved to hug the lad as he disappeared, sensing just before the room faded from his vision that there was Took blood indeed in Other Brandybuck.

A few moments later, Clary Brandybuck was nearly knocked over by two dusty hobbit lads who looked somewhat like her sons.

“We saw them, Mum. We saw them and talked to them and they were proud of us, Mum. They told us they were. And they told us we were learning all our history really well and they were really tall, Mum, just like we knew they would be. And we were scared at first, but they were nice and kind and then we weren’t afraid.”

Clary looked at the larger of the two dust bunnies, who actually wasn’t quite as dusty as the smaller one, clinging to her hand while hopping up and down. Jebbin was acting like Other, unable to hold still while talking faster than a tongue should be able to form words.

“Meriadoc the Magnificent and Peregrin the Peerless, Mum.” Jebbin finally supplied the names. “They were ghosts, of course, but nice ghosts. Not in the least bit scary. They were proud of us!”

Clary marveled once again at her lads’ imaginations. Most likely they had dozed off and Jebbin had dreamed it all, then pulled Other into his dream upon their awakening. She hugged them in spite of their covering of grey dust and cobwebs.

“Of course they are proud of you. There can’t be two hobbit lads in all the Shire who love their stories more than my two lads. Now,” she stood and began to wipe her hands off on her now dusty apron, “you two will head straight to the bathroom for baths. You’re a sight, the both of you.”

“And don’t take your clothes off in your rooms,” Clary called after them. “They’re filthy. Just leave them on the bathroom floor.”

In a distant mathom room an old book raised itself off the floor, tucked itself into an old jacket’s pocket, which folded itself before lowering into an old dusty trunk. The whisper of a satisfied sigh could be heard as the lid on the trunk slammed shut.

I’ve had readers ask for a follow-up story other times and usually nothing clicks, but Daynawayna asked for a special follow-up to “Remember” and “Remembering More” and this time something clicked.

“I do hope that one day, Jeb or Oth will re-discover that book and do some research and bring back the True Story of the Travellers and show that there is no dishonor in the TRUTH. Pretty pretty please? ::whispers to you:: I'm not above begging... and it IS my birthday on Wednesday.... LOL And I don't even know you! LOL I'm sorry, really, but I'd love to see something like that sometime. :) Thank you for the wonderful stories and God Bless.”

“We’ve done this before, Other, up until we were in our teens. I really can’t see the sense in doing it again. Nothing will have changed. We were never sure we had the right room let alone the right trunk in the right room and we never found what we were looking for.”

“Humor your old little brother,” Other grinned at Jebbin and nudged him in the ribs. “Bad enough to be a poor loser, worse by far, bigger brother, trying to renege on a wager.”

“I’m not a poor loser, Other, you’re an obnoxious winner and I was certain you were somehow managing to cheat, otherwise I would have happily stopped at best two out of three.”

“Perhaps. But pushing it to best fourteen out of fifteen seems more like a poor loser to me.”

Jebbin chose the path of least resistance; he changed the direction of the conversation as he turned his back on Other to once more walk down the corridor. “You have an odd taste in winnings, little brother. Chasing murky childhood memories of impossible events seems a rather strange choice of gift for your coming of age.” He stopped and lifted the lantern higher. This was a rather dingy, dark and dank section of Brandy Hall.

“My thirty-third birthday, my wager. You shook on it. If I beat you at chess I would get to choose my gift.” Had Jebbin turned to look at his brother, he would have seen that Other was looking insufferably proud of himself. Immediate family often gave gifts to the byrding on their birthday, but those presented on the occasion of “coming of age” were often a bit more grand, or some particularly important item that had long been in the family. To Jebbin, this seemed to be neither. Neither, that is, unless they found what they were looking for.

Jebbin could hear the twinkle in the lass’ eyes as she chided him. Behind him, Athelas Took held tightly to Other’s hand. Jebbin wasn’t exactly sure how it was that she came to be on this quest with them. Mind you, she was his brother’s betrothed, but still . . .

The three of them stopped. Before them was a staircase, the top of which disappeared into the gloom beyond the glow of the small lantern.

Jebbin thought to himself, and this not for the first time, that she really was an awfully Tookish Took.

They went up the stairs. At the end of a long dark tunnel, they came to a door. It was the only door off the tunnel.

They knew this was the right mathom room. They had found it again after all those years. Jebbin put his hand to the knob and opened the door.

It was odd, this stepping back in time, stepping back into a place he had only been once before and had come to firmly believe he really hadn’t been in at all. Jebbin stood in the doorway as Other and Athelas pushed past him. Unlike that other time, Jebbin thought, when Other had followed him into . . . where was it he had said they were? The dim memory fluttered to the surface of his mind: Fangorn Forest. He had said they were in Fangorn Forest that day long ago . . . if it had really happened and not just been a dream. The room appeared to be here, but that didn’t mean any of the rest of his memories were of real events.

“It must have happened,” Jebbin thought to himself as he sensed rather than saw Other and his betrothed clambering amongst the mathoms. Jebbin was staring off into vacant air, not really seeing what he was looking at. “We’re here and Other is off on his own tangent just as I recall he was on that day. Then I saw this interesting looking, dusty old trunk.”

Jebbin’s eyes followed his thoughts and brought clearly into focus the trunk sitting on the dusty floor just a short way off to his right.

Somehow Athelas’ whisper filtered into his thoughts and Jebbin didn’t even jump at the sound.

“Yes,” his voice replied. He felt as though his voice spoke on its own, without any assistance from him. He was busy wondering how much of this childhood nonsense his daft brother had told her.

“He didn’t tell me. I just know,” she whispered in his ear so closely it tickled. “Go to it. Open the trunk.”

Jebbin still held the lantern up. He turned to look at Athelas. He was going to get to the bottom of this, take her to task, rake his brother over the coals. How dare Other lead her to believe any of this? He found himself staring into sparkling green eyes. Beyond her, Other was still climbing about muttering something about why weren’t they looking for the trunk, but that didn’t matter just now.

“Go ahead, Jebbin. Open it. It’s in there. You need to find it. It’s important that you do. You need it for your studies, for the book you are writing.”

His mouth calmly said, “Yes, I need to find it for my research.” while his heart was pounding and his thoughts were bouncing off the inside of his skull; ‘How can she know? How? I’ve told no one. How can she know?’

“The time has come,” Athelas said in a voice not quite her own. A pleasant voice, melodic like a flute one hears being played in the distance.

Jebbin turned, moved forward a couple of steps, sat upon a box across from the trunk, lifted the latch and opened the lid. The jacket lay on top of its contents, folded neatly. He lifted it. He turned it. The pocket that had been folded to the inside showed the outline of something rectangular, thin and not much smaller than the pocket itself.

Jebbin slowly drew the book out of the jacket pocket as a chill ran up his arm and into his heart. The book of wretched lies . . . or was it?

Athelas was behind him, not having moved from the spot where she had whispered into Jebbin’s ear. Other looked at her questioningly. A thought stirred in his head that this had somehow been her idea all along. She said nothing, she only nodded him towards his brother. As he had those many years ago, Other plopped down next to Jebbin, looking at the book over Jebbin’s right arm.

They might be sitting as they had before but they were different hobbits than the two who had last sat down to read that small book. Other was, as mentioned before, coming of age; the very next day to be precise. He still had his rather “fling caution to the wind” attitude toward life as well as his Tookish Brandybuck love of adventure and daring. He had fallen in love not with some Buckland gentlehobbit’s daughter, no pampered daughter of Brandy Hall. No, Other had fallen in love with a blacksmith’s daughter. The blacksmith to whom he had apprenticed after he was finished with all the schooling that was expected of a Hall-born young hobbit. He had caused a good amount of talk when it was learned that he wished to learn a skill, craft, art . . . a manual labor occupation. He had chosen Tobius Took because of one skill Toby had that none other in the Shire possessed. Toby made the usual items a blacksmith made; pony shoes, hinges, cooking utensils and nails, etc. . . . but Tobius Took also made swords.

Jebbin was a teacher now. A teacher of reading, writing, literature, language and, of course, hobbit history. He had kept studying hobbit history and, without being truly aware of why, had particularly studied the lives of the Travellers. He delved for every detail he could unearth. He devoured the family records kept at the Hall. He travelled about the Shire. To Hobbiton. To the Great Smials. To Undertowers. He asked to see every family’s records he could from every family who would listen to him. He was desperately seeking for . . .

In his heart and in his head, Jebbin Brandybuck had never really forgotten that long ago dreary, drizzly day with his younger brother. Be it dream, delusion or reality, it had never really left a small corner of his mind. It had never ceased poking at his thoughts. “This all seems in order,” the ghost of Meriadoc the Magnificent had said on that dimly remembered day. And always, always, always Jebbin could hear his own childish voice saying in response, “But you just said that it seems to be in order. That means that it is right. That means that what you read in there is right.”

He had started to suspect that was in actuality the truth of the matter. Little dribs and drabs of hints in a few of the writings he read had worked their way to that corner where the memory of the book and the ghosts lay waiting until they melded together into the thought . . . maybe Jebiamac Brandybuck had written down the truth just as he had claimed. And like his ancestor before him, Jebbin Brandybuck had started writing a book of his own. It was to be the definitive work on the lives and journey of the Travellers. It would put to rest any doubts about the history held dear by so many hobbits of the Shire.

Jebbin’s great work simply would not form itself into a cohesive statement of the matter. The niggles, the fragments of Jebiamac’s book, the splinters found here and there in the other writings, wouldn’t stay out of Jebbin’s efforts. Therefore, he had kept all of his work hidden.

“Are you going to open it, Jebbin, or just hope it all soaks into your head through your hands holding onto the cover?” Other nudged his brother as he spoke.

“Stay out of this, Other!” Jebbin snapped without looking up. he couldn’t pull his eyes from the book in his hands. “You’ve no notion whatsoever of what this is about.”

The brothers jumped a bit at the voice that didn’t belong to either of them nor to Athelas.

“You two seem to spend a goodly amount of time looking all agog,” Merry said quietly, noting they looked as bug-eyed as they had the last time he’d spoken to them. Then he stared at the two Brandybucks for a few moments. “You’ve changed,” he said, this time sounding confused.

“You!” Jebbin shouted. He jumped to his feet to lean his face as close to the face of Meriadoc the Magnificent as he could without touching the ghost. “This is all your fault. You and . . . and . . .” Jebbin’s emotions were getting the better of his thinking, so he simply stammered out, “the other one.”

“Stay out of this, Other! Yes, you and Peregrin the Peerless Took. You started it all by saying this,” Jebbin backed away a bit to give himself room to wave the small book in front of the ghost’s eyes, “ ‘all seems in order.’ Those were your words. Your words!”

Merry stepped back a bit. The waving book was making him nervous, though he had the feeling it would pass through him instead of hitting him in the nose. “Ah . . . well . . . yes. I did say . . .”

“Foul? Foul! Just one moment there, young hobbit.” The ghost balled up his fists and took a step forward.

“Grand!” enthused another voice. “I’ve not seen a good punch up in a long while. Have you anything to nibble on while we cheer them on, Other?”

Peregrin the Peerless gradually came into view, sitting next to Other who looked at him wide-eyed but said nothing. Pippin glanced up at Athelas. A knowing grin came to his lips. He bowed his head to her, she returned the gesture, then the ghostly Took returned his attention to Merry and Jebbin.

“It’s a shame we’re in this stuffy old mathom room, we could sell tickets otherwise. Go on then, hit him a smart one with the book, Jebbin!”

The two combatants looked at Pippin who sat there with one arm draped companionably around Other’s shoulders. A silly smile stretched nearly from one of the ghost’s ears to the other. Beside him, Other Brandybuck sat with a matching smile upon his face. Jebbin and Merry stared at them for several seconds, then Meriadoc the Magnificent chuckled.

“They look like a matching set of bookends.” he managed to get out before he doubled over laughing. “I . . . I thought . . . he . . . your brother that is . . .” The ghost drew in a deep breath, which struck Jebbin as rather odd as he didn’t reckon the dead needed to breathe. “Oh! Oh my. I thought you and your brother were Brandybucks, Jebbin, but Other looks an awful lot like my idiot Took cousin.”

Other and Pippin just smiled more broadly before turning their heads to look at each other. Pippin’s eyes widened.

“Oy! You’ve changed, Other.” Pippin shifted his gaze back to Merry and Jebbin. “You have too, Jebbin! They’ve changed Merry. We’ve missed some more time, I think.”

Merry gave his cousin one of his, “Really, Pippin?” patronizing glances before turning back to Other’s brother.

For a moment, Jebbin looked to rear back up into his virulent attack on Meriadoc the Magnificent’s translucent self, but he obviously thought the better of it, visibly settling himself down before speaking.

“Is this or is this not a pack of heinous lies?” he said stiffly, waving the book once again in the ghost’s face.

Merry turned his eyes to Pippin, this time his look was more beseeching than condescending. “Uh, Pip. A moment if you would?” Merry started to turn away, but Jebbin moved to block him while his mind was briefly questioning if blocking a ghost was possible to do.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Jebbin said firmly. “That’s what you two did last time. You went and had a lovely chat between the two of you and came back with your agreed upon speeches . . .”

“Agreed upon answers then, if that suits your memory of the events better. It makes no difference. You hastily cooked up something betwixt the two of you and I need to know what that was.” Jebbin started to emphasize his next words by tapping the book onto Merry’s chest, which resulted in the book actually going into Merry’s chest. Jebbin shivered while hastily withdrawing the book. “Is what is written in this book the truth of what happened on your journey? Did Jebiamac Brandybuck write the true facts? Yes or no?”

Merry once again fixed his eyes on Pippin. Athelas Took fixed her eyes on the space between them. The ghosts felt a stirring of a breeze laden with the scents and sounds of autumn. Pippin smiled. Merry looked uncomfortable.

“They are hobbits grown. The truth will no longer crush their hearts and spirits.”

The flute-like voice spoke from a place where the spirits of the departed Travellers could hear it but those on life’s side of the grey rain curtain could not, excepting those of the speakers lineage. Athelas heard it too.

“A time will come that hobbits will be all but lost from this world. I do not know when, only that this is so. The truth will give strength to those who make it through the troubles to come. The truth will give hope to the hobbits who remain. Your kind will live on as my kind have since our troubled time and will continue to live until this world is no more. They will hide in the small places of the world, in the quiet places of the countryside, they will hide from the Big Folk. Those who remain will need to know hobbits have strength. They will need to know hobbits have a greatness inside themselves that needs no magic. They will need to know that there truly was a time that the world itself was saved from grave peril by a hobbit and those who loved him.”

A soft glow surrounded Jebbin and Other. The sensations of being in deep, untraveled woods in the waning of the year increased within Merry and Pippin.

“These two brothers of the blood are as near and dear to each other as are you two brothers of the heart. Each compliments the other. They are bound together as tightly as the two of you. The child of the head will tell the true story, the child of the heart will keep him from faltering when the truth is attacked. For it will be attacked. But the heart will remain true and the head will be proudly held high. This child of my child, my Tookling Balm, she will watch over them both so that all the kith and kin of my own dear Took will be given what is needed for them to endure.”

A warmth not common to disembodied beings flooded over the two ghostly hobbits. They nearly felt the life of this world flowing in them again. Then the feeling slowly faded, as did Culassisul’s voice whispering, “The time for the truth has come.”

“Well?” demanded Jebbin, for whom little time had passed and there was no knowledge of the flute like voice nor its message.

The eyes of the ghost of Meriadoc the Magnificent never left those of his ghostly cousin. They gave each other the slightest of nods.

“Yes. The book tells the truth.” Merry’s whisper was nearly as ghostly as himself.

Other spared a moment for a soft, concerned look to Pippin before moving to Jebbin’s side. He pulled his brother into a firm hug.

“You lied to us,” Jebbin quietly said. His anger had drained out of him, leaving him feeling empty and weary. “You two, of all the hobbits in the history of hobbits . . . you lied to us.”

Merry sat down beside Pippin on the box across from the trunk. Pippin hugged his cousin about the shoulders, glad that, at least to each other, it felt like a good solid hug. Merry’s head hung low. He felt deeply shamed by that quietly spoken accusation.

“It’s hard to explain,” Merry muttered. “Neither of you have children yet I’m thinking,” he looked up at the brothers sitting on the floor, “though I’m sure you have younger cousins. I’m sure you’ve been around young children.”

“Do you tell them the truth all the time? I mean . . . well, if it would ruin their wonder at life, if it would take away from their joy or security? Do you tell them there are no dragons? There used to be but I’m sure they are regarded as pretend now. Do you tell them there are no Elves or Dwarves?” Merry paused, looking thoughtful. “Are there any Elves or Dwarves about?” he asked Jebbin and Other.

“Just Merry will do, Other. If there aren’t any as far as hobbits know, then I’m sure they are treated the same as dragons and faeries are. Pretend beings. Storybook beings. Beings one lets children believe in.”

Pippin and Athelas had given a bit of a start at the mention of faeries. They glanced at each other, winked then both looked back to the brothers sitting on the floor.

“Do you want to be the one that shatters those tightly held childhood beliefs, Jebbin? Do you, Other?” The brothers shook their heads. “No, and neither did I. No kindly adult does. That gets left to older children who see it as proof of their being grown-up that they no longer believe in such things and take it as their gleeful duty to tear such falsehoods from younger siblings and relations. With that said and agreed upon, can you see why we said what we said? Would you want us to be heartless heroes with no concern for a child’s innocent beliefs?”

Jebbin looked up. Tear tracks glistened on his cheeks. “But we told you it was what we had been taught by our tutor. You knew it wasn’t just the version of your story believed by children.”

“And all the more reason to leave things as they were,” said Pippin. “Would you have really been happy, as the youngsters you were then, being told your teacher, no rather, that every adult you knew and trusted were telling you falsehoods? And if you had, as the youngsters you were then, run to them proclaiming them to be liars and teachers of lies, do you think that would have gone over well with them?”

A light came into Jebbin’s eyes. “No!” he said with understanding brightening his voice. “No, that would have all been horrible. We would have thought, “What else that they’ve taught us is really lies.” And I can imagine how our parents and tutor would have reacted to being accused of lying to us.”

“And miss having afternoon tea,” Jebbin added to Other’s comment then looked at the ghosts. “Scandalous that would be, it has always been our favorite meal.”

“Ours too,” Pippin nodded and smiled. “It being mostly sweets and dainties.”

“And sentences!” Other exclaimed. “Can you imagine the sentences they would have had us writing, Jebbin? We’d likely still be sitting at desks in separate rooms writing, “Parents do not teach their children falsehoods.” “Teachers do not teach their pupils falsehoods.” and other such cheery phrases.”

“And you wouldn’t even know me, Other, having spent your life locked up in a room writing sentences.” Athelas softly said. “You wouldn’t even know me, let alone be betrothed to me. And Marjoram Proudfoot wouldn’t know Jebbin either, and that would be a terrible pity, though, even as things are, she’s not quite sure he knows she exists.” She had a charmingly innocent look on her face, but her eyes sparkled with mischief.

“Ah!” exclaimed Athelas, “You do know she exists. I’ll have to let her know that bit of information.”

Jebbin and Other looked at each other, a silent conversation passing between them. The ghosts looked on with no intent to interrupt. They often had such conversations themselves. Finally, Jebbin and Other looked at Merry and Pippin.

“All right,” Jebbin said. “Points well taken and conceded. But now what? Now we are adults, well nearly both adults, and we have the book that holds the true story. I’ve wondered about and feared this for years. I have even begun writing a book to prove the validity of what we are all taught.” Jebbin paused, looking down and away for a moment before looking up into the eyes of Merry’s ghost. “I was writing to convince myself as much as to confirm everything to others. There was just something about what happened . . . it felt too real to not have happened. And there was something in the way you both changed from, “this all seems in order” to “that was the story we told most people”. It was as though, in the back of my mind, I knew you were not wanting to hurt our feelings.”

“Bright lad!” Merry exclaimed. “Further proof that he’s a Brandybuck and a descendant of mine.”

“Yes, yes, Merry. But which brother is already betrothed? Eh? Out living his life instead of nose in the books.” Pippin nodded to Other. “Tookish Brandybuck,” he said proudly. Other beamed.

“I’m going to have to find out just where your line and mine got muddled together, other than my Mum.” Merry muttered. “However,” he said to Jebbin, “what you have to do now is easy to do. It won’t be easy to live with, but it will be very easy to do. You write your book the way you’ve always known it should be written. You tell the truth.” Merry pointed to the small book in Jebbin’s hand.

“And go to Great Smials,” Pippin added. “On the bottom most shelf of the shelves nearest the window that is nearest the fireplace, in the corner of the shelf nearest the window, you’ll find a small book much like that one. Adelard Took wrote something similar before he married Mallow Brandybuck.”

“Sometimes one just knows these things, Merry. One knows one’s family and whom one’s great, great grandchildren marry and such as that.”

“You’re muddled together again.” Other finished for him while grinning impishly.

Pippin waggled his eyebrows. Other sniggered. Merry rolled his eyes then continued addressing Jebbin.

“Go and get that other book as well. All the better having a source from both families. Then write. Write and talk and teach.”

“They ‘ll kill me.” Jebbin muttered, shivering a bit as he did. “Or at least they’ll exile me. I’ll be going against everything every Shire historian has written for hundreds of years.”

“And I’ll dare them to just try to prove you wrong. I mean really truly prove you’re wrong.” Other puffed out his chest as he spoke. “After all, the Red Book says the same things as the ghosts and Jebiamac’s book say, Jebbin, and . . .”

Other blushed and the puff went out of his chest. “You asked to see it and they politely told you no. So I just . . . well I . . .” He straightened up once more. “I just went and looked. I heard talk in the inns that none have seen it in a long count of years and those who have said they didn’t put much stock in it as it was well known how humble Mayor Samwise was. They don’t call him Samwise the Stalwart in the Westmarch nor Undertowers.” Other said to the ghosts, then turned back to his brother. “They remember how humble he was said to be and so reckon the tale in the Red Book is toned way down from what is thought to be the true story. Which of course we now know is the false story as no one has learned the true story for a long time.”

Merry and Jebbin looked knowingly at each other. “We’re surrounded by Tooks.” Jebbin sighed.

“And a good thing we are,” Merry said, pulling Pippin into a one-armed hug while ruffling his hair with his free hand. He knew it irked Pip to have his hair ruffled. “They are most handy in a pinch. Tooks: no Brandybuck should go through life without one.

But back to all of this, Jebbin. You have your answer. Write your book. Talk in every tavern and inn, at every fair and festival. Go tell the truth that all we did was what we had to do, we didn’t turn and run in the face of horror and possible death. That Frodo and Sam did the unthinkable, the unimaginable and actually lived to tell the tale.”

“That there was only a little of what is thought of as magic in the true story, and that none of us are any less for that.” added Pippin. “That we came home, set the Shire back to rights and . . .”

He paused. He and Merry looked at each other with the dim glisten of ghostly tears on their cheeks. When Pippin continued, he kept his eyes locked with his cousin’s.

“We mostly lived happily for the rest of our lives. Frodo couldn’t stay. He was hurt too deeply, a hurt for which there was no cure in our world.”

“And we were hurt as well,” Merry continued. “Sam and Pippin and I. We were happy, we lived full, rich lives, but the things we saw and did would ofttimes haunt our dreams and sometimes darken our days. Sam had to follow Frodo after his dearest Rosie passed on, then Pippin and I left for Rohan and Gondor knowing we would never again walk the lands where we were born.”

“Tell them that hobbits are all we need to be, without magic of the kind in those false stories.” Pippin turned to look at the brothers and Athelas who had joined them on the floor. “Tell them we are strong, brave, loyal, loving, merciful and just.”

“And that is all the magic anyone needs.” Merry added as the two ghosts faded from the sight of the living hobbits seated on the floor of a dusty old mathom room.

“Your gift. It really was a gift to me. You’ve set me free to believe the truth and to share it with the whole Shire.”

Jebbin placed the book in his own jacket’s pocket then lifted the lantern. Athelas folded the old jacket and placed it back in the trunk. Other closed the lid and flipped down the latch. They left the old mathom room, shutting the door with a reverent gentleness. They walked down the staircase then down the tunnel back to more well lived in parts of the hall.

Behind them, the jumbled remains of a very old cave in became visible for a few moments before the light of their lantern faded away. Two stairs had shown through the rubble at the edge of the fallen debris.

This was for Grey-wonderer's suggested Marigold's Challenge #28
every story had to have at least one nekid hobbit
my elements were a hedge and a flowerpot.

Pippin had discovered it shortly after returning to Minas Tirith from Cormallen. He had decided one morning that he really needed to explore the Citadel better since he was now a knight of the realm. it wouldn’t do at all for him to not be well acquainted with his home away from home. So in the early morning chill he had wandered about hitherto unexplored nooks and crannies of the King’s City.

A bird call made him look up and that’s when he saw the mist rising from behind a high wall. It had to be mist, he deduced, as he smelled no smoke smell nor any cooking smells. But what could be making a mist in the Citadel? Walls often have a way through them, he reasoned, and so he ducked through the hedge that grew along the wall, concealing its lower half. Yes, there it was, a small wooden door where the wall rounded in toward another part of the building. Now if he could only find a chink in the wood . . .

He found better. A flag stone had crumbled and a space had been eroded or dug under the door. Not much of a space. Just enough for a curious hobbit. It was a tight fit and Pippin was glad he wasn’t wearing his uniform as he really wouldn’t have wanted to try slithering through the gap in such finery . . . that and the belt would have caught on the door.

He stood to find himself in a garden; a rarity in the stone city. It wasn’t exactly unkempt, but neither was it well kept. The grass was longish. The roses and other flowering plants were all on the wild side of cultivated. There were some plants in large flowerpots, yet even those didn’t look very tended. But Pippin had little eye for such things, his interest lay in what was at the far end of the garden up against a spur of the mountain. The source of the mysterious mist was a steaming pool of water.

Pippin walked over to the pool, noting as he did so that there were no windows that overlooked the garden. The pool, or the water in it, was a lovely shade of blue. In the cool of the morning he could feel the heat rising from its surface. He bent down to touch it. It was hot. It was like a bath should be. As he realized this he noticed, over to his left, shallow steps leading into the pool. A smile bloomed on his face - it was meant to be got into.

That was several weeks ago and now it was a regular part of Pippin’s life to go to his pool for a dip on early mornings when he wasn’t on duty. He had meant to tell Merry, but the time had just never been right. There was no way in Middle-earth that he was going to tell Frodo or Sam. They would both say it had to be someone’s garden, someone else’s pool of hot water, and that he had no business sneaking in there. So it was that this morning, like all the others, he was alone in his pond sized bath. He only needed to use the gap beneath the door to enter the garden, he was able to reach the latch and use the door to leave without getting all dirty after his swim. But the latch was the sort that locked when the door closed so he still had to use the gap to get in. He thought leaving the door even slightly propped open might give it away. As of yet, no one was the wiser to where he went in the early hours of his off days.

He had just popped to the surface after swimming the width of the pool underwater, when he heard a dog growling. It wasn’t hard to locate the dog. It was over by his shirt and breeches, snuffling and growling as it pawed at the garments. Before Pippin even had time to do anything to chase the dog off, it picked up his clothes, glared at him in a most menacing manor, and headed straight for the door. It disappeared, with a wag of its tail, out Pippin’s gap. Those clothes were all he wore to and from his clandestine swims.

Pippin stood in the pool wondering what he was going to do now when another noise, a soft noise, came to his alert ears; the snick of a door closing. He turned toward where the garden backed to a building.

Queen Arwen had nearly dropped her robe, not having noticed she had a visitor in her bathing pool. As it was, the robe slipped quite far down her right, ivory skinned shoulder as she grabbed it tighter around her chest and waist.

His red face had nothing to do with the temperature of the water surrounding him. He lowered his eyes while fervently hoping her Elf eyes couldn’t see well through the surface of the water.

“My private garden.” A wry smile came to her lips. “Or so I was told. Apparently my maid was mistaken.”

“I’m sure it is usually, eh . . . meant to be, ah, your private garden, milady. I, um . . . well there has never been any one . . . it has always looked . . .” It was only now that he noticed that the garden had been tended. The roses had been pruned. The grass had been closely clipped. There were new arrangements of flowers in the flowerpots. His last visit had been last week, before Queen Arwen’s arrival and wedding. In preparation for her new position in the court her private chambers and garden had been made ready. “It didn’t look this nice before,” Pippin lamely finished.

“I will return to my chambers for a few moments, Sir Peregrin, and allow you to get dressed and leave.” Arwen paused a moment. “You never have said how you got in here.”

“Under the door in the wall, yonder,” Pippin waved his hand in the general direction of the door. Though, why there is a door into your private garden that leads out to the road beyond the wall I don’t quite understand.”

Arwen’s smile grew. “So those who tend the garden do not need to come through my quarters to do their work, Sir Hobbit.”

“Oh! Yes, that does make sense. But, your highness, there is a problem. I found that I’m not the only one able to fit under the door. A dog entered today after I was in the pool and, well . . .” The hobbit’s blush grew deeper. “He took my shirt and breeches when he left.”

“A moment then, Peregrin.” The Queen went back inside to return with a towel that looked nearly the size of a blanket. She set it on the bench beside the steps into the pool. “This will cover your needs, I’m certain,” she said with a sly grin and a bit of a chuckle. “Shall I have the Citadel Guard be looking for a dog wearing a shirt and breeches?”

“No, thank you all the same, milady. The mangy beast merely carried my garments away. He didn’t take the time to put them on.” Pippin smiled at his Queen’s jest.

With a graceful nod of her head the Queen of Gondor left the garden to give her knight time to exit the pool, cover himself and leave.

Pippin walked through the streets with his head held high, hoping this would discourage any undesirable questions. He was fortunate that there were not many people yet abroad and that his route only took him on one main street, and that only for a block.

He was not so lucky when he entered the house he shared with the rest of the Fellowship. Pippin had hoped no one would be in the kitchen yet, but those hopes were dashed. His cousins and Sam were all sitting around the kitchen table in the midst of a wonderful looking first breakfast. Merry was sitting at the end of the table nearest the door, Sam in the middle not far from the stove, Frodo was nearest the door out.

“Pippin? What on earth are you wearing?” Merry asked as Pippin started to hurry past wrapped in the blanket sized towel.

The youngest hobbit paused. “It was a bit chilly this morning when I got up and I was too lazy to find my cloak. I just grabbed the blanket off my bed. I’ll just go put it back and join you all.” Pippin kept his head high and walked as quickly as he could without chancing tripping on the towel.

It was a good lie. He had worked it up in his head while scurrying home. They would believe it because Merry and Frodo often chided Pippin for being lazy.

From Grey-wonderer's suggested Marigold's Challenge #28
every story had to have at least one nekkid hobbit
my elements were a candlestick and a painting

It was dark outside Great Smials and it was mostly dark or dim within. Night time; time for rest, for sleep . . . and certain other activities.

Down a certain tunnel, situated so that most of its rooms were on an outside wall, were the private quarters of The Took and Thain of the Shire; being one Peregrin Took I. In those private quarters were a good many rooms; a formal sitting room, the family’s sitting room, a dinning room and even a small kitchen, a lovely large bathroom, a small study, several bedrooms, a large nursery . . . and a master suite.

The largest room of the master suite was the bedchamber, a fine, stately yet cozy room where the Thain and his Lady were currently involved in . . . certain other activities.

The dainty porcelain shaded oil lamp cast a soft glow upon the bodies of the couple, the bedclothes having been shoved aside to come to rest upon the floor. The small lamp always burned when they were thus involved, no hiding in the total dark for them, they still liked to look at the one they loved.

Pippin never tired of Diamond’s creamy skin. True, her tummy was rounder than it had been on their wedding night, but they had three dear children to show for the loss of her trimmer figure. True, her breasts now sagged, but there had been little ones to nurse, the youngest, an infant, nursing still and that will lead to breasts that droop. Yet Pippin really saw none of that. He saw the love of his life. To him, her naked body was still the most beautiful thing in his world.

Diamond never tired of Peregrin’s chest hair. True, he had more of a stomach on him than he had on their wedding night, but maturity did that to a hobbit. True, the hair on the front of him had been joined by hair on the back of him, but perhaps that was because of the hair slowly thinning upon his forehead. Diamond really saw none of that. She saw the love of her life. To her, his naked body was still the most handsome thing in her world.

They were well along with their . . . certain other activity, when they heard something that froze them like statues.

Their eyes went wide. They turned their heads toward the door of their bedchamber. There stood Beryl, their second born, their six year old daughter, hugging her pink satin pillow and her stuffed kitty. She had returned her fingers to her mouth after making her announcement.

“You go back to the nursery, sweetheart, and Daddy will be there in just a minute,” Pippin said, sounding amazingly calm.

The wee lass turned, without a word, to go back across the hall to the innermost room of the nursery, the outer room having just recently been given over to baby Palagrim.

It was only after a few moments, to give their child time to get back into her bed, that Peregrin and Diamond laughed. Truly, they felt, what else was there to do but laugh.

“We need to get a lock for our door,” he said as he flopped down onto the bed next to his wife.

“Indeed we do,” she chuckled as she reached for his hand, giving it a squeeze. “We hadn’t even thought about her being tall enough now to reach the latches.”

Pippin rose and pulled his nightshirt over his head, then tugged it down over himself. He picked up the candlestick that sat on the night stand, lighting it with a taper from the small fire in the hearth. “I’d best get over to her before she decides to come back. I don’t think I’ll be long if you think you might want to carry on from where we left off when we were so rudely interrupted?”

“That sounds wonderful! I’ll read till you come back.” Diamond batted her lashes. “Do make haste, Mister Took.”

“Oh I will, Mrs. Took. Be assured of that.” Pippin stopped at the doorway, turning to look back at his wife. “I dread what questions we’ll be asked at breakfast. I think, perhaps, we should dine in our quarters.”

Pippin blew his wife a kiss then left their room to tend to his frightened child. In the hallway, his eyes fell upon the portrait of his parents that hung there. Their likenesses, bathed in the warm glow from his candle, seemed to be on the verge of laughter.

“Yes,” he said to the painting, “you two would think this all very funny. And yes, you’re right, I deserve it. Though as far as I’m aware I never did the likes of this to you.” Pippin smiled as he entered the nursery. He liked to think wherever his parents were, in that far green country he hoped, that they knew the happenings in the lives of their children. He soon returned to the master suite. Shutting and latching the door firmly behind him before he and his wife carried on with . . . certain other activities.

There were no questions the next morning at breakfast, nor at any other time that day. Nor any the day after that. The Thain and his Lady often shared a chuckle when the event would come to mind, and they happily related the story to Beryl when she was old enough to be embarrassed, but not humiliated, by its telling.

My elements for Marigold's Challenge #34 were:
Someone taken unawares by something or someone.
A badger.
A flood.
A broken-down wagon.
**************************************************

In this sad world of ours, sorrow comes to all; and, to the young, it comes with bitterest agony, because it takes them unawares.
- Abraham Lincoln

He oughtn’t to have done that. It meant he had dozed off and one oughtn’t doze off when on watch. And it was the first time they had let him take a turn at being on watch. The fact that Lord Elrond had been hesitant to even let him be part of the company had not completely vanished from the minds of Strider and Legolas. Gandalf was letting them do much of the decision making, so it was that they were well along on the journey, in a place Gandalf had said was called Hollin, before it was agreed upon that Pippin could have a turn at covering the first watch.

He heard a noise and tipped his head a bit to the left to bring it more clearly to his ear. Pippin knew that sound, it was the snort of a badger. That must have been what had awakened him, what had caught him off guard. He let his eyes follow the sound and in the dim light of the not yet risen sun he finally made out the badger, not more than twenty feet away, with the white stripes on his head showing up well in the semidarkness. The badger continued to snort and bark at the hobbit, bringing a smile to the lad. They must have made their camp near to the badger’s sett and Mr. Badger was just finding out he had company as he returned home from his night’s foraging.

“That’s better,” the hobbit murmured. “You know I won’t hurt you, don’t you? Though I’m sure you’ve not met a hobbit before.”

Pippin noticed a darker spot in the side of the small dell in which the company was resting. It was just below and slightly under a bramble of dead branches and holly bushes that in the poor light looked a bit like the ancient remains of a broken-down wagon.

The badger sat down while swiveling his head as though to better hear and understand the strange creature’s noises.

“We hobbits are a great deal like badgers, you know. We live in smials that are rather like your setts and many of our clan live in them together. Not all, mind you as that would be much too large and crowded a smial, but a good many of us will live that way. Merry and I live in just such a smial. Well, we each live in our own clan’s smial, not both of us in the same one. And most of us hobbits are on the plump side of things, as are badgers.”

“I’m from a ways north of here, but we’ve badgers in the Shire. We have stories about kindly badgers taking lost hobbit children into their sett and keeping them safe until light of day. Of course the children aren’t afraid because they are used to living underground. The badgers feed them tea and cakes, then they nudge them back outside so the worried hobbit family can find their lost wee ones. They’re just stories, the sort told to children before they get tucked up for their naps or their bed times. But they are pleasant stories and most of us hobbits have a warm place in our hearts for badgers.”

Pippin looked about. Odd that the sky didn’t seem to be getting much lighter. He looked back at the badger who just lay there, watching him.

“Reassuring stories. Nice to hear if one’s afraid of the dark, or . . . or a storm, or . . . or . . .”

Pippin felt on odd tingling on the back of his neck. He looked around the small dell at the rest of the company lying there, rolled up in their bedding: Frodo, Merry and Sam. Gimli. Legolas. Strider. Boromir. Gandalf. He saw the tumble of rocks that might have once been blocks that might have once been walls. He saw the ring of half buried stones that surrounded a dip in the ground in the center of the dell that might, in ages long past, have been a well. But in the gloom he couldn’t see the far side of the dell. Strange, he thought he had been able to see it when he had taken up his post to watch.

“Or just plain afraid,” Pippin whispered as his arms started having the same tingly feeling as the back of his neck.

And it wasn’t getting any lighter. And the dip in the ground within the circle of stones seemed darker. The air seemed stuffy, and air outside oughtn’t to seem stuffy. It was stuffy like a tunnel, underground in a smial where no one lived any longer.

The badger was beside him now. Its eyes glowed in the dim light of a distant fire. It screamed. The frightful scream that badgers make only rarely.

And a strange gurgling noise arose. And the well became darker. Black water rose, oozing as though its darkness made it thick. It flowed over the stone rim of the well. It inched toward the company, the strange fiery light that lit the badger’s eyes reflecting in slow swirls upon its oily surface.

Pippin was on watch. Pippin needed to do something. Pippin’s mouth opened. His eyes were wide with terror. He strained. He struggled. He was paralyzed and mute.

The water pushed against the sleepers, thicker than spilled molasses. It rolled them before it, coating them with gloom.

It engulfed Gandalf. His form vanished beneath its opaque surface. Then it receded, forming a sluggish whirlpool back down into the well in which the upturned face of the old wizard could vaguely be seen slowly spinning away.

Pale moonlight shone in slowly moving patches beneath gently moving leaves. Beside him lay Frodo, Sam and Merry. Pippin buried his face in his blanket and cloak to muffle his sobs. Memories oozed like the thick black water into his conscious thoughts.

The field hands stood anxiously on the door step waiting for Mister Paladin to come. His missus had answered their knocking as she was up and about seeing to first breakfast.

“Something amiss, lads?” their boss asked as he hoisted his remaining loose brace over his left shoulder.

“Aye, Mister Paladin. There’s . . . well, there’s eh . . . something right strange in the lower wheat field, sir.”

“Ya’d best come and see for yerself, Mister Paladin, and you too, Mister Brandybuck, sir, seeing as you o’er see the Hall’s crop lands, maybe you’ve seen the like.”

The hands were all talking at once. Saradoc and his family were visiting Whitwell farm and he and Paladin had both intended to look over the fields this morning anyway.

“Aye,” spoke up Tolley, the stable manager. “That would be good, sirs. You can see it right well from the edge of the hill back o’ the stables. “Seems I recall we had somethin’ like this happen back when your da and mine were the ones workin’ this farm, Mister Paladin. Ya’d best come and see.”

The hobbits all tramped through the front doors of the stable, down the long center aisle, then out through the back. Merry and Pippin were tagging along.

The help were all wide eyed and more than a bit frightened, muttering amongst themselves. “Faerie folk?” “Must be faerie folk.” “Right spooky, it is.”

Tolley spoke to his boss, who was also a good friend as they had grown up together on this farm. “Do you remember, sir? I seem to recollect somethin’ a great deal like this happenin’ back when we were tweens. Though I’ve no’ seen the like o’ it since.”

Merry and Pippin had peered around the adults before casting quick looks at each other then running silently to a tree at the far end of the hill top. They were out of breath when they reached the spot about halfway up the tree where there was a gap in the branches that faced out toward the wheat field.

They had had fun in the moonlight the night before. Earlier that spring, Pippin had noticed that the sledge they used for hauling rocks out of the fields made an interesting trail when ever it went through the old grass at the edge of the field, and he’d had an idea for some fun. He made a smaller version of the sledge, it being nothing more than a few boards hooked together edge to edge to form a pallet with one end being worked into a bit of a curl at the front to make it pull through the soil and foliage easier. Pippin’s was small enough to be easily carried into the field . . . not dragged into the field.

When Merry arrived with his family for their visit he had quickly agreed to drawing the design and helping his cousin press it into the wheat. It had been a simple design. Just a couple of circles and some lines. They hadn’t wanted to damage too much of the crop. A couple of circles and a few lines with no lines or trails leading up to them from the edges of the field. That had been the tricky part, but hobbit lads do go light on their feet. Merry, who was already the heavier of the two having filled his pockets with rocks for the bit of extra effect, sat on the sledge while directing Pip as he pulled the sledge over the two foot tall wheat stems.

Paladin and Saradoc knew their lads were up to something, and they were quite pleased when they discovered what it was. They had enjoyed the effect the prank had produced when they did it as lads. From the dark of the stable doorway they watched their sons press their design into the crop and slink back into the house . . . then they added some pressings of their own.

“What ya be thinkin’, Mister Paladin, sir?” one of the hands asked, noting that his boss and Mister Saradoc had yet to say a word. They were simply standing there looking from the field to each other, then back again.

If they had been standing in the field itself, on that crystal blue, bright morning; if they had been near the hedge row at the eastern edge of the field and if they had listened very hard . . .

For Challenge #35
A fantastic animal, dragon, unicorn or the like
A waterfall
A powerful talisman
Esmeralda Took

Many years ago, as those not of the immortal races count the years, a wondrous happening occurred to a people little known nor understood. The tale has ne’er been told to those of the mortal races before. It is told now as the little known ones fade ever more distant and the tale is too fine a one to vanish in the mists.

There was a clan of faerie folk, wondrous fair, who lived deep in a timeless wood which was wrapped comfortingly over the feet of a small mountain on the western side of the Blue Mountains when they were not so near to The Sea. There they had dwelt happily in times when no mortal had set foot so far into the west and they dwelt there into the days of the roaming of the mortals.

But even in those fair days evil lurked in Arda. Orcs would come and prowl the wood and the faerie folk would hide in the trees, as did their distant kin the woodland Elves. And the orcs began to come more often, growing bolder each time, coming to the wood even when the Sun gave light to the world for they knew it was dimly lit beneath the trees.

Their master must have had words with them, for they began to search upwards, into the branches of the trees. Into the roof of the forest. Into the safety of the branches where the faerie folk were hid.

And the enchanting eyes of the faeries availed them not. And their beguiling laughter they could not bring forth from their terror. So it was that they began to be slain by the minions of Morgoth.

It happened upon a sun drenched day that a new terror approached the woods. There was a terrifying screech as a broad shadow passed to and fro. The dwindling clan of faeries shuddered in fear. A dragon could kill them all quicker than any band of orcs. All the fell worm need do was breathe it’s fire upon the forest crown to burn them and their homes.

The dragon landed in a clearing, barely big enough to allow it safe landing, and there it sat, making no move to burn the woods.

Here was one whose voice held a power like their own. Smooth as the smoothest of honeys and more tempting by far.

“Yes, yes. You hesitate, little ones, and none would set you blame for that. I pledge you your lives if you will but grant me an audience.”

The faerie King and his Queen looked deeply into each other’s eyes. How often had they said the self same words to immortal and mortal alike? They smiled a bit at that, for so it was that even Elf kind were not entirely immune to their wiles. Why should they now trust?

“Come now! We have a common purpose, little ones. I long have dwelt on the far side of my mountain. Long I have dwelt there and troubled you not as you have not troubled me. Fouler beasts than my kind roam the world and such as these have had to pass by my domain to enter into yours. Think you that they have done so innocently?” The dragon snorted smoke from out his nostrils. “They have not. They have toyed with me. Lured me out only to shoot their miserable arrows at me. When I have refused to be baited thus, they send some into my cave to spy out my treasure.” He chuckled, sending smoke and a small flicker of fire from his jaws. “They all were nicely seared, though the taste of them leaves much to be desired. So now you know, little ones, there is a purpose other than my love of treasure or of obtaining better fare that prompts my promise. Come forth from your trees and parley.”

The royal couple descended to step out into the glade. They bowed low, as well they knew they should, as dragons are most proud hearted, regarding themselves as the rulers of their realms.

“Speak, oh fearsome and magnificent one, and we will attend to your words,” said the Faerie King.

“Well spoken, little King! My full greetings to you and your Queen,” said the Dragon, most properly as manners sit well upon a honeyed tongue. “The matter is this; I’ve a plan. But for it to work I needed someone to assist me.” Here it seemed the Dragon blushed the slightest of bits, if such a thing were possible. “I am not, you must understand, accomplished at stealth and stealth is what is needed. Your kind, little King and Queen, excel at this very thing. I come to beg your aid in ridding us both of the orcs of the evil one.”

The royal pair sought each other’s eyes for the passing of a breath. It was a truly spoken statement, stealth was in truth one of their greatest abilities.

“The orcs will not expect you on my side of the mountain, but there you will be. I will signal you with a single spurt of flame from out my cave door. Do as you do best, little ones. Flit from tree to tree sending forth your mysterious laughter. But heed me, move always to the west. I will come forth, burning orcs as I can, taking care to not set the trees alight. They will surely be taken by surprise by such a combined attack.”

The King nodded. “Indeed, tis a sound plan. We are not unskilled at archery, though we prefer our silent flight to fighting. But this is a time for more assertive measures. Our arrows will force most of them to stay clear of the trees where you are best able to deal with them.” He looked the Dragon deeply in the eye, a dangerous thing for any other being to do. “Done and done!” he exclaimed. “We will do our part and trust that you will do yours.”

The clan moved to the far side of their mountain, their and the Dragon’s mountain. Watchers were set. Never was the cavern door unwatched.

A stream of fire roared out! The clan took their places. The Dragon came forth in his fury. Fire fell! Arrows flew! Light and swift arrows from tree to orc, heavy crude arrows from orc to tree . . . and to the Dragon. A few of the Faerie Clan fell from the boughs. Not an orc lived. The Dragon fell with a horrible crash upon the ground, an orc arrow had found the unguarded spot on his underside.

The faerie folk gathered and wept around the body of the dragon. A sadder sound none have heard, for as beguiling as is their laughter so heart rending is their mourning.

“Great was the heart of the Dragon! Great was the trust and courage of the Faerie Clan! As he did with his life, he shall do forever more. He will watch over this clan. Look to the Northern Sky this night, to the star that does not move. See that you never forget to honor the one who saved you.”

The messenger was gone and the body of the dragon rose until it could not be seen, not even with a faerie’s eyes. But that night, in the northern sky, New Stars circled the Star That Does Not Move. The faerie folk saw the Dragon glimmering like the gems he had once hoarded, with the Star That Does Not Move set into his tail. And they knew it was as the messenger said it would be; he watched over their clan.

A hobbit of the Shire walked in the gloaming toward a stream that flowed through her family’s farm. It was the first long walk she had been able to take since the birthing. She had stayed near to the house until it was certain her sister-in-law and the babe would be all right. She would stay a fortnight more until Eglantine was fully up and about.

Esmeralda Brandybuck sighed as she smiled. She loved this place, for as much as she loved her dear husband and sweet son, Buckland could never be to her what the farm in Whitwell was. There is no home like the home you grow up in, especially if that growing up was happy. Why, Saradoc had even proposed on the far side of this very stream. Down stream a bit though, not here by the waterfall.

She sat wearily down upon a flat rock, about a foot from the edge of the bank, letting the music of the small waterfall soothe her. What a battle it had been! Eglantine always had a tricky time of birthing, but this babe . . . Well, it could only be hoped they would have no more. It was well he was a lad. It had been so hard on Esmeralda, watching her own dear brother suffer as surely as his wife and new son were. Most of Esmeralda’s concerns had in truth been for Paladin and Lanti, for she knew things her brother did not, things very few others knew; she knew the wee tiny lad would pull through.

Oh, his breathing was still weak, as she knew her own had been when she was a babe. But he would hold on to life like the tough old roots of a tough old tree. And she knew, the lad’s eyes would be green, his features more like her own than either of his parents.

She looked through the gap in the thin tree line that bordered the stream. Night had just fallen, the half moon hugged the horizon behind the trees, and she could see the stars. She could see the North Star and the Wain. More dimly, she could see the Dragon whose body curled about the motionless star.

Esmeralda felt a stirring in her heart. The feeling of being free to do as she pleased, the way a child feels as it runs through the woods and fields. Her mind spoke to her, yet it wasn’t quite the voice of her own thoughts.

“Look to the Dragon. The child will be different, as you are, this you already know, but in him there is more. I know not why this shall be nor how, only that it will be so. Look to the Dragon.”

Esmeralda knew the Voice, though she’d hear it very rarely. She continued to look at the Dragon sparkling in the heavens.

A star in the Dragon flashed, flickered then fell, flaring into a dazzling brilliance. Esmeralda threw her arms up to shield herself, throwing herself to the ground beside the rock, as the falling star looked to be coming straight for her. She felt and heard it thud deeply into the ground.

Slowly, she lowered her arms. Cautiously she approached the hole in the field just beyond the tree line.

“Touch it not,” said the Voice. “On the morrow, rise early before the others of the house and before those who help tend the lands and herds. Come then and you will find the token, a talisman from the Dragon of the Faerie Clan. Tuck it under the pallet at the foot of the new lad’s cradle for while you are here, then, take it to your home and give it to your son. A gift from his new cousin. The Dragon will watch over them both, as will I.”

The Sun was just below her rising as Esmeralda ran through the dew soaked grass to the pasture. She half expected to find no hole, no “talisman from the Dragon.” Surely it had been a dream. But no, the hole was there. She knelt down in order to be able to reach the object at the bottom. It was black and oddly heavy for it’s size. It was flat and as broad as both her hands side by side with the fingers all spread as wide as they would spread. The stone was thick on one edge and quite thin on the opposite edge, its surface bore concentric ridges. It looked like a fish scale. But it was much too large. It looked more like it would be big enough to be . . .

A/N: This story had a great many inspirations. First, Marigold’s elements. Then the insignia patch for my son’s new National Guard Unit - a dragon, with their motto: “Dragons in Support”, hence a helpful dragon. Next came a wrapper from a Dove dark chocolate that read: “Count the stars” and my knowing there is a constellation named Draco, or, the Dragon. Then checking out a web site and finding out 4,000 years ago the North Star was actually part of Draco, not Ursa Minor, and that would have been the case for several thousand years before that. (http://www.astro.wisc.edu/~dolan/constellations/constellations/Draco.html ). Finding out the definition of a talisman is that it is “typically an inscribed ring or stone that is thought to have magic powers or to bring good luck’, then watching a show on TV about meteors and seeing examples of meteors that are small enough to fit easily in a person’s hand, as well as one that is regarded as a talisman by the residents of Ensisheim, France. Then an email from Grey Wonderer wondering if Culassisul had been watching over Pippin all his life, or just as he got older. My thanks to Marigold, Grey Wonderer, my muse and the fates in general for bringing together so many diverse things to mix together to make this story.

For Challenge #35
My elements were:
A fantastic animal
A falcon
A scar
Eglantine

A/N: If you are an ardent vegetarian you may end up uncomfortable with this story as it could seem to be a treatise promoting being an omnivore, though that isn’t my intent.

Rated PG13 Some might find some of this unsuitable for younger readers or those of a delicate nature.

Eglantine sat wearily down, her back against the old stone wall that bordered the road. She could go no further just now. Not to her happy home, for she was far from happy.

It had been all the family seemed concerned about as she had first tended to the gash in their ten year old daughter’s cheek.

“It may,” she had replied, “but I’m more concerned about it festering. That branch cut her raggedly and deep, I’m not sure that I’ve been able to clean it well enough.”

“Yes, yes, Missus. We understand about all of that, but will it leave a scar?”

Eglantine closed her eyes then and she closed them now. Then it had been to keep her patience, now it was from frustration. Frustration and sorrow and anger.

Two days later their lad was at the door of the Took home. He had run to her home, Eglantine rode to theirs. Rode like the wind. Rode as though a troll, or Bilbo’s dragon were behind her. Rode like fear was behind her and might over take her. Which it did.

The mother had. She had been the only one in and out of her little lasse’s room.

Eglantine tried everything she knew. She tried things she had only heard about. She had stayed there for fear of taking the sickness home, and she kept the rest of the family out of the room. The mother developed a boil, but it was clearing up nicely. Eglantine had managed to have no ill effects.

A soft growl rose in her throat. Death always leaves it’s mark on the hearts of the ones left behind, no matter how often it pays its calls. And call it did. It called at birthings. How many wee ones had she delivered already dead? How many died before a day, a week or month were passed? How many mothers had breathed their last without seeing their new babe? How many did the childbed fever take? All through life it was there, at any age, at any time, till at last it took them all.

Why, it was everywhere! It had to stop! There had to be someway to make it stop!

She would quit eating meat. It was one thing she could do. Yes, no more killing the chickens, rabbits, pigs, sheep, goats or cows. No more wringing necks or slitting throats. No more fish pulled by a hook from the streams and ponds. That would do it! She would cease to aid death.

But animals ate other animals. Eglantine frowned. Her not eating animals wouldn’t end the dying. If every hobbit in the Shire quit eating any kind of meat it wouldn’t end the dying. And then she thought, “What of the plants?” If she ate no meat she would still have to eat. Weren’t plants alive as well? They grew and, yes, they died. Wasn’t harvesting them actually killing them? Was wresting a carrot from the ground the same as wringing a chicken’s neck? Was using a spade to dig up taters, severing them from their plants, wasn’t that rather like slitting a pig’s throat? And the animals, many of them ate grass and other plants.

But seeds were what life seemed to spring from. You plant a seed and that lifeless appearing thing would sprout into . . . life.

And that would not solve her dilema because it was only giving into death. Death would take her from her loved ones and they would carry its scar.

Tears coursed down her face with the weight of it all, until she heard the call. High above her she heard the screech of a falcon. She opened her eyes, searching the blue depths above her until she spotted it. And it wheeled above her, now higher, now lower, dancing with the wind. It was hunting. Hunting to feed its young, to feed itself. The beast it would eat would have eaten the plants of the earth. Grasses, fruits, nuts and berries. And eventually all would return to the earth that birthed them. Plants die and moulder. The small animals would be eaten or die of old age and either way return to the soil. The falcon would die, falling to the earth from its lofty perch, returning to the earth.

Should we give up our living because of the dying, since it seemed most clear that there is no life without death. Even the immortal Elves that Bilbo had met had to eat.

Eglantine stood and watched the falcon. She spread her arms wide and wheeled as the falcon did, soaring and diving and soaring again. And she laughed as a child laughs, playing as a child plays. She had been looking at it all the wrong way around, for death does not win. Oh, as a healer she still needed to fight it. Everything clings to life, and that is also as it should be. But now she understood, death does not win, though it saddens the heart, in the end it only nourishes more life.

This story refers to something that happened in my story “While We Dwelt in Fear”
Beta by Marigold and Llinos

Merry sat there in the tent, staring at the canvas walls, thinking. Night had barely fallen when Pippin claimed to be exhausted and went off to bed. Merry had waited only a brief time before heading into the tent. Although he felt incredibly sleepy, he had no intention of going to sleep. Pippin would not be spending this night alone in his own room as he would have had they stayed home at Crickhollow.

“It’s been about six months since Frodo left,” Merry sighed as he thought. “He got ill with every anniversary of his wounding at Weathertop and by Shelob. Sam’s been happily married now coming on two years. One would think that might help, but I know he has had a bad turn each year when Frodo would have his from the spider’s bite, Sam’s being from wearing the Ring. Poor old lad, it must have been horrible thinking Frodo was dead and there he was left all alone with the Ring.” Merry sighed again. “Then there is my own turn for the worse.”

At first, they had all been too relieved that the War was over. There had been the occasional rough night, as well as times when their various aches and pains arose to remind them of what they had each experienced. But, they hadn’t thought much about what might happen when certain dates, certain anniversaries, rolled around. Then Frodo was so silent when they came to the Ford or Bruinen on the sixth of Winterfilth on their way home from Rivendell. His shoulder pained him, and darkness filled his eyes. Yet, the spell had been short lived, by the next evening Frodo was fine with no lingering gloom or pains.

Merry and Pippin hadn’t thought to suspect there might be dark reminders of their own encounters with the evil of the Dark Lord, Merry recalled grimly. They had not been dreading the arrival of those dates. It was only in looking back that he had become aware that Pippin’s first anniversary had passed uneventfully. The realization that there would be rough times for either of them had come with Merry’s own plunge into darkness on the fifteenth of Rethe. Later they learned Farmer Cotton had found Frodo in a fit of darkness and despair on Rethe the thirteenth, one year after his being stung by Shelob. While Sam hesitantly admitted he had not been well himself that day and the next while in Needlehole on his forestry work.

Merry shivered and his thoughts went off in a painful direction for a few moments before for he brought them back under control.

“I have all that to look foreword to in about a fortnight’s time,” he sighed heavily. “Then, then there is Pippin.”

Merry glanced over at his cousin. Pippin lay facing him, sound asleep in his bedroll. The light from the lantern showed a trace of creases between Pippin’s eyebrows while the occasional soft moan escaped his lips.

“Why don’t you go through what we’ve gone through, you little miscreant?” Merry whispered at his sleeping cousin. “I’ve shared a home with you for nearly three years now, two of which you should have had the screaming terrors this night, but no, not you. No, you have nightmares as bad as mine at other times, but never this night when by all rights you ought to be miserable. I didn’t think about it the first year as we weren’t expecting any such troubles. Last year . . .” Merry paused.

Last year had been most curious. He seemed to barely remember it. He knew they had been expecting Pip to have a horrible night on the fifth of Rethe. He remembered Pippin had decided to stay up all night to see if that would make a difference. Yet, as night fell, Pippin said he was exhausted, just as he had this evening, and gone off to his room. Merry had meant to follow him, then he had intended to check on the lad in a while, lastly, he reckoned he’d hear Pippin if he had any nightmares. Come the morning, Merry had awakened in the chair in the parlor where he had been sitting when Pippin had gone off to his room. Pippin came out of his room a few moments later, bright, cheerful and looking extremely well rested. Neither of them said a word about anniversaries or nightmares.

“This is the third year since you looked into that stone, and yet the anniversary has gone by, as near as I can tell, uncelebrated by the terrors that have visited the rest of us upon our various anniversaries.” Merry leaned forward to better address his sleeping cousin. “I intend to find out why.”

In the lantern light, he could see a faint sheen of sweat upon the lad’s brow.

“Ah ha! So it isn’t all sweet dreams and peaceful slumber for you after all. I should hope not,” he said heatedly, then instantly felt bad. He really oughtn’t be wishing for Pip to go through what he and the others did each year. “And yet, why don’t you? With what happened to you, Pippin, you . . . He . . .”

Merry’s thoughts raced through his head. He had been so shocked. He had been so hurt. He had been so . . . disappointed. He had turned away.

He had thought the lad carried enough brains in his head to understand that there must be a reason Gandalf had been so swift and sharp with him. He had fallen asleep thinking the young fool would have enough sense to wait until morning.

Then Pip had cried out in the darkness. Merry had run with the others, trembling from head to toe. And Pippin had looked dead, pale and stiff with glassy eyes that looked at nothing. Relief flooded through him when Gandalf called the lad back, but it was short lived when all Pippin did was spout a stream of words in an odd sounding voice.

Then Merry heard Pippin’s words to Gandalf and an icy chill flooded into him. *”Then he came,”* Pippin said, terror raising the pitch of his voice. *“He did not speak so that I could hear words. He just looked, and I understood.”*

The Dark Lord, the being they all feared above all others, had been in his young cousin’s mind. He had been inside Pippin. He had mocked and hurt his cousin, cutting and pulling his very being to pieces.

“And I wasn’t there for you, Pip,” Merry sighed. “I was angry with you for being such a fool, later I was even angrier at myself for not staying awake with you. I wasn’t there for you Pippin.” Merry closed his eyes and hung his head.

For a moment, the reason he had suggested they go camping was forgotten. It had not been to search the warmer spots of the forest’s edge for the first of the wild strawberries as he had claimed. Forgotten was the curiosity over Pippin’s lack of debilitating spells when this night came each year. All Merry was left with was his own pain and regrets.

A slight breeze touched Merry’s cheeks. It tugged lightly at the ends of his hair. The scent of autumn leaves drifted around him, catching his mind.

She sat upon the blanket Pippin had spread beneath his bedroll. He was on his back and she held his head in her lap. Gently she caressed Pippin’s face and hair with long slender fingers. She was singing over him in words Merry did not understand, nor really even hear. He felt them swirling about him like the leaves that drop from the trees in the autumn of the year. They were light and warm and free.

Merry had never seen her before yet it didn’t seem at all strange to him that she was there. He stared at her.

She paused in her singing, turning her sharp featured face to him. Green eyes danced with warm green lights.

“One who loves him, The Falcon who is a child of my child.” The warmth of the lights in her eyes flooded into Merry. “One who loves you as well, for you are the child of my Emerald Bright.”

Pippin stirred uneasily, and for a while, her attention was on him. She again sang her song. Again, peace flowed around the two hobbits, dancing on the melody. She sang until Pippin was lying quietly once more.

“I was not there,” she said softly, more to herself than to the hobbit who also loved her Falcon. “I tried but I could not be. I was hindered, thrown aside like a discarded puppet. And I wept.”

A chill crept into Merry’s heart. He knew exactly what the lady was speaking about.

“I wasn’t there either. I mean, I was there in the dell where we were resting, but I had gone to sleep. I wasn’t with him. He was alone.”

“A burden we share, child of my Emerald Bright.” She placed her right hand over Pippin’s heart; her left she rested upon his forehead. Again she sang.

Merry’s eyes began to droop, his head kept tipping forward. He felt comforted and safe.

“You now have your answer; you whom my Falcon loves as a brother. You were seeking it so desperately that I decided to grant you the knowledge. It is my debt to him upon which I make payment each year on this night. He will not face this night alone until he has gone to where such memories trouble the heart and mind no longer.”

Merry looked deeply into her eyes. Nothing existed in the world but the green depths and dancing lights of her eyes.

“Henceforth this night shall pass for you in deep slumber as it has before. Be comforted in your heart.” She reached out and tenderly touched Merry’s forehead. He felt himself falling as softly as down to land on his blankets and pillow. His eyes closed, and he knew no more.

He was never sure that it hadn’t all been a dream and never spoke of it to his dear cousin. Whatever it was, whoever she was, Merry never again wondered about nor begrudged Pippin his peaceful anniversary night.

They had finally made it to Minas Tirith, three years after the passing of their fathers. A long time, certainly, but it was not a short nor easy trip to make, especially for the Master of Buckland and the Took and Thain of the Shire. If it had not been matters of importance to their lands and people, it had been personal matters of expectant wives, newborn children, various illnesses and injuries and the loss of loved ones close to home. It hadn’t been as though they had missed final farewells. Their fathers had departed this world in death a month before they even knew they were gone, it having taken that long for word to arrive from the High King Elessar.

What was strange, to the nobles of the City, was the mood of the Master and Thain; they were jovial. They had arrived the day before the anniversary of the death of Sir Peregrin, two before the day of the passing of Sir Meriadoc, and they were jovial.

The two had travelled alone. Being as close friends as their fathers had been they enjoyed each other’s company and had decided they wanted to make the journey to Minas Tirith as their fathers had that last time; just the two of them. This had been a large part of the delay in making the trip; it had been difficult to find a time both of them could leave their responsibilities behind for a while. Finally, they had simply set a date and told everyone else they would have to work around it.

This was not their first trip to the kingdoms in the south. Each, upon coming of age, had gone to learn the ways of the realms their fathers served as knights, with both Theodoc and Faramir earning the rank for themselves. This time they had, as had their fathers, gone first to Rohan. They went to Edoras to show their respects for the King Sir Meriadoc had so faithfully served. The new King, Elfwine the Fair, and his people relished their visit, making much of Sir Meriadoc’s heir and his kinsman. The two hobbits remained in that place a fortnight, leaving only when they had to in order to be in the White City for the anniversaries.

There was a sombre feast the evening Sir Theodoc and Sir Faramir arrived, and the two seemed uncomfortable with the solemnity. It was said, coming from those of the royal servants who had been given charge over the knight’s needs, that after retiring from the feast they sat together in the Master of Buckland’s room long into the night talking, laughing and singing.

The next morning, being the date upon which Sir Peregrin left this life, the pheriannath were taken to Fen Hollen. There, they were more subdued. They stood, each with an arm about the other’s shoulders, quietly gazing upon the carved likenesses of their noble fathers that graced the two tombs.

“I was thinking the same thing, Faramir. Why are they not closer together, Sire?”

“There is enough space there for one tomb. It is where I shall lie in my final rest,” King Elessar responded as his tears also ran. “It was the highest honor left that I could bestow upon them. They knew of my wish and gladly granted it.” The King smiled a soft smile. “They agreed between them it was best that way, so my eternal rest might not become too dull.”

“We have a couple of wishes of our own that we are hoping you will grant, Sire,” Sir Theodoc said. “Perhaps we can talk to you privately about it over elevenses in the parlor of our house?”

“Of course, my dear friends,” the King replied with a slight bowing of his head to the two knights. “I am at your call today and the next as you have need of me.”

“Most kind of you, my liege,” Sir Faramir replied, smiling broadly for a moment before the more sorrowful expression returned to his face. “Until then, my lord, could we have some time alone here? We mean,” he paused and looked around at the nobles and servants standing in the hallows at a respectful distance, “alone, just Theo and I.”

With a word and a nod to the pheriannath knights, the High King and the entourage left the hallows. After a few moments of standing in silence at the foot of the tombs, The Master of Buckland and the Thain of the Shire each went to their respective father’s side.

“I doubt it, Fari. They would never have approved them.” Theo ran a gentle fingertip over the lips of the graven image of his father. “It is a marvelous likeness, otherwise.”

“Same for my Da,” Fari agreed while running the back of his first finger slowly down the side of the face of his own father’s image. “We shall have to inquire if there is a possibility of altering these a bit.” They stood a few more moments in silence, then Faramir asked his cousin, “Do you remember when . . .”

A short while later, the porter at the Closed Door heard laughter as the two pheriannath approached his little house. Coming out to see whether his ears were deceiving him, he was warmly greeted by the two smiling hobbits as they passed him by. “Most strange,” he thought to himself, shaking his head as he returned to his post.

It was nearing the mid point of the night as a small group made its way from the Citadel to a park in the second circle of the city. It was at the mid point of the Great Road that wound its way back and forth across the face of the mountain. Passing though intricately carved gates, the Road ran though the midst of a pleasant expanse of grass and trees, ponds and fountains, paths and beds of flowers. The second circle of Minas Tirith was one of the widest of the City’s seven circles, and the park covered the entire width of the circle for nearly a quarter-mile’s length of the Road.

It was a gift to the People of Minas Tirith from the Ringbearer and his Kindred of the Company of the Ring. The hobbits had wanted no rewards nor grand gifts bestowed upon them. They had said if the desire of the King of Gondor was to honor them, he could do so by setting aside one of the most damaged parts of the City to become a garden, a park, open to all the people so there would be a place all could enjoy the beauty of green and growing things. Where children could run and play upon grass or splash about in the ponds and fountains. Not a stuffy, formal garden but instead a place to play and picnic. So was built, by the Dwarves of Durin’s race and the Elves of the Greenwood, a garden fulfilling the hobbits’ wishes. It was named “Shire Garden”.

The group made its way to a pillar, not much taller than the hobbits and set into the ground near the outer wall. The wall at this point had been built to a height over which a perian could easily look out upon the first circle, the gate and the Pelennor beyond. The pillar had been carved with the names of the four Noble Pheriannath and explained that the garden was a gift from them to the People of Minas Tirith.

Sir Theodoc handed his lantern to King Elessar, then drew a piece of paper from his inside jacket pocket.

“We came to this garden for a special celebration at this time between the days when first Sir Peregrin Took then Sir Meriadoc Brandybuck left Middle-earth forever. This is a letter I received from my father six months before he and my Uncle Pippin passed away. It was actually written by both of our fathers, and they sent a copy to each of us. In part, it reads”:

Now, to the matter of what you should do when word reaches you both that one or the other of us has died. (Pippin says, ‘When we both have died.’ as though he knows something I don’t) We know that you have mourned our leaving you already. We know it brought great sorrow to all our loved ones when we chose to leave the Shire. Don’t go through all that again. This time, be happy in your memories and thoughts of us. We go to where our dearest wives have gone before us. We hope that we will be with Frodo and Sam again. We will be beyond the reach of the pain of our memories and the pains from our old injuries. There will be no more dark spells to sap our strength, leaving us ill, in need of beef tea and overly warm rooms.

I was as close to death as one can be without dying once. But, I was deep in the grip of the darkness, and I have no memory of anything but loneliness and pain. Pippin has told me many a time that he also was near to crossing over from life here to life there. He remembers it drew him, that it seemed to him that there was light and beauty and peace to be had in that land. He chose to not leave Middle-earth that day, but he told me that he knew when the time finally did arrive, he could face it peacefully, knowing that a wholly good place lay beyond.

And so that is what we ask of you. Be happy in your memories of us. Be at peace knowing we are in a goodly place, that we are happy there and that someday, you will all see us again.”

There was a pause before Sir Faramir spoke. “Theo and I have done as our fathers requested, both at home in the Shire and on our journey here. They were right, we mourned when they left us. We wept. We were angry that they chose to leave hearth and home. But, they wrote letters to us and we heard their laughter in the letters, laughter we hadn’t been hearing while they were in the Shire. Laughter that we hadn’t heard much since our mothers had passed on. Gradually, we realized they were finding a renewal they would not have found at home where they were constantly reminded of their lost loves.”

“We began to do as they asked in this letter before it even arrived,” continued Sir Theodoc. “We let the joy they were finding on their journey, and their time in Rohan and here in Gondor, fill us as well. Our families remembered them with joy. When word came that they had followed our mothers, there were tears, it’s true, but not for long. There was joy at the thought our parents were now reunited and that our fathers would have put the hurts they carried behind them.”

Sir Faramir pulled something from his pocket, holding it forth on the palm of his hand for all to see. It was a small, clear glass ball.

“My Father is free from the memories of the evil that wounded him when he looked in the palantir, and the visions of the ending of the Lord Denethor in the flames; an ending the Steward chose because of his use of a palantir.”

He put the ball on the ground and smashed it beneath his leathery hobbit’s foot.

“My Father is free from the evil of The Black Breath that touched him in Bree at the beginning of the Quest, and nearly claimed his life after the Battle of Pelennor Fields.”

He held the bag up and poured forth a black dust, which he blew away as it fell before his face.

The High King spoke. “They will remember these and other painful things, but no longer will the memories tear at them, making them ill. No longer will nightmares trouble their hearts and minds. My dear friends are free from evil, having gone forever beyond its grasp.”

And there fell over them a peace, there in the fresh green and flowered scent of the garden, looking over the beauty of the reborn parts of the White City, looking at the moonlit expanse of the Pelennor. And they thought of the life the Four Noble Pheriannath had secured for all the races of Middle-earth. And joy grew within them all.

“Sire,” Sir Faramir said to the King. “Do you remember when our fathers . . .”

A month later, in Fen Hollen, gentle smiles were now to be seen upon the graven images of two hobbit knights.

For Challenge #37
Elements = Characters learning about a different culture.
Starter = __________ wasn’t sure he had heard correctly.
Beta by Llinos and Marigold

I wish there was more I could do for him, he looks so forlorn lying on his cot that is big enough for a full grown man. I sadly shake my head.

“There is naught that I can give you, Pippin. His Majesty said you are past the need for poppy and that no more of that is to be given to you. Willowbark tea can also be given only at regular intervals, and it has not been enough time since your last dose of that.”

“Certainly it isn’t more than you can bear, is it? A mere headache after all your other hurts.” I chide him gently as his cousin might do.

It has been a week since the final, terrible battle on what will now be thought of as the most glorious day in the history of Middle-earth. Sauron (I still feel chilled at the mention or thought of him) was brought down, Middle-earth was spared; but the toll was high. The Armies of the West had marched forth knowing full well their numbers were a mere folly. The Army of Mordor surged out of the Black Gate to quickly surround and overwhelm those who stood against them. Had Frodo of the Shire, Peregrin’s cousin, not succeeded in his mission . . .

But he had. Later, Gimli the Dwarf had found Gondor’s smallest soldier lying beneath a troll along with those whose lives he had saved by dispatching the beast. Peregrin had been brought to the healer’s tent battered and bruised but alive. His knee that was dislocated will not yet hold his weight; his chest is still tightly wrapped to support his ribs as they mend. He is still confined to bed.

“It isn’t my only ache, but it’s the one that hurts the most just now. I ache everywhere, but my headache is making me dizzy. I want to sleep, truly I do, Parsow, but it isn’t letting me.”

“Most of the day, I’m afraid. I kept hoping it would go away.” Pippin’s frown deepened. “My headaches sometimes do, you know. But this one hasn’t.”

“I will see if His Majesty is available then. I’ll be back as quickly as I can, Pippin. Try to rest.”

Meriadoc, or Merry I should say, arrived two days ago. He still is not completely healed from his battle with the Witch King and is under orders to rest each day in the afternoon. He doubtless would have ignored the order so that he may spend every moment with either Pippin or the Ringbearers, but King Éomer has told him that if he disobeys he will be sent back to the White City. Merry is being the perfect model of obedience. However, being at his rest adds to my need for haste as I do not like to leave Peregrin alone for too long.

I stride up to the King’s tent only to be stopped, not by royal guards, but by a deep, growling voice.

Gimli looks towards the tent flap, then back at me. “Is it serious, lad? I wouldn’t ask but he’s more than tired and, well, I suppose he would say to disturb him but I’d really rather not. The man has been unbearably grumpy and I think some sleep will cure him of it.”

I swallow hard. This might overstep my level of expertise. On the other hand, His Majesty has been seeking my opinions as well as my observations in regard to Pippin’s condition ever since he assigned me to care for him. And, although I wasn’t meant to, I’m sure, I heard the King telling one of the master healers that he feels I am nearly ready to become a fully fledged healer.

“I’m certain it is not too serious,” I reply. “His head is aching to a degree that is causing him to not be able to sleep. He is restless and says that he aches everywhere. Pippin is no longer to be given poppy and it is too soon to administer more willowbark tea. I came seeking advice from King Elessar on how best to treat him.”

What the Dwarf does next surprises me. He holds up his hand to silence me as he looks furtively about. Then, he motions to me to come closer.

“You go back to the lad,” he whispers. “I’ll be along in a wee bit. I need to get something from my tent. Off with you now.”

When Gimli arrives, he is acting just as suspiciously as before. He glances both ways before ducking through the tent flap and looks carefully around the inside as though I might be hiding an orc in here. Finally, he relaxes with a sigh that makes his moustache puff out.

“Good, there’s no one here but us,” he says as he walks over to the small table beside Pippin’s cot.

“Hullo, Gimli,” Pippin says, smiling a little as he is wont to do when the Dwarf pays him a visit. He is well aware who pulled the troll off of him on the field of battle.

Pippin starts to nod, wincing as he does so and finishes by answering, “Yes.”

“Well, I’ve brought something that should take care of that. I brought over my healing stones.” He places a velvet bag upon the table.

From the expression on Pippin’s face, which I’m sure mirrors my own, it is clear that neither of us are sure we have heard Gimli correctly.

“Healing stones. Healing stones, young apprentice.” He shakes his head. “Why does everyone think Dwarves don’t know anything practical? How do you think we care for ourselves, eh lad? Do you think we have no need of healers and healing?” He looks at me sternly. I have no reasonable response; that is indeed what I thought. “Humph! I thought so. Well we do have the need from time to time and these are what our healers use.”

He gently pours a goodly number of smooth stones of various colours out of the bag onto the table. They are all disc-shaped; flattened, about half an inch thick and about two inches in diameter.

“I’ve not brought these out before now as there were always too many other folk in here. This is something we Dwarves keep mostly to ourselves.”

“You keep too much to yourselves, Gimli,” Pippin says weakly. “I think Dwarves are very wise and clever.”

“Thank you, lad,” the normally gruff Dwarf softly replies as he gently pats the hobbit’s shoulder. He is often tender towards Pippin. “It’s good of you to say so.” He then shakes off his tender mood with a huff. “Now close your eyes and let me get to this before someone comes traipsing in here. Young Parsow, take this.”

Gimli holds one of the stones out for me to take. It is somewhat transparent and translucent, and of a greyish brown hue.

“ ‘Tis called smoky quartz, and it relieves pain. Practically all pain, though it is particularly advised for headaches. It also helps you to relax. Hold it with your thumb and little finger along the edge, and place it, gently mind you, on young Peregrin’s forehead. That’s it, that’s it. Just like that. Now lightly rub it over his forehead, and especially on his temples. Slower, young healer. That’s right. Slow and gentle with just a wee bit of firmness.”

I do as I am told and shown. I’ll admit, it seems a great folly to me. How can cold stones that have never had life in them bring healing? Yet, as the stone warms from my hand and from the smooth, gentle rubbing upon Pippin’s forehead, I can feel something happening. A calmness begins to come over me, whilst my wrist, which often is stiff and aches, feels warm and comfortable.

Pippin had had lines of pain upon his face, but now they are relaxing and gradually smoothing away. His whole body begins to relax. He sighs and smiles.

“You do have a healer’s touch, Parsow,” Gimli says approvingly. “The quartz is responding to your touch nearly as well as it would for one of our healers.”

The Dwarf goes to the other side of the cot, and raises Pippin’s head to place something around his neck. It is a silver chain with a smoothly polished amethyst disc hanging from it. The stone is as large in diameter as the smoky quartz I hold, but it is much thinner. Gimli tucks it beneath Pippin’s nightshirt. He lays his hand over it and begins a low chanting; "Heddwch oen bakh, mynd yr poen llakh."*

I give him my hand and he places it where his had been. The amethyst is very warm to the touch and I am certain I can feel it vibrating. Gimli moves back to the small table to return the other stones to their bag.

“Leave your hand there ten more minutes, Parsow, while you keep using the smoky quartz on his wee head. When the time has gone by, you can put the quartz in your pocket. It is yours to keep, my lad. The amethyst . . . well, I should have tried to put that on the lad right away. I let him down there. It will help his body to heal itself. Leave it on him, Parsow. Make up some tale if anyone notices and asks about it. Just don’t let anyone take it off of him.”

With that, he rubs Pippin's shoulders tenderly for a few moments, then leaves the tent.

“As I said, Dwarves are wise and clever, Parsow.” Pippin mumbles softly just before he falls asleep.

*A/N: Gimli's chant translates to "peace little lamb, go you slashing pain." It is actually Welsh and was contributed by Llinos.

For Marigold’s Challenge #38
My gap filler had to be for the chapter “In the House of Tom Bombadil”
My elements were: a hawk, a button, a ladle
Editing by Llinos and Marigold

Pippin gains some insights during his last night in Tom Bombadil’s house.

A/N: This is based on something that happens only in Tolkien’s books and is not in the movies at all.

The hobbits would be leaving in the morning, which Tom Bombadil assured them would be bright and gladsome unlike this day’s steady grey rain. He gave them each a candle then went with them to their bedroom with its soft, deep mattresses and warm blankets. He taught them a song to sing should they find themselves in need of his help, then, with a smile, a laugh, and a pat on the hobbits’ shoulders, he shut the door behind him leaving them alone. Pippin quietly undressed. He scraped his hand unexpectedly while undoing his trousers. One of the buttons that held his braces in place had part of the edge broken off. Pip reckoned it would be all right for a while. He would ask Sam about repairing it later.

He stretched his arms up over his head then scratched his belly as he yawned. Just one more thing to do before getting into bed. He picked up the ladle and poured himself a cup of water from the large bowl on the bench. Tom, the Master, had said the first night that his pitchers would be too big for hobbit lads to easily lift, so he had provided the bowl and ladle in its stead.

Pippin hadn’t spoken much since the Master had left the room. Really, for Pippin, he hadn’t spoken very much a great deal of the time they had been in the house of Tom Bombadil and Goldberry. Oh, he had talked and sang at the meals, when all the hobbits had found themselves singing as much as talking yet feeling quite right to be doing so. Peregrin Took liked to sing anyway. Yet, the usually verbose youngest hobbit had been strangely silent most of the time since they had first crossed the house’s threshold. There was a strangeness in this house, in Tom and his Lady. A deepness of wonder that the stories Tom told them during the day only made deeper and more mysterious.

Pippin had been silent this evening, even as the others spoke quietly while getting into bed. He didn’t even notice that part of their whispered conversation had been about him. Merry was worried at his youngest cousin’s quietness. Frodo had told him not to worry, even Pippin should be allowed to be contemplative at times. They all said “good night”, then Frodo blew out the last of the candles Tom had given them to light the room.

Just beyond where Frodo lay was the room’s eastern window. The curtain, which was yellow when there was light in the room, or light shining in from without, looked grey in the darkness. It had not been pulled to and, from where he lay on his bed, Pippin could see a small strip of the night sky. His thoughts gathered as he gazed out of the small opening. He heard the call of a night hawk and watched as its silhouette moved to and fro over the stars.

“ Frodo certainly was bold this evening,” Pippin thought. “He had the courage to ask Tom, ‘Who are you, Master?’ And then later, when The Master toyed with the Ring . . .” Pippin shivered a bit at the memory. “It had no effect on him at all! If we all hadn’t been wondering the same as Frodo before, we surely were by then. Just who, or what, is he?” The lad wriggled further down under his bedclothes until only his eyes and the top of his curly head were showing. “That willow,” Pip shivered again, “it was afraid of him! And it wasn’t the voice of someone singing silly rhymes that made it let Merry and me go. It was a voice more like Gandalf’s when he is being stern.”

Pippin's eyes and curly head disappeared completely beneath his blankets. “I shouldn’t even be thinking about any of it, I suppose. The Master knew all about our bad dreams from last night. I’ve the feeling there isn’t much he doesn’t know.”

The stuffiness under the covers began to feel like the inside of the willow tree. Pippin quickly popped his head back out into the fresh air of the bedroom. He sighed and told himself to go to sleep, but his thoughts kept up their monologue.

“He feels it too, old cousin Frodo does. He knows there is much here that is well beyond us. It makes sense that he would. He is an ‘elf friend’ after all. I’m not, at least not that I’m aware of. So why have I felt so strangely the whole time we’ve been here? I felt this way when we were with Gildor and the Elves in the woods in the Shire. But no. That was like this yet . . . different.”

The Shire. Thinking of the Shire took the lad’s mental wanderings on a detour for a few moments as a bit of homesickness swept over him. He closed his eyes the better to picture his family, the Great Smials and the Tooklands, then he shook the thoughts away before once more looking out at the stars.

“I was bold with the Elves. I talked and asked questions like I usually do. Not nearly so afraid as I’ve been here . . . Well, no, it isn’t fear I’m feeling. I’m not sure what it is, timid perhaps, though I’m rarely timid. But Tom is different, even more so than Elves are different. For all that he laughs and sings and talks in rhyme, which is rather silly when one thinks about it though he’s not in the least bit silly. Not really, he’s . . . he’s . . .” Pippin pulled his covers up around his head like a hood. He didn’t wish to cover his face and feel all closed in again, but he was feeling too exposed. “I shouldn’t be thinking about him like this, I’m sure he knows. And I’m sure covering my fool head makes no difference at all, but I feel better this way.”

For several minutes, Pippin stared at the night sky out the window until, like Frodo had earlier that evening, he felt surrounded by the depths of the heavens, nearly pierced through by the sharpness of the starlight.

“*’Who are you, alone, yourself and nameless?’*” Tom’s reply to Frodo crept quietly into Pippin’s thoughts.

That was an uncomfortable thought for the youngster. Not alone as in just being in one’s bedroom for a think. Not alone as in a favourite hiding spot in which to cry when teased.

“I’m Peregrin To . . . no. That’s not nameless.” Pip wrestled with it all. “Alone and nameless. A hobbit then, but no, that’s a name of sorts as well.”

He closed his eyes and saw an odd looking solitary creature that looked like himself. (Creature should be all right, not really a proper name as any living thing could be called that, Pippin thought.) It stood there in his mind, pale in its nakedness. Odd thin appendages dangled from either side of it. It stood upon two more such appendages and there was one more . . . His thoughts, and the creature in his thoughts, blushed. Enough said of that. At the top of it, it had odd looking curly, stringy hair (needing to be combed as usual) coming out of the round thing that sat atop a . . . a . . . short, thin stem. So, that was what he would be like, alone and nameless. Pippin smiled. At least whilst alone there was no being small, the Peregrin Took-like creature in his imaginings could be quite tall with nothing else about to compare it to. But, when all was said and done, it wasn’t very impressive. Pip sighed sadly.

Then the creature opened its mouth and music came out. A pleasing sound which also told a tale. It was singing a song. Well, that was a little better. The scrawny creature could do something, and something rather pleasant at that. Pippin decided he was glad the creature was he.

The song he sang was about other beings and suddenly, the Pippin-like creature was no longer alone. Others beings that looked similar appeared around him. He was clothed as they were clothed. He was one of many. And a crowd stretched out into the heavens that surrounded them. Pippin was no longer alone or nameless. He was Peregrin Took of the Shire. He was a hobbit amongst Hobbits.

But hobbits had not been the first of this sort of creature, those that walk about on two legs needing clothes to cover their naked skin. Others were already there, all like the hobbits in the shape of their bodies, but of different builds. There were some not much taller than the hobbits, but stockier with beards upon their faces. Dwarves, Pippin knew them to be. Others were tall, slender, graceful creatures with a glow about them. Elves, like ones he had met in the woods of the Shire. There were beings, small like the Hobbits yet daintier, with a glow about them similar to that of the Elves and somehow Peregrin knew they were the Faerie Folk. Last he saw others. Tall, like the Elves, and broad shouldered they were; some with a noble look upon their faces and a star upon their chests. Big Folk, Men, Pippin reckoned them to be. And all of them, Men, Faeries, Elves, Dwarves and Hobbits, stretched out into the Heavens.

The Master was there, and Gandalf. With them there were still others. Not as like each other as Elves were all like Elves or Hobbits were all like Hobbits, but Pippin knew they were kindred. Beings that shone with light and power. Shone like the stars in the Heavens. Some of the star-beings placed themselves in amongst the creatures who lived upon Arda, moving amongst them, enlightening them, guiding and caring for them.

Then Pippin knew, he had been saved from certain death inside Old Man Willow by one of those star-beings. He had sung its songs, eaten at its table, then its gentle hand had patted his shoulder to send him off to bed.

The dream faded, and Peregrin Took was back in the bedroom, asleep in the house of Tom Bombadil.

This is from Marigold’s Challenge #39 which had to be inspired by a given quote, though the quote itself did not need to be used. My quote was:

"A long time ago, there lived an old poet, a thoroughly kind old poet. As he was sitting one evening in his room, a dreadful storm arose without, and the rain streamed down from heaven; but the old poet sat warm and comfortable in his chimney-corner, where the fire blazed and the roasting apple hissed." From "The Naughty Boy" by Hans Christian Anderson

“Come sit by the fire
And I’ll tell you a tale,
That will make you laugh,
That will make you grow pale.”

So they gathered around
And the tale they did hear,
Whilst roaring with mirth,
Whilst cringing with fear.

And the poet did weave
A tale so sublime,
Of forests and rivers,
Of mountains to climb.

A gruff, grey Wizard,
Two sorts of Elves,
Going with Dwarves,
Going all by themselves.

How a Man killed a Dragon
Who was the land’s bane.
That a Hobbit had gone,
That he’d come home again.

And over the years
His story would hold
With four to be tested
With a plain band of gold.

But now the listeners were gone
His long story was o’er,
Little more to be heard
Little else but a snore.

He dreamed of his poem,
Of all he had done.
He had no idea
He had brought home the One.

My Macguffin is “a benevolent dragon”
Pippin is 15 (9 - 10) years old and Merry is 23 (about 14 1/2) years old.
Beta by Marigold and Llinos

A Dragon in Buckland

It had been a rather strange summer. Pippin was visiting the Hall. Not that his visiting the Hall was strange; it wasn’t. Not even that he was staying without the rest of his family as he had done that the year before. What was strange was that Merry seemed to have ended up with a lot of things to do and Pippin hadn’t minded as much has he had in the past.

Merry had more responsibilities around Brandy Hall than he had in summers before. His father, as had his father before him, felt the best way for a future Master of Buckland to learn what that title entailed was to see first hand how Buckland functioned. Merry was spending time this summer with Midoc Brandybuck, Brandy Hall’s Master Gardener, Arno Tillman, Brandy Hall’s Crops Overseer, and Ferdi Underhill, Brandy Hall’s Master Farrier.

As the Master’s son, Merry wasn’t required to actually do any of the work these hobbits did. He was there to observe and learn what these hobbits needed to do their jobs properly and to gain appreciation for their skills. But he was a “hands on” sort of lad. Merry had planted his own small vegetable, herb and flower gardens, learned to harness and drive plough ponies, and would, by summer’s end, have made a set of pony shoes. He was learning about the different herbs, he was learning proper planting and rotation of crops, he was learning proper hoof care and the diseases of pony hooves.

Pippin already knew a great deal of this, even though he was younger than Merry. He had grown up on a farm and had been expected to help out when and as needed, even though he was a young gentlehobbit.

This summer was different mostly because Pippin wasn’t being quite as much of a pest as he had before. Though he did insist on being with his favourite older cousin every evening, he seemed content to find other ways to occupy his time during the day. He was spending more time either exploring on his own or playing with the lads his own age.

Yet there was something else that was strange at Brandy Hall this summer.

The dragon.

Well, not a real dragon. Those were either all imaginary or lived so far away that they may as well be imaginary. No, these were small drawings of a dragon. A happy dragon, with a smile upon his scaly face.

The first had turned up upon a bouquet of flowers left at the door of an old Brandybuck auntie who had been ill with a bad chest cold. The small drawing was all there was to show who might have sent it. A smiling blueish-green dragon with the letters, S.S.B.D. written below his feet. Auntie Mirabella’s healer, who had found the bouquet, had told everyone she saw that day. They all told everyone they saw. By the day’s end practically everyone in Brandy Hall had heard about it.

The next drawing was tied to a poorly repaired faunt’s rocking chair that had broken. “I mended this as well as I could.” was written by the dragon’s mouth and S.S.B.D. was written below his feet.

Soon the small dragon was the talk of Brandy Hall. Lost items would reappear with the smiling dragon tied to them. Lonely children visiting the Hall would find a toy in their room and the dragon would have “Please bring me and this toy to the garden after luncheon.” added to the drawing. When they would go to the garden there would be children there. As soon as the picture of the dragon was spotted hanging from the toy, the children would want to hear how the recipient had received the toy and soon they were all playing together.

No matter what else might be written upon the small drawings, S.S.B.D. always appeared in red letters below the dragon’s scaly feet.

A strange summer indeed.

But the dragon was busy doing other things as well.

Ilberic Brandybuck wasn’t the nicest of lads. He took a great deal of pleasure in taunting younger children and pulling nasty tricks on them.

One day he had balanced a bucket of dirty straw from the stable so that it would fall all over his cousin Merimas when he came in through one of the Hall’s smaller entrances near Merimas’ family’s quarters. But nothing happened to Merimas. Instead Ilberic got a surprise when he came in the entrance he usually used, though this bucket held only tiny pieces of paper along with the drawing of the wee dragon. This time the usually smiling dragon wore a frown and small flames came from his nostrils. “You were being mean!” said the words by the dragon’s mouth. When two more of his naughtytricks were ruined with the little dragon left behind breathing fire at him, Ilberic was quite put out and determined he would find out all he could about the silly pictures.

Merry was also curious about the small blueish-green dragon, but he had a certain advantage . . . he recognized the writing on the small drawings.

“Mum,” he said late one evening as he stood in his mother’s private sitting room. “I think Pip is involved with the dragon notes.”

“Of course he is,” Esmeralda said without looking up from her embroidery. “I recognized his printing. I’m certain he used it because he didn’t think it would be as recognizable as his script. He has said nothing about it, so neither have I.”

Merry smiled. He was often glad his mother was a Took. One didn’t want to cross her, but she could be a good sport. “I want to follow him about tomorrow. See if I can find out what this is all about. Would you be willing to let Mr. Midoc know I won’t be in the garden?”

As Merry was spending time with the Master Gardener and the others as part of his training to become Master of Buckland, he would be in trouble with his father if he simply did not show up at his appointed times.

Esme looked carefully at her son. He had a serious look about him. He wasn’t suggesting this just to be free of his duties for the day. She smiled. “Of course, dear. You will be careful to not let Pippin know that you are watching him? It would upset him, I’m thinking, to have his secret found out.”

“He won’t know I’m around, I promise, Mum. I don’t want to ruin his fun.”

His mother nodded. “I’ve the feeling he has other lads involved as some days there have been a few too many of the wee dragons left about the Hall for him to have been everywhere himself. If I’m right, this is most likely making Pippin feel important and special. That is something he needs from time to time, what with being a small lad and always trying to be like you.”

Merry blushed. “I’ll be careful, Mum.” He gave her a quick hug than went to his room. He was going to have an adventure on the morrow.

***********

It was fairly easy for Merry to follow his young cousin; he had an idea where Pippin would be going. There was an old storage room that he and Pippin played in often that, as far as they knew, none of the other children in Brandy Hall bothered with. Merry was certain that was where Pippin would be having his meetings, if there were indeed other lads involved with the dragon drawings.

Pippin ate his first breakfast hurriedly, as he usually did, then asked to be excused. But instead of going to the storeroom, he entered Merry’s father’s study. Merry’s father had been having a busy summer as well. The Master of Buckland, Merry’s grandfather Rorimac, had not been well and his son, Saradoc, had been performing the Master’s duties.

Pippin didn’t close the door tightly behind himself so Merry watched around the edge of the door as the lad went quickly and silently up to his uncle’s desk, set something down upon it, then turned to leave. Merry just managed to hide behind the door of the room across the hall before Pippin came out of Saradoc’s office and scampered off. Merry took a few moments to go and look at what Pippin had left on his father’s desk. It was, as he expected, the little blueish-green dragon. The words by his smiling mouth read: “You are a good son. Thank you for helping The Master.” Merry smiled then ran out to follow Pippin.

He did indeed go to the old storeroom. And, as Merry watched from behind a door diagonally across the hall, four other youngsters slipped into the room. Moro and Myrtle Burrows, who were visiting the Hall for the summer, and Doderic and Celandine Brandybuck, Ilberic’s older brother and younger sister. Moro and Myrtle were both younger than Pippin, as was Celandine. Doderic was two years older but had joined the group when he found out they were having success at foiling most of his younger brother’s mean tricks. Since the group was Pippin’s idea to begin with, Doderic was content to let the younger lad be the leader.

Merry crept silently up to the door and put his eye to the keyhole.

Pippin stood behind a crate that had been set on end. “I call to order this meeting of The Secret Society of the Benevolent Dragon.” Peregrin intoned. “Please stand as we repeat our pledge.”

Merry smiled. He now knew what the letters at the bottom of the drawings stood for. The small group rose as Pippin held up something Merry recognized but hadn’t seen for a few years. It was a black stone, about the size and shape of a dinner plate.

“We pledge to be like the Benevolent Dragon who saved the Faerie Folk long, long ago. We will help hobbits who need help. We will cheer hobbits who need cheer. We will protect hobbits who need protection. We will be Benevolent Dragons.”

Merry smiled indulgently at what his little cousin was saying. It was an old tale his mother had told them both, him first and then Pip starting when he was a faunt. How a dragon had helped save the lives of a faerie clan when goblins had kept attacking them in their forest home. In the end the dragon died and the Valar turned him into a constellation to forever shine upon the faerie clan. The best part of the story had been the stone, which Merry’s mum had told them in a most serious manner, was a scale from that dragon that had fallen to earth near the farm in Whitwell where Pippin lived. Merry had not believed the story since he was about the same age Pip was now, and had lost track of the stone shortly after that. It was so like his very Tookish cousin to still believe the tale.**

The young Hobbit Dragons sat down.

“I delivered an encouraging Dragon to my Uncle Saradoc this morning,” Pippin informed the group. They all nodded.

“He has been working very hard the last few months,” Doderic said.

Moro asked, “How is Master Rory, Pippin?”

“I went to see him for a few minutes yesterday. He said he is feeling much better and hopes to be up and about in a fortnight. I looked at his healer and he nodded, so I think Uncle Saradoc will return to his usual tasks soon.”

“Did Master Rory say anything about the Dragon I left for him?” Celandine asked.

“No, Celli, but it was leaning against the base of the lamp on his bedside table.”

The lass smiled happily. All the children who lived in Brandy Hall liked Master Rory.

They talked of others to whom they have given a Dragon, and of the things they had done for the person if they had needed more than just the Dragon’s smile and words of encouragement. They discussed what Dragons they needed for that day and Pippin made the necessary additions to five dragon drawings before handing them out. Then Pippin made an announcement.

“It is supposed to be clear outside tonight with the moon rising late. We will meet where we met last month to say our official thank you to the Benevolent Dragon. Meet at ten minutes to midnight tonight.”

Merry ducked back into the diagonal room as the small group ended their meeting. Midnight was late for these youngsters to be out stargazing, but Merry knew that was part of the fun. He felt incredibly proud of Peregrin. The lad had found a task where his age and small size made no difference. He was being a good leader and the group had made this summer more pleasant for many of the hobbits of Brandy Hall. In fact, Merry decided that since his mother had been willing to let him discover who and what was behind the dragon drawings, he would use the rest of his free day to help her in whatever way he could. He would be a Benevolent Dragon today and go out to thank the Dragon tonight. His mum would be happy to hear how Pip had thought of the idea for the group.
*************

It was nearly ten to twelve when Merry made his way along the west side of Buck Hill. A flight of long, low steps had been dug into the turf at the northern end of that side of the hill to make it a bit easier to climb should any of the many chimney pots of Brandy Hall need cleaning or repair. Even though the hilltop was broad and rather level, not many hobbits liked to go up there, as Buck Hill was very high. It was, however, an excellent place for stargazing.

A stirring in the small hedge near the foot of the stairs brought Merry up short.

“You so much as twitch and I’ll make you regret it.” Merry heard a hissing voice exclaim.

As carefully as he could Merry went close to the south side of the hedge. At the bottom of the steps Doderic, Celandine, Moro and Myrtle were sitting on the ground. Ilberic and his friends stood over them. Ilberic was one of those who somehow manage to be in charge even though they don’t look the type. Ilberic used his pocket money, which was more than Merry’s own, to buy the loyalty of some of the rougher lads of the Hall and Bucklebury. Lads who were bigger and older than Ilberic’s own older brother, Doderic.

“Now we’ll just wait for Pip the Twit to show up and the fun will really begin,” Ilberic said. His was the hissing voice Merry had first heard.

“Whatever made him think he would keep getting away with ruining my little tricks, I’ll never know. But it’s over now. I’ll dangle the pest by his ankles over the nearest tree branch.” His voice made Merry shiver as he added, “Thank you for telling me all about your stupid club, Celandine.”

The poor little lass was huddled up against her oldest brother and quivering in fear. Merry was sure she had been forced into revealing the truth about the dragon drawings.

“What’s keeping your leader?” Ilberic hissed as he looked about for Pippin.

It was then that several things happened at once.

The moon crested the edge of Buck Hill. As it did so it shone upon Ilberic's face which bore a look of terror as he speechlessly pointed towards the distant top of the stairs. His friends shouted, “It’s the dragon!” and ran as fast as they could towards the line of trees that were about one hundred yards away to the north.

Merry looked up. There, framed against the rising moon was a dragon. It spread it’s blueish-green translucent wings and a tongue of flame danced from it’s mouth. Merry looked after Ilberic’s friends, running for the cover of the trees, but his eyes were drawn to the sky. Was it his imagination or was the star that was the dragon’s eye shining much brighter than usual?

“You’ve wet yourself, Ilbe!” Merry heard Celandine say as she giggled and Ilberic ran off in the same direction his friends had taken.

Ilberic and his friends never told anyone about the dragon group lest it also be found out they had run like frightened rabbits, and that Ilberic had wet himself in his terror.

Merry watched until he too had disappeared into the trees, then he turned back to look at the dragon on top of Buck Hill, but it had gone.

“What’s going on here? You were late so I came looking for you,” Pippin said. He stood by the hedge, short of breath and puffing. He had on a funny old hat that stuck out in the front and one of Merry’s mum’s shawls thrown over his shoulders. He was carrying a small torch.

“Did you see the Dragon, Pippin?” asked Moro.

“The Dragon?”

“He was on top of the Hill!” Celli said, excitedly pointing up the steps.

“Really? Where?” Pip turned around to look. “I didn’t see him.”

“I saw him too,” Merry said as he stepped out from behind the hedge.

“Merry!” the group all said at once.

“What are you doing here?” asked Doderic.

“I came out to stargaze. What are you all doing out this late?”

The younger hobbits all answered at once.

“The same.”

“Yes, stargazing, Merry.”

“We’ll see you later. Good night, Merry. Pippin.”

“Good night everyone!”

And with that they scattered, leaving only Merry and Pippin standing in the moonlight by the stairs.

“You saw the Dragon, Merry?” Pippin whispered.

Pippin held his torch up to better see his cousin’s face. As he did so, Merry could see the moonlight through the shawl. Translucent blueish-green it shone, and stretched out like a dragon’s wing. He realized the hat had looked like a dragon’s snout and the flame had been the torch Pippin carried. With the moon behind him and holding the torch out, it hadn’t lit his face well enough for it to be seen.

But the dragon on the hilltop had looked huge. Even with the moon behind him and all of them looking up at him, Pippin shouldn’t have looked so big.

“Merry? Did you really see the Dragon?” Pippin’s asked anxiously.

Merry looked back to the northern sky. The Eye of the Dragon seemed to wink at him.

“Yes, Pippin. I really did see the Dragon. Shall we go up and do some stargazing while you tell me what is going on?”

“I’ll tell you if we go in and have a mug of your mum’s spiced tea and a scone or two. I’m suddenly feeling awfully hungry, Merry.”

“Spiced tea and scones sounds wonderful, Pip,” Merry said as he draped an arm around his cousin’s shoulders. They slowly walked towards the entrance to Merry’s family’s apartments. “Now, Peregrin Took. What do you know about the dragon drawings that have been showing up all over the Hall, and why haven’t I been given one?”

Finis

A/N: I ask my reader’s indulgence. I am horrible at coming up with character names. There would have been several to have to come up with for this story - and I didn’t do it. Please forgive and accept the abundant pronouns.

Beta by Marigold and Llinos

The “Wizard’s Chair” at the Great Smials was first used in Llinos’ story, “Big Enough To Be Thain” and is her creation.

Heirloom

“For you, my dear,” Isengrim said, handing his dear wife a small prettily wrapped present.

She held it without opening it. “’Tisn’t your birthday.”

He shook his head.

“Nor our anniversary.”

Another shake of the head.

She turned the wee package this way and that whilst turning her head about at the same time.

Isengrim laughed. “I think you need to open it if you wish to discover what it is, my dear.”

Her eyes twinkled. “I know, I just like making you wait.” She pulled the ribbon and took the lid off the box.

Inside was a thimble.

It gleamed, the darkness of the tiny dents in its surface only serving to make the shine more pronounced. The band around the bottom of it was adorned with an intricate etched braiding.

“Oh, Isengrim! It’s beautiful!”

“The Lady of such a fine smial should have something beautiful to help her with her favourite art. And like my love, it will never grow dim. It is mithril, my love. That wonderful metal of the Dwarves that shines like silver but, like gold, never dulls.”

She threw her arms about his neck. “It is beautiful, my darling hobbit. I shall treasure it always.”

They kissed long and well before he pulled away. “Now, if you will accompany me to the official opening of your new home, Mrs. Isengrim Took.” She wrapped her arm around his. “What do you think of calling it ‘Great Smials’?”

(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)

“Here, my dear. It is yours now.”

“But Mother Took, it is yours,” the younger lass said as she looked at the mithril thimble resting on her palm. “You should keep it.”

“Alas, I don’t sew anymore, as you well know, and my darling Isengrim is gone. I shall follow him soon.” Her old hands patted the younger ones of her daughter-in-law. “It came to me when I became the mistress of this beautiful smial. I choose to give it to you, as this day Isumbras becomes The Took and Thain, and you become the Mistress of Great Smials.”

The younger hobbitess tenderly embraced her mother-in-law. “Thank you so very much, Mother Took. I shall treasure it always.”

“Bless you, dear lass. Now, you have a ceremony to attend.”

After another quick hug the lass hurried off.

(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)

“There is something I’ve been meaning to give you, Ferumbras. (cough) Wasn’t quite sure when I ought to do it, but (cough) this day seems right. Here, my lad.”

“Mother’s thimble? But . . .”

“But what, lad? Let it be (cough) lost in some mathom room? (cough) I’ve kept it with me and drawn much (cough) comfort from it. Time to (cough) pass it along. It is what . . .”

“Father? Father!”

“Thain Isumbras has passed on, Thain Ferumbras.”

(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)

“Oh look, Fortinbras. Look what I found.”

He turned to see what his wife was holding.

“It was your mother’s, wasn’t it? I remember her using this thimble when she sewed. I had a loose button. I found this under some embroidery work at the bottom of her sewing basket whilst I was digging about for the proper colour of thread.”

Fortinbras Took looked carefully at the thimble on his wife’s finger. He gently touched the still deeply engraved braiding around its base.

“Yes, it was hers. And it was my father’s mother’s before that. Mother used to tell me that Great Grandfather Isengrim II gave it to his wife when they officially moved into Great Smials.”

He kissed her finger, and the thimble that was on it.

“Fancy it turning up today of all days.” He sighed.

“You will be a wonderful Took and Thain, my love. I have faith in you.”

(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)

“Adamanta, my dear. Come here a moment would you?”

“Yes, Mother Took?”

“I promised myself you wouldn’t simply happen upon this whilst needing to sew a button.”

“Your mithril thimble! But . . . um . . .”

“I know, Ada my dear, Tin isn’t gone from us nor is Gerry officially Took and Thain. But everyone knows he’s been doing the job ever since the accident. My dearest Tin won’t be here much longer I’m thinking.”

Ada gasped and bit her trembling lower lip.

“There, there, my dear lass. ‘Tis the way of life, and he’s been hurting so that I think it will be more a blessing than a curse.” She dabbed at her own eyes nonetheless. “That goes with being Mistress of Great Smials and I wanted the joy of actually seeing you have it.”

“Thank you ever so much, Mother dear. I’ll treasure it always.”

(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)

Isengrim III looked around the shabby old room in which his father had spent most of the last few decades. He sat down on his usual chair. To his right was the Wizard’s chair, directly across from him sat his father, The Old Took. Isengrim chuckled in his mind. At eighty-eight he wasn’t exactly young any longer himself.

“Well, Father. What is it you want?”

“Eh?”

“What - is -it -you - want?” Isengrim said much more loudly and slowly.

“Oh! Oh, yes. I’ll be leaving soon. Feel it in my bones I do. Time to give you a few things. Oddments. They . . . they’re special.” The Old Took waved his hand in the direction of the mantlepiece.

Isen walked over to see what these oddments were.

The small farm set that father had made for Hildigard that the lad never got to play with, still in its wooden box. Hildifons’ second best pipe; he had taken his best pipe with him on his journey, from which he never returned.

Mother’s mithril thimble in the silver case that Father had made for it. The case could be worn like a necklace as Mother had ofttimes complained that she would set the thimble down and lose it for weeks at a time.

“Should have given that to you years ago, lad. Hold on to it and pass it on more timely than I have. Especially the thimble, Isen. Been in this family a goodly long time, that thimble.”

Isen went over to his father’s chair and bent to kiss him on the cheek. He thought the old hobbit to be asleep . . . but he wasn’t.

(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)

“You may as well have this now, Sumer”

Isengard III’s brother, Isumbras IV, looked askance.

“Father just gave these to you last night, Isen.”

“And I’m giving them to you. My wife is long since gone and there’s no son of mine to carry on. You’ll be the next Took and Thain. You might as well take them. You have grandchildren who can play with the farm set. Your pipe is the ugliest thing in the Shire, at least this one is nice looking. And your wife is still with you and should have the thimble. I’ll brook no argument, little brother.”

“All . . . all right, Isen. Only because you insist.”

(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)

“At least the two of you should have a bit more time to enjoy being the master and mistress of this house. Fortinbras isn’t too old.”

“Mother Took, I . . .”

“Yes, yes. You’re in no hurry for me to go. I don’t reckon I’ll be long for the world now that Sumer is gone. All that waiting and I get to enjoy my due for such a short time,” she said bitterly. “And I’ve never been convinced by all your honeyed words, lass.”

“You could be The Took, I’ve heard, if you should wish it. They say only that the Thain ought be a male as it’s military and all.”

The old hobbitess looked irritably at her daughter-in-law. “Why does it not surprise me that you would know about that, Lalia? Well, I don’t think I want the position, not at my age. And just you mind that I’ll keep my things until I’m gone. Go on with you now. I’m sure there is something you need to have Tinby do for you.”

“As you wish, Mother Took.”

“Let that lass eye my things,” the newly widowed Thain’s wife thought. “She’ll have naught till I’m in my grave.”

(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)

“You need to marry, Ferumbras.” Lalia the Great, The Took of the Tooks of the Shire toyed with the dainty thimble. It never had fit her sausage-like fingers. “It simply will not do to have no heirs.”

“I’ll see what I can do, Mother.”

“You keep saying that but you do nothing. I should buy off some poor hobbit’s daughter. Hobbit’s can father children well into their old age, it’s we hobbitesses that dry up.”

Ferumbras said nothing. He had long since decided he would never give his mother the pleasure of tormenting some poor lass, well, other than the poor dears that worked as her companions. No, he had no intention of ever marrying. Let Paladin have the mess when he was gone, poor bastard. He even had finally sired a male child. Let them have it and good luck to them. How interesting that his eldest daughter happened to be Mother’s current companion. And she is such a plucky lass . . .

(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)

She carefully hung the piece of jewellry around her mother’s neck.

“Open your eyes, Mother!” Pearl Took said gleefully.

Eglantine’s eyes widened as she looked at her reflection in the mirror. “I saw this on Lalia more than once, though not often. I’m sure it wasn’t rich enough for her tastes.”

Lanti sucked in her lips as she looked down at the top of the dressing table.

“I shouldn’t be so harsh.”

“She was easy to be harsh about, Mother,” Pearl said sadly. “But, you are right, she rarely wore this. I think because it didn’t fit her.”

“The chain seems quite long, why wouldn’t it fit her, Pearl?”

“No, Mum. Not that part of it.”

She reached around from behind her mother and opened the patinated silver case. The thimble shone from its red velvet nest; unlike its case, it was untarnished by the passing years.

“It is mithril, Mum. I think that is the only reason Lalia valued it enough to not put it in a mathom room or give it away. She told me it had been handed down to each new Thain’s wife since the building of Great Smials. It suits you. Lalia was no homemaker. She never sewed a stitch. But you love to sew, Mum.”

Lanti turned and hugged her eldest child about the waist. “Thank you so much for giving it to me, Pearl.” She broke her embrace, reached into the case and removed the thimble. She looked up at her daughter then placed it on her finger. A perfect fit.

“I shall treasure it always.” Eglantine Took sighed happily.

(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)

“I want you to have it, Diamond. You do such lovely embroidery and my hands are too crippled now to do anything at all with needle and thread.”

“It’s beautiful, Mum!”

“It’s old, mind you. And made of that mithril as is the image of the Tree and Stars on Pippin’s surcoat.” Lanti smiled. “Who would ever have thought my rascal of a son would be a knight.” The two hobbitesses shared a loving laugh.

“Where ever did you get it? Did Pippin bring it home for you, Mum?”

“No. It’s as old as this home - as old as the Smials. At least that is the story I was told. That Isengrim II gave it to his wife along with this grand dwelling, though I don’t know that the case is as old. One would think it would be mithril as well if they had been given together, but the case is regular silver.”

“It is a wonderful wedding present, Mum.” Diamond said as she hugged her mother-in-law. “I will treasure it always.

(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)(*)

“Why are you doing this, Da?”

“I’ve told you, Faramir. Merry needs to leave and . . . well . . . I do too.”

Faramir Took hung his head and shook it sadly.

“None of us want either of you to go.”

“We know, son. And a part of us doesn’t really want to go either. But the part that has to is stronger. Here. Give this to Goldie.”

Pippin placed the necklace into his son’s hand.

“Diamond should have passed it along, but . . .”

There was a loud catch in his father’s breath. Faramir looked up to see his father’s lips drawn tight, his eyes clenched closed. He gradually let out a breath.

“But she went so quickly and I forgot about it entirely until a couple of days ago. Goldie will soon be The Took and Thain’s wife. It . . . the thimble goes with that.”

“I know. I always liked to have Mum tell me the story of it.”

Pippin grabbed his son and hugged him hard. Faramir was surprised at how much strength his father still had.

“I’m leaving a large part of my heart with you all,” Pippin’s tears softened his voice. “Keep our story in your heart as you have all the stories your mother told you.”

“I will, Da,” Faramir whispered into his father’s ear. “I will treasure them always.”

This was written for the June 2007 Marigold’s Challenge.
I had two starters and used both in the one story.
“Didn’t you bring any money with you?”
“Don’t blame me,______, you wanted to come.”

“Didn’t you bring any money with you?” Pippin looked shocked at his older cousin.

“Don’t blame me, Pippin, you wanted to come.” Merry looked as innocent as a babe in arms. “I only said it was somewhere we had never been and that I wondered what might be over this way. I never said I’d foot the bill.”

“Oh, all right,” Pippin sighed as he handed over a few of the coins in his purse to Harlo Innsman, owner of the White Downs Inn and Tavern which sat alongside the Great Road on the western edge of Michel Delving. Pippin didn’t see Merry’s self-satisfied smirk. He actually did have money with him, quite a goodly sum in fact, but it was a game he enjoyed playing with Pippin. He would let the lad pay for everything until Pippin would begin to run low on funds and start to worry then, with a flourish, claim to find some coin he didn’t know he had in the bottom of his pack and come to their rescue. Merry chuckled to himself, one would think the lad wouldn’t be fooled by it any longer.

“Thank you, Mr. Innsman,” both lads said as they turned to follow one of the servant lasses to their room.

The lass opened the door then stood to one side to let Merry and Pippin into their room. As they sat their packs on the floor she spoke.

“Hope all’s well for ya, sirs. Would ya be takin’ yer dinner in the common room, sirs, or would ya be wantin’ it brought here?”

Merry and Pippin looked at each other then nodded. There would be a night with just each other’s company between Michel Delving and arriving in Greenholm, they might as well enjoy listening to someone else’s stories tonight.

“We’ll dine in the common room tonight but take our first breakfast in our room, Miss,” Merry informed her.

“At what time are ya wantin’ it, sirs?” She paused, then added, “Cook usually isn’t in the kitchen afore five thirty.”

Pippin made sure he spoke up before Merry could answer. “Seven is early enough, Miss.”

The lass nodded. “I’ll be puttin’ fresh water in yer pitcher, sirs and fluffin’ up yer beddin’ whilst ya have yer supper. Good even to ya, sirs.” She bobbed a small curtsey to the two young gentlehobbits then went on her way.

“There’s no reason to get the cook in a dither with a needlessly early start, Merry,” Pip said cheerily. “And speaking of the cook, shall we go and have our supper now?”

“Yes. Lead on, Pippin!” Merry laughed and they shut the door of their room behind them.

Supper was excellent and the stories and singing lighthearted. It was four hours later when the cousins made their way back to their room. They both sat on the bed with the map spread between them.

“You’re sure you have this correct, Merry?” Pippin pointed to the thin, slightly wiggly, black line that represented the Great East Road as it extended westward beyond the borders of the Shire.

“Totally. I went over it and over it on old Cousin Bilbo’s maps every time I’ve been to Bag End over the last year. My father promised me I could take a long holiday at any time other than harvest the year after I came of age. I decided last year that this was what I wanted to do.”

“I’ll wager Uncle Saradoc doesn’t know where you’re off to,” grinned Pippin.

Pippin paled a bit at that. Not only was he still a tween, but his Da had just four months ago become The Took and Thain. Paladin had known of Merry’s plans for a celebratory holiday trip, and of his intentions of taking his younger cousin with him. It wasn’t the best time for Pippin’s family to be letting him go off, but they had agreed to the trip well before Ferumbras had died. The only problem was that the two cousins had not been terribly specific, nor honest, as to where they would be going on this holiday.

“Do you really think it’s all out there, Merry?” Pippin looked hard at the map.

“Yes, I really do, Pip. Just because they aren’t on any hobbit-made maps doesn’t mean the White Towers and the Grey Havens aren’t there. Bilbo always said there were Elves passing through the Shire on their way past the White Towers then onto the Grey Havens. Frodo has said so as well. In fact, he said he saw some just two months ago.”

Pippin nodded. “Then it must be so, Frodo wouldn’t lie to you about something like that. Still . . .” Pippin sighed as he lay down on his side. “It’s a long way from home, Merry.”

Merry rolled up the map then slipped it into its case. He slid off the bed to return the map case to his pack. “Don’t tell me a Brandybuck is more willing to seek adventure than a Took? My Mum would be shocked, Peregrin Took.”

The next day they began their trek across the rather unpopulated lands west of Michel Delving. There the land was flat and the hobbits who kept herds or tended to crops lived in low, single story houses like the one Pippin grew up in at the farm in Whitwell. The holdings were large to allow for plenty of grazing lands for the sheep and cattle.

They spent the night under the moon and the stars as trees were scarce. There was no wood to make a campfire, so they ate the dry meat they had bought in Michel with cheese, bread and raw vegetables with apples for afters. They talked about the constellations until they drifted off to sleep.

A small group of Elves passed them, lying there asleep beneath the star-strewn sky, and they smiled. They held dear all the goodly beings they were leaving behind in Middle-earth. As with all of life’s choices, there were easy aspects and hard aspects of returning to the Undying Land. A few there were in the group, who had dwelt in Imladris, who wondered if the small ones might be kin to Bilbo. They smiled as they thought of the old hobbit and said a blessing over the two little folk.

The town of Greenholm was more an outpost than a town and it was difficult for Merry and Pippin to keep their secret of intending to leave the Shire. There were only a few houses. The Last Inn was also the post office, the shop, the smithy and the Shirriff’s office. Mr. Hambut Foxburr was the innkeeper, postal clerk, shopkeeper, smith and Shirriff. He was also very curious.

“What has brought ya two young gentlehobbits this far west? Isn’t much out this way of interest ta Tooks, nor even more ta Brandybucks.”

“Well, we like adventures.” Pippin began, but Merry stepped on his little toe. “Ow! Why’d you . . .”

“My father,” Merry said, a bit too loudly, “is thinking of looking into buying wool from the shepherds out here. He’s has quite the reputable weaving business and he is wanting to offer his customers something new.”

Mr. Foxburr didn’t say anything for a few moments, he just stared Merry in the eye. When the younger hobbit didn’t back down, he shrugged his shoulders. “As ya say then, young sir. Yer room is down the hall, next ta last on the left. Dinner’s at seven.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Foxburr,” Merry said as he nudged Pippin towards the hallway. Once in the room, Merry leaned his back against the closed door.

“You nearly let the cat out of the bag, Pippin, talking of adventures as if they were a common thing. How many hobbits do you know who go adventuring?” Merry rolled his eyes before heaving himself off the door. “Let me talk to folks, please.” He mused a moment before adding, “We can tell them you’re mute.”

Pippin grinned. “A tad late for that, Merry, as I’ve already spoken to Mr. Foxburr.”

“Yes. Well, short of my having to stuff a handkerchief in your mouth every time we meet someone along the road, please try to think a little before saying something that could ruin everything.”

Pippin looked abashed. “All right, Merry. I’ll try. I’ll try very hard.”

His older cousin smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s all I can ask, Pippin. I know you’ll do your best. Now, all we have to do is get all the supplies we’ll need without raising a lot of suspicion.”

The next morning, after first breakfast, the lads stepped into the area of The Last Inn that was a shop.

“Might I be able ta help ya?” Mr. Foxburr said as he moved out from behind the bar in the tavern to walk over behind the counter in the shop.

“Yes,” answered Merry while Pippin busied himself looking at the baked goods. “We have decided to head northwards, toward Gamwich and wish to go across the open country rather than going back all the way back to Michel Delving. Do you have much in the way of foodstuffs that keep well and aren’t too heavy to carry?”

With little more than a raised eyebrow, Hambut Foxburr helped the two young hobbits make sound selections. He was accustomed to supplying shepherds and herdshobbits who would pass through the area, so he kept well stocked with dried meats and fruits and waybread. He also sold them some dried fishing bait, two sheets of oilcloth and some stout, heavy weight cord. The two assured him they had sufficient water bottles, tinder, fishing lines and pipeweed. With their packs considerably heavier than they had been when they arrived, the two bid Mr. Foxburr a good day and left his establishment, heading north.

They went northwards only as long as the village of Greenholm was in view, then they turned westward. About two miles later they turned south until they came to the Great East Road, then followed the road where it sloped downwards into the Westmarch.

Pippin spied it first, the small marker that stood to the left of the road. He and Merry slowed to a stop when they drew abreast of it. They stood there looking at the small green painted post that marked The Bounds.

They both looked along the road. It ran straight, through countryside that was endless, flat grasslands; exactly like what lay behind them for a mile or so before the rise that was the edge of The Far Downs. The land did not change beyond the small marker - only one’s feelings.

“We’ve never done this, Merry. Never . . . crossed the Bounds. Well, I haven’t.” Pip looked enquiringly at his older cousin. “You’ve been to Bree.”

Merry’s face brightened, more than his heart inside him did. “Yes! I’ve been Outside. Several times. Nothing to it, really.”

The cousins looked at each other for several long moments. Together they took a deep breath and each set his right foot over the imaginary line separating The Shire from everywhere else. Their left feet followed their right. And again. Keeping their eyes fixed on the western horizon, lest they lose their nerve, Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took walked away from their homelands.

It was three days later when they came to the edge of the Tower Hills, but they saw the White Towers well before that. Three slender spires rising above the treetops into the blue sky, the middle one taller than the others. They were seeing something built by people who were not their own kind and it raised in them feelings for which they had no words. That they had been walking for days upon a road built by those same “others” had not entered their minds; the Great Road went through Buckland and The Shire, so in their minds it was something that simply was there. But nothing like the White Towers existed in their little lands. They were glad they could no longer see them when they reached the edge of the hills at the setting of the Sun. But the presence of the Towers was felt by the hobbits nonetheless.

It took all of the next morning to get to the base of the Towers. The hobbits walked until they stood in the centre of the triangle formed by the three towers, then they simply stopped.

“I’m not sure we should be here, Pippin,” Merry whispered. “I-I think we should leave.”

Pippin shook his head. Something here touched a feeling inside him, something deep in his spirit. The night before he kept thinking he saw the figures of small people flitting around the tree trunks just past the edge of the light from their campfire. They seemed to be only a bit smaller than he and Merry though more slender - and they were laughing. He could hear it at the edge of his hearing just as they stayed at the edge of the light. He tried to watch them but gave up when he noticed that Merry wasn’t doing the same. If it was all something dredged up from his imagination, he didn’t want Merry thinking he was going off his nut, so he stopped trying to spot them amongst the trees; but their laughter had followed him into his dreams.

“I think we are all right here, Merry,” Pippin whispered back. Whispering fit the way the place made them feel. “We just need to . . . to . . . stay quiet and just look about.”

They stood, letting the ancient “otherness” of the place fill them. They both felt there was magic of some sort in this place.

Finally Merry shook himself then gently touched Pippin’s shoulder. “The road runs along the edge of the hills to the north before . . .” He paused. He felt as though the Towers were listening. He shivered then went on. “Before it goes west again towards the Havens.” He tugged on his cousin’s sleeve. “We should go back to the road.”

Pippin slowly nodded. “Yes. Back to the road. Out of the woods. We are finished here. We can go on to the edge of the sea.” He looked at Merry; an odd gleam was in his eyes. “It’s all right Merry. We can go now.” Then Pippin turned and hurried off so quickly that Merry had to run to catch up.

They went faster going down the hills than they had going up and were at the bottom and to the road by mid-day. They took time to have a light luncheon before hoisting their packs and setting off. With ten miles behind them and the Sun having lowered herself behind the hills Merry and Pippin made camp just off the side of the road, the side away from the Tower Hills, in a small hollow edged with tall grass.

Once more they stayed on the road, following it northwards until the Tower Hills came to an end on their left and the road curved to run westward. The lads talked as they walked, sharing memories of Cousin Bilbo’s stories, at least the parts that weren’t too frightening. Mostly, it was memories of what Bilbo and Frodo had taught them about the Elves.

As they made camp in the evening of the third day since they had visited the Towers, they had a surprise. Merry stood up from arranging the tinder and kindling to light their fire for the night. He sniffed the air, stopped, then sniffed again.

The younger hobbit stood and sniffed, then smiled. “Do you think it’s the sea, Merry? I’ve never smelled anything like it before.”

“It must be. You remember, Bilbo said his Uncle Isengar always described the smell as ‘wild and fresh, a smell that just makes you want to go a-wandering,’ and that is certainly what this breeze smells like.”

Pippin drew a deep breath of sea-scent. “We must be close then. Are we close, Merry?”

Merry turned and knelt down to draw the map from its case. There was still enough light to read it. “I think it is just over that bit of a rise that ‘s ahead of us. We could probably see it if the land stayed flat. We should reach it by luncheon tomorrow.” He smiled up at the youngster. “We’ll have done it, Pippin! We will have made it to the Grey Havens and looked upon a place where a river meets the sea.”

Neither hobbit slept very soundly that night, they were much too excited. The next day they were up before the Sun showed her face above the eastern horizon. At mid-morning they had come to the beginning of the low line of hills that Merry felt were the last hills before the land would drop away to meet the water.

They stopped. No word between them, nothing in their path; they simply stopped. The hills and the woods had the same feeling about them as the Tower Hills, a feeling that they were somewhere they didn’t quite belong. With a curt, determined nod to one another, the two hobbits left the road and took to the woods, walking into the shadows under the canopy of leaves. They moved silently up the face of the low ridge until they came near its crest, then they crouched down to nearly crawl to the edge.

At last it lay spread out before them through a clearing in the trees: the shining waters of the Gulf of Lune and, along its shores, the Grey Havens.

How long they lay there, stretched out prone upon a rock, they didn’t know. Time seemed to have slowed or maybe even to have stopped. They could see people moving about. They were graceful even when viewed from a distance. Many of them were at the quays, tending to the ships.

And Elves were watching them, though they did not know it. One was raven haired, the other golden haired. They spoke without speaking aloud, so as not to alert the small ones.

The raven-haired Elf reached out gently with his thoughts. Merry sensed nothing, so intent was he on observing the Elves in the port below him. Pippin felt an odd stirring in his mind, the same as he felt at the Tower Hills. Like how he sometimes felt around Merry’s mother. The Elf smiled.

“They have the touch of the Fey Folk. I think they might be kin to dear Bilbo and his heir, Frodo. Bilbo has told tales that a hobbit ancestor of his married one of the Fey Folk many of their lifetimes ago, though he seemed to think it folly. But every Elf who has met him has felt their touch upon him.” He inclined his head towards the hobbits lying on the rock. “The touch is stronger in the littlest one who lies before us than it is in Bilbo. Her blood is strong in him.”

The Elves laughed lightly and the golden haired one said, “Bilbo thinks it folly, does he! It would appear to be otherwise. That being said, what shall we do with them? Mithlond has long been a place strangers are rarely allowed to see, as hidden as Lothlórien and even Imladris have become. Orcs, or any of an evil kindred, we kill. Men, excepting the Dunedin, we confuse. Dwarves care naught, and do not come near the Havens. But what shall we do with these little ones?”

The next morning, two hobbits awoke in a small glen, near the shore of a pond in a copse of birches.

“Did you sleep well, Merry?” Pippin said as he stretched out his arms and legs.

“Yes. Amazingly well for sleeping on the ground. But then, the grass is nice and thick here.”

They took care of their morning needs then came back to the camp. Pippin got the fire going while Merry fetched water from the nearby spring. They made a filling breakfast of the eggs, sausages, bread and apples in their packs. Everything seemed to taste unusually good.

Pippin squinted at the small green post that could barely be seen through a gap in the birches and nodded. “Yes, Merry. We made it to Greenholm and we stood upon the western Bounds. We’ve done something not a single friend of ours has done.”

“Indeed!” Merry mumbled around his last bite of apple. “An adventure to be proud of.” He grew thoughtful. “Although, I had the strangest dream last night.”

Pippin looked surprised. “Really, Merry? I was just going to say the same thing to you, but seeing as you mentioned it first, you go first. What was your dream, Merry?”

“I dreamed that what we had really set out to do was see the White Towers and the Grey Havens, and we did. I could feel something odd about the Towers, I could smell the sea. There were Elves working on ships anchored at several large quays. It was one of those dreams that just seems so real that one almost isn’t sure if it really was a dream.”

Merry looked at Pippin and his expression changed from wonder to worry. The younger hobbit had gone quite pale.

“I . . . I . . .” Pippin closed his eyes, took a deep breath and shook himself, then looked into Merry’s eyes. “I dreamt exactly the same dream, Merry. The strange magical feeling surrounding the White Towers. Breathing in a strange new scent and knowing it was the smell of the sea. And watching the Elves. They made working on the ships look like a dance.”

Merry nodded. He was starting to feel a bit shaky himself. He had a feeling like something was crawling on the back of his neck. “I wonder if the dried fruit we ate last night had turned?”

“Or something in the water from that spring?” Pippin felt queasy and he was getting goosebumps on the tops of his feet and his arms.

“Perhaps we should just head home today. I think we’ve been gone long enough.”

They cleaned up their camp then set off eastwards, back to Greenholm and, eventually, back to the Great Smials and Brandy Hall, quite satisfied with their bold adventure while at the same time strangely happy to be home.

Merry and Pippin had ridden like the wind to get there on time. They had paid no attention whatsoever to the lands they hurried through as their ponies’ hooves pounded upon the Great East Road.

They arrived in time. They said their good-byes to Frodo, Bilbo, dear Gandalf, and the lords and lady, then stood with Sam to watch the white ship leave the quay and sail away into the West. Together the three of them rode along the Great East Road, slowly now, no longer in a hurry. As they crested the ridge, although they did not look back at the sight of the Gulf of Lune running out to the Sea, Meriadoc and Peregrin did look at each other, each one wondering why they suddenly felt as though they had been there before.

The hair was raising on Pippin’s feet and arms. The skin on Merry’s neck was crawling.

Thanks to Marigold and Llinos for the beta!

“It’s a shame the Gaffer isn’t a better hand at growin’ vegetables.”

Frodo Baggins nearly choked on the bite of ham that was all he had left in his mouth from the last spoonful of ham and bean soup he had eaten.

“Yes, a right pity the old hobbit isn’t near the hand with foodstuffs as he is with flowers,” Old Tom Cotton continued between his own spoonfuls of soup. “An’ all this going on ‘bout his taters. Well . . .”

The happy buzz of hobbit conversation around the large kitchen table had stuttered to a halt. Nick had started coughing and Nibs was patting his back. What was the old hobbit doing?

The Gaffer, Sam and Mr. Frodo were staying at the Cotton farm until the mess was cleared and new holes built where Bagshot Row had once been. The Gaffer had begun to take his luncheon at the Ivy Bush as soon as it had reopened and so wasn’t at Old Tom’s table just now.

Rosie, her three younger brothers and their mother, slowly went back to eating, Rosie glancing anxiously over the edge of her spoon at Sam. Frodo watched as a flush of red began to creep up Sam’s neck.

“I know the old rascal brags on them taters enough to make a deaf dog bored, but they really aren’t as good as mine,” Old Tom prattled on. He seemed totally unaware of the tense feeling in his kitchen. “If ya want to grow good foodstuffs, ya learn from a farmer. If ya want beautiful flowers, ya learn from a gardener. I’ll never fault the Gaffer on his roses and no one in the Shire has finer day lilies. But he’s naught but a novice on his taters.”

Sam had stopped eating. His spoon was in his bowl and his hands, clenched, rested on either side of it. Frodo saw the flush deepen until he was sure the whole of Sam’s head was red.

“It’s a good thing you’re to be with us a while, Sam-lad. I’ll have these afternoons whilst your father is at the Ivy to teach ya a bit ‘bout root vegetables. Maybe even tell ya all there is to know ‘bout beans and peas as well. You need to be taught better than ya know now if you're to be any good.”

Sam slowly rose to his feet. His fists still rested on the table as he leaned towards the head of the household. His hazel eyes burned.

“Mr. Cotton.” Sam’s voice was so tight it was almost unrecognisable. “My Gaffer knows more ‘bout the growin’ of edible roots than you could fit into a barn full of books on the matter. My mum, rest her soul, grew the finest beans and peas you would have ever tasted. I know things you’ll never know, sir. I kept Mr. Frodo and I fed on that lembas bread and whatever else I could find, which weren’t much most of the time. I helped replant more than just flowers in the new King’s City and I’ll be seein’ to tendin’ a whole lot more than just flowers here in the Shire as I go about replantin’ here. I think I can do just fine. Thank you anyway.”

Sam paused. Frodo saw the fist nearest him flex a few times. He looked at Sam’s face and could see his jaw muscle doing the same.

“Actually, if there’s anythin’ you might want me to be teachin’ you, Mr. Cotton, you just let me know. I’m going to check on our ponies.” Sam straightened, turning stiffly to face Lilly Cotton. “Thank you for a wonderful luncheon, Mrs. Cotton,” he said then he walked heavily across the kitchen and out of the door, slamming it behind him.

“And just who did he think he was talkin’ to?” Sam muttered aloud as he stomped towards the paddock.

He stooped to pick a stone from the dirt and hurled it at the side of the stable. The large open building echoed the hit. Sam was sure they heard it in the house.

“Good!” he spat the word out.

Sam stopped at the fence, leaning upon the top rail. The ponies, the ones Strider had given him and Frodo plus Bill, had taken off running to the far end of the pasture when the stone hit the stable. Sam watched them go, tails up and flying like flags in a stiff breeze.

“There’s not a farmer anywhere what grows better taters than my old Gaffer.” Sam yelled to the running ponies. “And Old Tom is a pony’s rear if he thinks elsewise. Ha! Ya need to be a farmer to grow foodstuffs. ‘If ya want beautiful flowers, ya learn from a gardener.’ Ha! Just who does Old Tom Cotton think . . . he . . . is . . .”

Sam suddenly felt like he’d been doused with cold well water. He knew who Old Tom Cotton was. He was Rosie Cotton’s father.

Sam hadn’t heard the soft footsteps coming up behind him so he jumped when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw someone lean against the fence beside him.

“Those are fine, fine ponies you lads rode home from them foreign parts.” Rosie’s father said before stopping to light his pipe. “Fine ponies indeed.”

The heat began to rise again in Sam. “Yes, sir, the best,” he replied, his tone distant.

“And you’re a fine hobbit, Samwise Gamgee.”

Sam was stunned. “I . . . eh . . . well, thank you, sir.”

“Ya weren’t expectin’ me to say somethin’ like that, were ya lad?”

“No, sir,” Sam was sounding his old, shy self.

“’Tis true though. Your dad, he raised a fine family.”

The two of them stood there in silence for a while, watching as the ponies made their way slowly back. They usually came to the fence whenever they saw any hobbits there; hobbits usually had treats in their pockets.

Old Tom broke the silence. “My Rosie, well, my Rosie likes you, Sam.”

Sam nearly stopped breathing.

“She never gave up hope that you and Mr. Frodo and his cousins would come back. Never once.”

Sam’s eyes stayed on the ponies. He heard Mr. Cotton puffing on his pipe beside him and the sound of his own heart pounding.

“I knew you’re a good lad. I knew you’d stick up for your family or old Bilbo Baggins, and young Mr. Frodo. But . . . well,” the old hobbit paused. He knocked out his pipe on the top rail, then mashed the ashes into the dirt to make sure they were out. “I had to know if you would stick up for yourself.”

Their eyes finally met. Old Tom’s were warm and friendly with mischievous sparkle. Sam’s were surprised.

“Wouldn’t want my lass endin’ up with a lad that had the pluck to follow his boss off into no one knows where, but doesn’t have the sense to know his own worth and say so.”

The old hobbit patted the younger one’s shoulder with his work-hardened hand.

“Ya can teach my lads about root growin’ anytime ya take a fancy to, Sam, ya learned from the best in the Shire, after all.”

Old Tom Cotton turned away and walked back to the house. Sam stood by the fence with his mouth hanging open. Had the old hobbit really said something about who his lass might “end up with?”

Boromir gets a surprise when he dismisses the ability of the hobbits to defend themselves...

The Right to Bear Arms
By Pearl Took
Beta by Llinos and Marigold

Tall and proud, the son of the Steward of Gondor strode down the path in Imladris. They were heading off to war . . . well, they were heading off to war eventually. They would spend a few weeks here readying themselves, then they would stealthily make their way southwards. The Ring was being taken to Mordor.

He huffed to himself. “Folly! ‘Tis folly and perhaps even arrogance to think of destroying the Ring,” he thought, with an irritable look in his eyes. “And thinking we can remain hidden whilst bearing it though open lands!” He huffed again.

Suddenly Boromir slowed his steps and came to a standstill. He heard the voices of the halflings coming to him from the very place he was heading. The smithy.

“Thank you for taking care of this for my friends.”

He heard one of their voices saying. He thought it sounded like the eldest of them, the one who carried the Ring, Frodo Baggins.

“Strider said they really needed to get these blades attended to if we are to go forth into the wild.” Frodo’s voice continued.

“They are quite old, we’ve been told,” said another. “They came from a barrow on the edges of the Old Forest and Tom Bombadil said they were good blades and were made by enemies of the Dark Lord, so they would be good for us to carry.”

This voice belonged to the youngest of the halflings who had been introduced to Boromir on different occasions as Peregrin, Pippin and Pip.

Boromir stood just back from where the path entered into the yard in front of the forge. The four halflings stood about, three of them holding, swinging and looking over weapons that did not quite seem to be swords, yet fit well as such for the little ones.

“They are, indeed, as the First said,” the swordsmith told them, smiling as he watched them. “They are both goodly blades and made to wage battle against the worst of all foes. Bear them well.”

“We would like to, and thank you,” said the halfling called Meriadoc and also Merry. “Though we really don’t know how. It has been long ages of our reckoning since hobbits have fought any battles. We’ve no idea of how to properly wield weapons such as these.”

“I’m a deft hand with a rock,” put in the one named Samwise or Sam. “And Tooks are usually good with bows and arrows. But Mr. Merry is right sayin’ as hobbits know naught of usin’ swords.”

“Could you show us?” Pippin asked the swordsmith.

“Will it be of much use?” Boromir asked as he strode out into the yard. “Surely that is why they are sending others of larger stature with you. I’m surprised you are even being allowed to carry such weapons as these. And as I recall,” here he looked at the two younger Halflings, “you aren’t even going with us.”

All of the Halflings made some sort of derisive sound. Frodo folded his arms over his chest. Sam put his fists on his hips while Merry’s hands were also fisted but remained at his side. Pippin stood as tall as he could, puffed himself up, then strode forward to more directly confront the tall soldier of Gondor.

“That, sir, has yet to be decided.” There was fire in the words and in the little one’s eyes.

“Pippin.” Merry warned.

“Well, it hasn’t. Has it?” Pippin turned to look at his cousin, but the other cousin answered.

“No,” said Frodo calmly. “It hasn’t exactly been completely settled upon, but . . .”

“Then it is yet to be decided,” the young one cut his elder off. He turned back to Boromir, the gleam in his eyes growing brighter. “You think we can’t learn to use these, don’t you?”

Boromir easily batted away the blade that the little one waved about, its point not even coming to his chin.

“I did not say that you could not learn, but that it is pointless to teach you something you will have no need of. You are too short, both in height and reach, to make a sword a good weapon for you. That and you have made it clear that you are not fighters.”

“We aren’t soldiers. We haven’t fought battles. That doesn’t mean we can’t fight, Mr. . . . eh, Mr. . . .” Pippin turned to Frodo, his eyebrows raised in a questioning look.

“Boromir, Captain of the Army of Gondor and heir to the Steward of Gondor,” the eldest hobbit supplied in a rather unimpressed tone. “And I don’t think they use the address of mister, Pippin.”

Pippin gave a quick nod then turned back to look up into Boromir’s eyes. “It doesn’t mean we can’t fight, Captain Boromir. You might find yourself hard put to stop one of us.”

The Elf swordsmith turned his head away to hide his smile. Sam rolled his eyes. Frodo made no effort to hide his grin. Merry’s expression looked very parental.

“Pippin!” he said, the warning edge clear in his voice. “Pippin, back down.”

The soldier was not helping. “You think you could gain a hit on me?” he challenged.

“Yes!” Pippin confidently replied.

The big Man laughed. “You shall have your chance then!” He turned to the swordsmith. “Where might we be able to procure practice weapons? I would hate to see this little one cut his own leg off with his newly cleaned and honed blade.”

“The training hall is only a short way further along the path that brought you here,” the smith replied, pointing. “The swordmaster should be there. He can supply you both.”

Boromir turned to Pippin, bowing whilst making a sweeping gesture towards the path. “Shall we?”

With a small bow of his own, Pippin replied, “With pleasure,” and they all proceeded in the direction the Elf had indicated.

“You’re being a fool, Pippin,” Merry hissed in his cousin’s ear.

“No I’m not, Merry. How many times have you told me 'bigger isn’t always stronger or faster'? I’ve a plan. I’ll be fine.”

Soon the two combatants were armed with wooden swords - well a sword and a long knife, and faced each other in the middle of a sandy arena. They circled clockwise, they circled anticlockwise, they paused then circled again. Boromir suddenly thrust forward with his weapon, fully expecting to get his hit.

But he did not.

Pippin easily sidestepped the attack.

“They’re quick little blighters!” the soldier of Gondor thought as once more he and the halfling circled.

A slashing attack!

Pippin jumped back, sucking in his stomach as he did so.

A thrust!

Sidestepped.

A slash to the head!

Pippin dived below it and rolled to come up behind the tall Man. He quickly slashed at the back of Boromir’s left knee. Boromir spun and stopped.

The flat of the Man’s blade lay on Pippin’s shoulder, its edge was nestled against his neck.

“You are dead, halfling!” Boromir crowed between deep breaths.

“I’m not!” Pippin retorted. “You’ve cheated!”

Boromir’s tone was icy. “I do not cheat, little one.”

Pippin looked over the wooden blade that still lay upon his shoulder to where the swordmaster stood. “I cut the back of his knee.” the lad’s voice was higher than usual in its urgency. “I hit him with the edge of my sword. I cut the back of his knee. He should have fallen to his knees, but he didn’t.”

Pippin paused to take a breath and to look back at his opponent, before returning his attention to the Elf. The swordmaster came over to the two in the centre of his arena.

“Did you feel the blow to your knee, Captain Boromir?” the Elf quietly asked.

Boromir’s eyes widened a moment. “Yes. I felt him land a hit to the back of my knee.”

“Were these weapons real, my lord, would the blow have deeply cut you?”

Boromir nodded. “It would.”

The Elf smiled, as did Boromir. “The Halfling claims the first hit. Do the combatants wish to continue?”

“Yes!” Pippin answered. “That is, I would like to start from my rolling and hitting his knee. But I would like him to fall as he would if his knee were truly injured.”

Boromir and the Elf raised their brows, then Boromir nodded in agreement. Pippin stepped back in front of Boromir, the swordmaster stepped away then gave the command, “Begin!”

Not as quickly this time Boromir repeated his slash towards Pippin’s head. Pippin dived, rolled and came to his feet as before, slashing the Man’s knee before he could bring his blade around to attack the Hobbit who was now behind him. Boromir cried out in mock pain. Clutching at his “wounded” knee as he fell to the earth on his uninjured knee.

Quicker than he would have imagined, he felt his hair being grabbed and the edge of a wooden blade held tight against his throat.

“You are dead, Big Person!” Pippin hissed in Boromir’s ear.

“The hit and the kill belong to the Halfling,” the swordmaster exclaimed. “And well done, Little Master,” he added to Pippin.

Boromir looked over at the halfling, respect mixed with wonder in his eyes.

“How did you know how to do that?”

Pippin was smiling broadly, but it was Merry who answered.

“I taught him. Well not the cutting with a sword, but the duck, roll and go for your opponent’s knees. He added that last bit, the sword to your throat, himself.”
Pippin was now standing before the kneeling Man, offering Boromir his hand in friendship. “We do wrestle back at home,” he said brightly.

Boromir grinned, shook and hung his head. “I would not have thought it from all you had said.” He looked up, smiling, and took the lad’s hand in a firm grasp, patting him on the shoulder with his other hand as he did so.

“Well done. Well done, indeed.”

“And you as well,” Pippin replied. “You nearly had me when you went for my stomach.”

The soldier stood, brushing the sand off his knees as he did so.

“Would you like to learn how to handle a sword properly? How to best use it bearing in mind your stature?”

“Yes!” Pippin exclaimed.

The other hobbits had walked over to join them. All of them expressed an interest in learning to use the weapons Tom Bombadil had claimed for them from the barrow, while Frodo felt he would like to do justice to his Elvish blade, Sting.

“Then lessons will begin tomorrow,” Boromir said, then looked to the Elf. “If it is all right with the swordmaster that we use his arena?”

Permission was happily granted.

“Isn’t it nearly time for luncheon?” Pippin asked. “I’m starving.”

Boromir and the hobbits walked back up the path to the main house, all of them chattering away as though they had known each other for years.

Written with elements given to me by Golden to start getting me out of my current writer’s funk. She said it worked.

“Tell me again how this all happened,” Eglantine said to her son as she held his head tipped back while pressing a cloth soaked in the coldest well water firmly against his nose. He was sitting on a high stool in the kitchen, stripped to the waist, his mud and blood stained shirt was soaking in a basin on the floor.

His mother took the cloth away to rinse it out in the basin of bloody water that sat on the table before plunging it back into the bucket of icy well water.

“I was trying to catch Blackie. He was trying to catch the bird that was trying to catch a butterfly. I don’t know if the butterfly was trying to catch anything or not,” Pippin’s words flew as fast as he could say them in order to get them out before the cloth was put back in place.

Lanti sighed. If Vinca and Nell had been there they would have been scoffing and laughing at their little brother. After all, only Pippin would manage to end up such a mess from chasing an imaginary cat.

Pippin only shook his head slightly. She realized she would get no answer until she took the cloth away from his nose again.

“No Ma,” Pippin replied, looking at her as though she were rather dense. “Kittens don’t like water. Well, except to drink it. They don’t like getting their fur wet. I thought you knew that Ma.”

His answer had to wait as a fresh trickle of blood from his nose necessitated replacing the cold, wet cloth. Lanti waited about a minute before taking the cloth off to rinse it once more.

“I didn’t go through the puddle Ma. If I had gone through I wouldn’t have been soaked with mud. Only my feet and maybe my breeches would have been muddy, not the whole front of me. I fell into the puddle Ma.”

He gave her another look as though he was astounded by how thick his mother was. Lanti closed her eyes to keep her patience. Oh how she loathed this age in children. Thankfully, she knew by now that it would soon pass.

“He stopped short so he wouldn’t end up wet and muddy and I didn’t expect him to stop and so I tripped over him. Do you think my nose is broken Ma? Will I need a big plaster put over it like cousin Isenbold did when cousin Ferdi punched him trying to kill that fly on his nose?”

“Lads!” thought Lanti, rolling her eyes heavenward. At least killing a fly on someone’s nose made a bit more sense than tripping over an imaginary kitten.

“No Pippin. I don’t think you’ll need a plaster. Is that when you hurt your nose? When you fell in the puddle?”

“No. I did that when I ran into the tree that Blackie had run up chasing the bird.”

The bleeding had stopped and Lanti decided she wasn’t in a frame of mind to hear how her son had managed to run face first into a tree. She curled her fingers under his small chin and looked lovingly into his sparkling eyes. He was such an imp! But he was her imp. She gently kissed the tip of his slowly bruising nose.

“Why don’t you go to your room, take off the rest of your muddy clothes and then lie down for a wee bit, Pippin. Cuddle up with Blackie as I’m sure he had a fright with you getting all bloody and crying out as you were. Read a story to him and I’ll come fetch you when it’s time for tea.”

“All right Mother!” he cheerily said before kissing her on the nose in return and hopping down off of the tall stool. “Come along Blackie!” he added as he disappeared around the edge of the door on his way to his room.

Eglantine sat wearily down at the table. She didn’t know if Pippin and Blackie needed a rest, but she certainly did.

Written for Marigold's Challenges #44. My adage was: "Too many cooks (or Tooks if I liked) spoil the broth."

Sam looked around, feeling dazed. He had known there were a lot of Tooks, (wasn’t it usually said amongst other hobbits that they bred like rabbits?) but he had no idea the snide remarks were apparently close to the truth.

He was at the Tooks’ Harvest in Tuckborough, his first time ever at the affair. He had been sent a grand invitation, as the Mayor of the Shire, by The Took and Thain; Pippin’s father Paladin. Sam held tight to Rosie’s hand, suddenly fearful they might get swallowed up by the crowd and never see each other again if he let loose of her.

“Steady on, Sam,” Merry chuckled as he patted his good friend on the back. “I know it’s a shock, but they are only Tooks after all, not Orcs or Ruffians.”

“I know,” came the slightly choked reply. “I just didn’t know as there was so many of them, that’s all. It’s like the whole of Hobbiton is here and then some.”

“I’d oft heard Took lasses knew how to please their husbands,” Rosie said with a knowing smile.

“As do Hobbiton lasses,” Estella replied, a small sweep of her hand indicating the little Gamgees circling around their mother who held her newest, Merry, in her arms.

The two wives twittered as their husbands blushed. Merry laughed as Sam looked at his wife with his mouth gaping open.

“Come on,” Merry interceded before Sam could say anything that might make matters worse. “Let’s see if we can find Pippin and Diamond in this mass of Tooks. He said he would be watching for us, but I don’t see him anywhere.”

Soon they found the young Took and his wife. They had been wandering about looking for the Brandybucks and Gamgees, which of course prolonged the amount of time it should have taken for the three couples to meet. The wives each had a good amount of coin to spend on the bounty the Tooks’ Harvest offered. They stood chatting with the lads only a few minutes before going off on their own to enjoy each other's company. The three Travellers went off together to peruse booths that were of more interest to them. There were pipe makers and leaf growers, their booths next to each other down one street. Another street in Tuckborough hosted various brewers of ales, along with a booth displaying Buckland Brandy and two that were offering a rather new beverage the Tooks were calling “Tookland Whisky” which was a potent distillate of malted barley.

It happened as the three friends were walking in a lovely field at the edge of town, to ease the buzzing the samples of whisky had brought to their heads, that Sam noticed several hobbitesses keeping watch over four huge cauldrons. Without a word to his companions, Sam began heading in the direction of the cooks.

“No Sam!” Pippin squeaked, grabbing at his friend’s arm to stop him. He sighed and regained his voice as Sam stopped and stared at him. “You mustn’t go over there. ‘Tisn’t allowed.”

“Not allowed?” Sam was weaving from side to side trying to see around Pippin who now stood between him and the objects of his curiosity.

“That’s the Took Broth and no one is allowed near to it until luncheon is announced.”

Sam gestured at two hobbit matrons that were approaching the kettles bearing smaller versions of the huge pots in their hands. “They’re goin’ over there.”

“Well, yes, they are allowed, although if you’ll notice, they are waiting to be acknowledged by the Broth Cooks first, and then they are watched over very carefully as they add their soup to the cauldrons.”

“Yes!” Pippin responded brightly. “That’s the whole point you see. Every household has soup for supper the evening before the Took’s Harvest. Some that travel will even make their specialty in the kitchen at the inn they stay at, so their family is represented.”

Merry was thoroughly enjoying the Mayor’s confusion. Sam held up a hand to stop his young friend.

“You’re meanin’ ta tell me, Pippin, that those cauldrons are full of everyone’s different soups all put together?”

“Aye. Isn’t that what I just said? The only requirement is that all the soups have a broth stock, no cream soups are allowed. Anyway, no one wants to be left out, you see. It’s a bit of good luck to have your soup in the Took Broth. There weren’t always Broth Cooks, as the history of it goes, though no one seems to remember when they were added. ‘Tis said that a long time back some naughty lads, or drunken hobbits depending on which age you are when they tell you the tale, managed to sneak in some ingredients that made the whole gathering of Tooks ill, so ever since the hobbitesses that take the blue ribbons in cookery at the Lithe Day Fair keep watch over the Broth.”

Sam shook his head as he watched another small group of lasses make their way to the cooking area carrying their covered kettles with them.

“And you say they expect people to eat that?” he said, sounding mildly disgusted.

“You oughtn’t have said that Sam,” Merry whispered in Sam’s ear as Pippin’s cheery look dissolved into an offended one.

“Aye people eat it,” Pippin said defensively. “It will be all there is to eat at luncheon. All the vendors and inns close down and everyone comes and shares in the Took Broth. It . . . well it’s . . . It’s a tradition, Sam.”

Suddenly, for one of the few times in his life, Sam was not looking forward to a meal. He knew that as Mayor of the Shire he would not be able to refuse taking part in this obviously cherished Took tradition without it being a terrible insult to The Took and Thain, and all the Tooks in the Tookland.

Merry noticed Sam’s discomfort as the three of them went back to walking around the many booths of the Harvest. He himself had been prepared for the ritual by his mother, Esmeralda (Took) Brandybuck, the first time they had come for the Tooks’ Harvest, and being just a little hobbit lad he didn’t much care what it was as long as he would be fed. Pippin had wandered ahead, so Merry used the opportunity to try to ease Sam’s fears.

“It really tastes wonderful Sam. I’ve had the Took Broth many times over the years. Truly it does taste wonderful.”

Sam could not manage much enthusiasm. “I’m sure it does Merry. Thank you for letting me know that.” In his mind, the Mayor of the Shire could only think that of course it tasted good to a Brandybuck. They were nearly as mad as Tooks after all.

Luncheon time arrived. Estella, Rosie and Diamond had rejoined their husbands and as Pippin and Diamond, Merry and Estella laughed and talked merrily, Sam whispered to his wife what was about to transpire and they exchanged wordless worried looks. The Mayor and his lovely wife had been invited to be next in line after The Took and The Mistress of Great Smials. Pippin’s parents were smiling and gracious as Paladin himself ladled a full serving of Took Broth into Sam's and Rosie’s bowls, Pippin’s sisters having taken charge of the Gamgee children to make things easier for the couple. Then The Took and The Mayor were seated at table together and the lines began moving as all those present were served.

“Eat up, Samwise!” Thain Paladin said as he noticed the young Mayor’s hesitation.

“We’re waitin’ on the other’s,” Sam said quietly, meaning Merry, Pippin and their wives. But that did not buy him much time as they had been next in line and soon they too sat at The Took’s table.

Finally, there was no putting it off and while the Took Broth did have a marvellous aroma, Sam and Rosie both knew that could be deceiving. With one last look at each other, The Mayor and his Lady each took a spoonful of the Took Broth, blew on it, and put their spoons to their lips. Though they were trying hard not to, everyone at the table was anxiously awaiting Sam's and Rosie’s reactions. Slowly, huge smiles grew upon both the Gamgee’s faces.

“This is delightful!” Rosie exclaimed while Sam, too busy supping to say much at all, nodded enthusiastically.

As unlikely as it would have seemed, those four cauldrons fed the entire gathering several helpings each of the mysterious Took Broth. Perhaps, Rosie had whispered to her husband, there was some of the Took faerie magic at work. Sam said nothing to that though he was sure her guess wasn’t very far off the mark. It really was getting to where nothing about the Tooks surprised him any longer.

Soon, the three couples sat upon blankets spread out under a large shady tree. Elanor, Frodo, Rose-lass and baby Merry were already fast asleep. Everywhere one looked, there were hobbits sleeping on blankets, most cradling well filled bellies. Occasionally, one would hear a moan, groan or contented sigh.

“Well,” sighed Sam, patting his own satiated stomach. “I’d always thought too many cooks spoiled the broth. Seems to me now as that old saying was wrong.”

“Not when the cooks are Tooks,” Pippin managed to mumble before a belch escaped him causing them all to laugh some more.

“No I reckon you’re right,” Sam said looking around once more at all the full and contented hobbits resting in the large field. “In this case it’s more like too much broth what spoiled the cooks.”

(For Marigold's Challenge #44: My adage was “Too many cooks (or Tooks) spoil the broth.”)

A/N: The idea for this came from something I experienced at a Cub Scout event. Everyone was told to bring one can of soup of any kind they wanted. All of the broth soups were put into one huge pot and all of the cream soups were put into another huge pot. Both soups were wonderful and most everyone, even the children, wanted seconds.

For Marigold's Challenge #44: My adage was, “Where there’s muck, there’s brass.”

Many thanks to Llinos and Marigold for their editing skills in the face of my computer difficulties.

“Good bye Pippin,” Lanti said to her only son’s back as he dashed out of the kitchen door, forgetting, as was his wont, to close it behind him. Lanti shook her head. “I’ll just leave it be,” she thought as she turned back to the bread dough she was kneading. “‘Tis a fine morning out this morning.”

What niggled at the back of her mind was whatever could her son be doing? He had dashed out in just this manner nearly every morning for the last two weeks. Mind you, at twenty he was of an age to no longer stay so close to home. Most likely he was off with some of the other farmer’s lads. As long as there were no irate farmers knocking on her door, she reckoned it was all right; he was staying out of mischief. Still, she missed having her youngest child around the house much of the day.

“Well, I reckon it could use seeing to, Pippin.” Mrs. Geribold Took looked unsure of what to do. Mr. Paladin was a farmer like her husband was, but more a gentlehobbit farmer and next in line to be The Took. She looked again at the anxious young hobbit standing on her doorstep. He was certainly dressed to be doing such an odious task. The lad’s clothes looked past well worn and were quite filthy already.

“I will do a good job, Mrs. Took. I’ve done it before at our farm. No need to pay me as much as you might a grownup handy-hobbit. I’ll just do the job first then you may pay me what you reckon my work is worth.”

“Thank you, ma’am, and you won’t regret hiring me!” The youngster gave her a small bow then hurried off to clean Mrs. Took’s chicken coop. Garnet shook her head in wonder as she turned back into the house. She hated to think that dear Mr. Paladin had fallen on such hard times that his only lad was wandering about looking for odd jobs.

Garnet took a small second breakfast out to the lad then elevenses as well. She was just about to take some ham sandwiches out to him for luncheon, when he knocked at the kitchen door, as any worker would do.

“I’m finished, Mrs. Took,” Pippin smiled happily as he spoke. “Would you wish to come look it over, ma’am?”

“You just sit yourself down at this table here, Pippin, and have your fill of luncheon,” she said setting his tray on a small table in her kitchen garden. She wasn’t about to have him bringing the mess and stench of the chicken coop into her clean kitchen. “I’ll go take a look at the coop and decide what you’ve earned.”

He thanked her and set to eating with the usual enthusiasm of a hobbit tween. Garnet went out to find a nearly spotless chicken coop. She had never seen it so well cleaned since the last time she had had the strength to clean it herself. When she got back to her garden, Pippin was finishing his third sandwich, washing it down with a long drink of milk.

He thanked her several times for the eight farthings and then hurried away down the lane.

That afternoon Pippin mucked out a small pig sty for old Mr. Meritius Took then he mucked out all the stalls of Miss Peony Banks’ champion carriage ponies, as her regular stable lad had broken his leg the week before.

Truth be told, there was growing concern on the farms surrounding Whitwell. What horrible thing had befallen the family of Paladin Took that his son and heir was out offering to do the most unpleasant jobs he could find? He had swept chimneys, helped with butchering, cleaned out a duck pond, and helped the local tanner. He had cleaned the muck channels in milking barns, helped deliver a calf, mixed up pigswill and swept up the chaff in a granary.

Pippin had started his run down the lane when he was stopped short by someone grabbing one of his braces. He swung around, losing his footing.

Paladin was not a hobbit to beat about the bush. “Where are you off to and what are you up to that talk at the Horse and Waggon is that we are nearly penniless?”

“They are. Why else would my son be doing all manner of disgusting dirty odd jobs for the families round about Whitwell?”

Pippin blushed and stared at his toes. His father’s voice softened as he knelt on one knee in front of his son.

Paladin’s brows knit together. The first thought that came into his mind was that his son had fallen into trouble with wagering. It was a problem with many tweens. “You needed money Pippin? What do you need money for that you couldn’t simply ask your mother or me?”

Paladin interrupted his son, tucking a finger under the lad’s chin. “Look at me Pippin. You aren’t in trouble.” He smiled encouragingly.

“It’s to be a just because . . . just because I love her gift,” Pippin was feeling awkward. He was a tween now and was sometimes uncomfortable talking about his feelings with his parents. This was one of those uncomfortable times.

“I have been a bit busy with my friends of late and not spending much time with her. I’ve not helped in the kitchen and not helped her in the garden as I used to.”

“That is all part of growing up, Pippin-lad, and your Ma has been through it three times before this. But you are her youngest and I’m sure that is making it a wee bit harder on her.” Paladin rubbed his son’s back a while before pulling back and handing him a handkerchief. “What is it you are wanting to get for her?”

Pippin was immediately more animated. “I went to the wool shop, last time I was in Tuckborough, to see what they might have and Miss Phoebe has the most wondrous knitting wool that she just got in a while ago. It is from Dale she said. She goes to Bree from time to time just to see if there is anything new and different and they had this beautiful wool. It is so soft, Da, that it’s like kitten fur or goose down and she said she’s knitted it up herself and that it works wonderfully and doesn’t shrink very much and is marvellous at keeping off rain. She said it even holds its colour well. I asked if she would set aside some for me and she said she would and let me pick out what I thought Mother would like, but I chose rather a lot of it, twenty skeins in four different colours, and it is frightfully expensive. I couldn’t decide what to not keep, so I told her I would like everything I had chosen and that I’d get the money for it as soon as I could.”

Paladin was smiling, though feeling breathless as he often did with his youngest. It often seemed his lad did not need to breathe like most hobbits.

“I see Pippin. That sounds like a wonderfully thoughtful gift. Your mother will be thrilled. But, why have you been doing such dreadful jobs Pippin? I would have thought there would be more pleasant tasks folks would pay you to do.”

Pippin suddenly became shy, looking down at the ground as he dug about in the dust with the big toe of his right foot. “Well, you know old Martin Broadfoot?”

“Yes.” Paladin knew the old wanderer well, as did every farmer in the Tookland and quite likely in the rest of the Shire as well. If there was a job no one else wished to do, Old Martin would do it. He travelled about in a much repaired cart drawn by an old bay pony whose harness was as repaired as the vehicle he pulled. Martin’s clothes were as patched as everything else; though always clean at the start of the day.

“I was talking to him once and he told me how he had kept his parents living in comfort until they died and how his sisters and their families need never fear being in want. I asked him how, seeing as he was obviously not well to do himself.”

“And he leaned in close to me and said he was as well off as any Took at the Great Smials, better than some he reckoned. He got to wander about as free as could be with nary a care about his needs or his wants. He said he didn’t care for fancies and fineries so he sent most of his coin to his parents, while they lived, then to his sisters. ‘All five of them and theirs live in beautiful holes in Michel Delving, lad. They wear the best of clothing and their tables groan for the weight of the food set upon them,’ he said. I asked him how he could have earned such wealth and he laid his finger to his nose and said, ‘Where there’s muck, there’s brass, my lad!’”

“He said he would do any job, no matter how disgusting, because folk always paid well to have someone else do it for them. When I realized how much money I would need for mother’s gift, I thought to myself, ‘I don’t mind getting messy!’ And so I went looking for dirty jobs that folks around Whitwell needed to have done but didn’t really wish to do for themselves. I have more money than I need for Ma’s wool. I’ve . . . well . . . I’ve had fun getting so thoroughly messy and getting well paid for it instead of scolded for it. I keep my work clothes in the copse just before our lane gets to the road. I wash myself in the pond and then go straight to the bathing room when I get home to get off whatever the pond water can’t.”

Paladin was bursting with pride. He had always known his lad didn’t run from a day’s work, but he had never imagined the lad would purposefully seek it out. He used Pippin’s shoulder to steady himself as he got to his feet.

“No, I was just going to do some scouting about to see what needs to be done.”

“Then I think you should take the day off Pippin. In fact, as there are only two weeks left until your studies resume, I say that you should have that fortnight free as well. You have worked very hard Pippin. The talk in the tavern was naught but praise of the good work you’ve been doing, well, that and concern that we were soon to be destitute.” Paladin chuckled. “You say you have the money you need for the wool?”

“Then I think we shall take a leisurely trip into Tuckborough, just you and I Pippin, and get your mother’s present. How does that sound?”

“I have a shilling and sixpence farthing saved and I only needed thruppence for Ma’s wool. I would like to pay for our luncheon.”

“You may do that, son, and thank you,” Paladin replied but his mind was reeling. That was a tidy sum. He’d never thought the old adage to be that accurate.

A/N: A tip o’ my hat to Mike Rowe and Discovery Channel’s program “Dirty Jobs”. In the opening, Mike always mentions how some people’s willingness to do the dirty jobs is what makes living a civilized life possible for the rest of us. I thought of him and all the people he has worked beside for a day when I read this adage.

Frodo looked at the book on the floor. Pippin had taken a soft black pencil and scribbled all over every picture of the rabbit who was the main character in the small book for faunts.

"Wabbits don' wear clothes, Fwodo!" the wee lad said sharply. "Cute wabbits has fur. Soft wabbit fur. Not silly clothes like Vinca's dollies."

Pippin had to spend an hour sitting on a chair in the corner for scribbling in a book, though he did have a few more picture books to look at and a stuffed puppy to cuddle. Frodo spent the hour drawing a new bunny and pasting his drawings in the book, over the scribbled upon bunny.

Frodo smiled. The new wabbit had soft wabbit fur. He hoped it would make his little cousin happy.

He had been earlier. Earlier he had been giggling and sniggering, cackling and chortling. Earlier his drunken condition had been uproariously funny.

He hadn’t known until it was much too late why it was the lasses wanted the bottle emptied.

It had all started when Pervinca and her gaggle of friends cornered her younger brother in the game room of Great Smials.

“Ah . . . Eh . . . What are you . . . What are you lot up to?” Pippin eventually managed to sound angry instead of frightened.

“We aren’t up to anything, Pippin dear,” Delphinium sweetly smiled. She reminded Pippin of a cat he had once watched toying with a mouse before it killed the small rodent. “We’re here to help you fulfill a dream of yours.”

His sister said nothing and he could not tell from her expression what she was thinking.

Delphinium, Rosemary, Opal, Amber, Pansy, Pervinca, and Aster. To Pippin Took they were the Seven Terrors of Great Smials.

Oddly, being that she was The Took’s daughter, Vinca was not the leader of this group of lasses. That role fell to Delphinium. She was larger than the others, older than the others and one of those who had the knack of making anyone who did not agree with her feel like an ignorant faunt.

For the whole of his father’s first year as The Took and Thain, as long as Pippin, Vinca and Nel had lived at Great Smials, she had terrorized the lad. She had locked him in a privy. She had walked, bold as brass, into the bathing room while he was in the tub and stolen his clothes. She had flung his scarf high into a tree (she really had quite a strong throwing arm). She had embarrassed him in innumerable ways in front of the other lads at every social event at the Smials. If they had been in their teens it might have been understandable. But Delphinium had been thirty when Paladin Took became Thain. She was thirty-one now. They were a little old for such nonsense now.

But the truth of the matter was that Delphinium had taken a liking to Peregrin Took the moment she had first seen him at the grand celebration to welcome the new Took and Thain. She just didn’t know how to show a lad that she liked him, so she teased him just to pay attention to him.

Pervinca had been terrified when her family moved to the Smials. She was a farmer’s daughter, not a Smials lass. And though her father’s holdings were large, even though they had hired hands and her father was referred to as a gentlehobbit farmer, it did not change the fact that she was a country lass. In her fear of being an outsider, she had readily gone with the first group of lasses that offered to take her in: Delphinium and her friends.

Paladin and Lanti had approved. They were well bred young lasses, polite and helpful to the adults in the Great Smials. They did not know that Delphinium was actually quite a horrid child. Pervinca had gradually realized that her new friend was not very nice, made all the more clear because Delphinium’s favorite target had quickly become her own little brother. Pervinca herself loved teasing Pippin, but it was different when it was someone outside of their own family doing the teasing – and doing so much of it.

But she was still terribly afraid of having no friends if she did anything that might put her out of Delphinium’s favor.

Pippin was no wimp, but this situation was rather strange. If they had been younger, he would have shoved her into a puddle or cut off a few of her curls. He would have had any number of ways to fight back. But they were tweens and, much as being rough with a lass was always frowned upon, it was absolutely taboo when a lad became a tween. He couldn’t tell his parents or hers as that would make him look weak and immature. He couldn’t use her own tactics against her. He was trapped.

“We have this bottle and we need it emptied.” Delphinium held out a large, three-quarters empty bottle of Took Whisky. “Vinca tells us you like Took Whisky but you’ve only had one or two wee sips. There’s not a lad in the Tooklands, no, not a lad in the whole of the Shire that is happy with only wee sips. I am generously giving you the opportunity to have more than a few wee sips. I am going to let you have all that is left in this bottle.”

Pippin’s eyes widened. It was indeed a generous offer, made all the more generous by it’s forbidden nature. He really wasn’t supposed to have whisky until he was of age. Early in the drink’s existence the Tooks realized that it was much more potent than ale or wine. When a couple of lads nearly died from drinking too much of it, it was decided by The Took at the time that no one should be able to partake of whisky until they were of age.

Which was, of course, why Pippin had only had a few sips. Lads were always finding ways to sample the liquor, and the opportunity to have one fourth of a bottle to himself had definite appeal.

“What’s in this for you, Delly?” He cautiously asked, not wanting to cause her to rescind her generous offer.

“The chance to win a wager, Pippin.” The lass tossed her hair and looked down her nose at the lad. “Your sister has no confidence in you. She has said you won’t be able to drink it all. She said you will be sicker than a cat with a hairball when you have only drunk half of it.” Delly leaned in, making Pippin feel smaller than he usually did. “I told her you could drink it all.”

“Of course I can!” Pippin exclaimed though his thoughts were screaming several reasons why he couldn’t, why he shouldn’t even try. He told his thoughts to stay out of it. “I can hold my ale just fine, no reason at all that I shouldn’t be able to hold good Took Whisky.”

Now his sister’s eyes widened. It was true that Pippin could drink more ale than folk expected but he was not a heavy drinker and he often ended up under the table when other lads were still going strong. More to the point was that she had said no such thing. Delphinium had gathered them all together, told them they were going to have some fun with The Took’s son, and off they had gone, trailing after her until they had found Pippin playing patience in the otherwise empty games room. Pervinca shook her head ever so slightly to Pippin. Pippin, eyes indignant, nodded ever so slightly back.

“You’re on!” he said holding his hand out to Delly who grasped it hard and gave it one quick jerk.

The group went off to a mathom room in a little used tunnel of the Smials. They lasses sat in a circle on the dusty floor, Pippin sat in the middle. The bottle was uncorked and Pippin began his drinking. To his credit, he choked very little as the burning fluid ripped down his throat. He coughed more than he choked but used further swigs of the whisky to chase away the coughing.

He felt tingly. Everything the lasses said was hilarious. Everything he said, or tried to say, was hilarious.

“Oo’re a snake, Delwy,” he eventually slurred at the large lass. “Gween, shinny, snaky lasssss.”

“Do I feel like a snake, Pippin?” she laughed, grabbing his hand and bringing it up to the shoulder of her green silk dress.

He looked rather lecherous as he nodded while petting the expensive material. “Schnaky! Hisssss!” he imitated a snake then pulled his hand away, laughing so hard he started crying.

Pippin tried to focus on his sister who appeared to be swaying in a breeze he could not feel.

“Scheee’s a weaschul.” He glared at Vinca who was sitting next Delphinium. “Schee bet ‘ginst me.”

“Drink up Pippin!” Delly lightly punched Pippin’s shoulder to get him to quit staring at his sister. He almost fell over.

“Long schwig.” He took a deep breath, put the bottle to his mouth and poured the remaining golden liquor down his throat. He almost fell over backwards but somehow managed to stay upright. Finally he lowered the bottle and glared at Pervinca. He also belched loudly at Pervinca.

“Wass m’ prize?” Pippin mumbled as he slowly turned from his sister to look at Delly. He turned past the group’s leader, looked confused and muttered “Wher sche go?” before his bleary eyes finally found and focused on her as best they could.

It was at this point that Pippin began to change from a silly drunk to an unhappy one. His condition was made worse by Delphinium reaching for the bottle, placing it on the floor between them and giving it a slight nudge. The bottle wobbled and spun slowly. It would have stopped with its thin neck pointing like an arrow at Amber if Delphinium hadn’t stopped it with her toe so that it pointed at herself.

“No,” he said in a pinched whisper. He tried to back away but his hands slipped on the dusty floor and he was suddenly flat on his back.

Delphinium was on him in an instant, her lips smashed tightly against those of the inebriated lad.

At first, Pippin had tried to thrash against her, but he was too drunk, and anyway she outweighed him. It was not a plain kiss. As drunk as he was Pippin did not like it one bit, but he was completely incapable to stop anything she chose to do to him. Finally the lad quite squirming.

It was a few seconds later that Delly realized he didn’t seem to be breathing either. She pulled away from him.

His head slowly flopped over to the right and a trickle of drool dotted the floor.

Pervinca screamed and threw herself upon Delphinium. “You’ve killed him! You killed him. You killed my brother! You horrible, wretched bully!”

Opal got up and ran to get help while the other four girls tried to pull Pervinca off of Delphinium. Moments later The Took and Thain himself burst into the room. Ignoring the girls he went straight to his son, falling to his knees beside the lad. Paladin put his ear to Pippin’s chest while the fingers of his right hand dug into the side of his son’s neck, trying to find his pulse.

Within moments Paladin, his son in his arms, hurried from the room. Shortly thereafter, the old dusty mathom room was empty.

Paladin stared wide-eyed Pippin, still in his arms as he hurried towards their apartments.

“Pippin?” he asked redundantly then said, “Yes, she’s gone, or well I’ve taken you out of there.”

Pippin nuzzled into his father’s shoulder. “Goo. Schee wasch bein’ icky. Schee wasch . . . Ah ack’ed dead.” Pippin looked at his father, grinned broadly then belched as the grin faded into a frown. “Ah’m dwunk, Daddy,” he said tearfully. “Ah wasch na . . . nau . . . bad. Ah’m gonna pooke on ‘ou.”

Pippin was shaking with his sobbing as his father walked a few steps past the mess before sitting his son on a bench in the tunnel. “Schoorry. Ah’m schooo na . . . nau . . . bad.” Paladin kept him from falling as he leaned forward and vomited again. They sat there until the lad was finished then Paladin gently carried his now sleeping son to his bedroom. Eglantine had heard about it all by then and had the covers turned down. She would give Pippin her patent hangover remedy in the morning.

The next day, Delphinium’s parents were called to the office of The Took. Orders were given that they deal appropriately with their immodest daughter.

Pippin spent the next day in bed. His stomach had not yet recovered, nor had his head. While he napped and read little bits from his books, Pervinca, Pimpernel, Everard and Ferdi, two of Pippin’s older Took cousins, paid a visit to Delphinium. Pervinca no longer feared losing the lass’ friendship. Amber and Rosemary had both approached Vinca later in the day expressing their concern for Pippin and telling her they also no longer wished to follow Delphinium’s lead. Pervinca now had friends of her own.

“We handled Delly, Pippin,” Everard said later in the day when the sisters and cousins came to visit the recovering lad. “Let us just say, you won both that bet and the battle.”

“I’m only glad of the former because it brought me the later,” Pippin sighed. “May it be a long, long time before I get myself that drunk again.”

For reasons she never revealed to anyone, Delphinium never bothered Peregrin Took again.

Golden keeps giving me starter elements. She is quite the task master. This is the first idea I had for these words, but there was a section she didn't like. So I wrote a different story which is at SOA called "Pippin and the Empty Bottle". I thought I would debut this one here and at PippinHealers.

Elements: seven lasses, green silk, drunken Pippin, unwanted kiss, older cousins

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Seven Sisters

The evening mists rose in the valleys that wound through the Green Hill Country, creeping its way silently up the hillsides until, from a distance, the hills looked like islands in a grey lake. The autumn nights were like that, crystal clear skies above ground that was draped with a soft, thick blanket of grey. Only those who climbed above the fog would see the dazzling stars.

Pippin was above the fog; heavily dressed, heavily cloaked and heavily drunk. He had climbed into the hills to escape, taking a large and unopened bottle of Took Whisky with him. It was now nearly half gone.

It had been one of those days.

His mother had been quite put out with him. She had asked him two days before to go into Tuckborough and fetch some items that she had ordered that were now ready to be picked up. Yes, she could have sent a servant, but she and Paladin liked to have their children do occasional errands for them. They did not want them becoming too spoiled by their new place in Tookland society. Paladin was now The Took and Thain and his two younger daughters and his twenty-five year old son were still living with him and his wife. All of Lanti's errands were to lasses shops to pick up lasses things. Pippin didn't mind going to the bakery or the grocers, but he felt awkward going by himself to the dress makers and the milliners shops. This morning he finally went, getting all fussed over by the matrons in the shops just as he had dreaded he would.

At least he had his afternoon with his father to look forward to. They were going to do some hunting. But the Took ended up being called away to render his decision as to the quality of the repairs on a bridge, and their "lads outing" was cancelled.

But the errands and the loss of his afternoon with his father were not the worst the day delivered. Oh no. There had been much worse.

Pervinca had several of her friends over that afternoon, which had been why the "lads outing" had been planned, and even though Great Smials was huge, Pippin had been unable to avoid the flock of giggling girls. Why they had taken an interest in tormenting him, he had not the slightest idea. They were all five years older than him, plus or minus a year or two and as such really oughtn't to have any interest in him. Well, perhaps that wasn't quite right. Aunt Esme was four years older than Uncle Saradoc after all, so it did make a little sense, their wanting to harass him.

One lass in particular, Delphinium, was the worst of the lot. Ever since his family had moved to the Smials two years previously she had been like a boil on his bum. Not that she was hideously ugly. She was alright looking; neither unattractive nor attractive, simply somewhere in the middle. But her voice reminded Pippin of a cat in heat and she was a snob. Pippin truly loathed snobs.

He had fled to the library, but they found him. He had gone to his room, but they stood in the hallway outside of his door calling to him and laughing. Where his mother had disappeared to, Pippin had no idea, but she did not come to his rescue. They were in the garden, they were in the dining room, and they were in the games room and the common rooms. Always smirking and giggling, with Delphinium, and a couple of the others, batting their lashes and blowing kisses at him whilst calling him sweetums and dearie.

Finally the seven lasses trapped him in a small hallway. There were lasses before him and lasses behind him, with nothing but himself and solid uninterrupted walls between the two giggling groups. He stood there wishing a large hole would appear in the floor beneath his feet. Slowly the two groups moved forward. Closer. Closer. Until they were so close Pippin could not even turn around without bumping into them with his shoulders. Then . . . Delphinium grabbed his face and kissed him.

A deep kiss.

One of those intrusive sort of kisses that, if not given by someone you really like, made you wish to spit and keep spitting until you got somewhere that you could rinse out your mouth.

And that was what Pippin did. When he finally managed to push her away he spat on the floor right at her feet. The lasses all gasped. Red faced and feeling completely ill used, Pippin pushed several of them out of his way then he ran as hard as he could down the hall, leaving seven lasses in stunned silence behind him. He stopped only long enough to steal a bottle of whisky from the sideboard grab his heaviest jacket and cloak off their hooks by the door, then he ran out of Great Smials and up into the surrounding hills.

He had heard it said whisky was a powerful drink, so he reckoned it should be able to get the taste and feel of that wretched lass out of his mouth. The first two mouthfuls of whisky Pippin swished vigorously around in his mouth before spitting them out. The stuff burned, but better that than the feeling of Delphinium's kiss. The third mouthful he gargled poorly and ended up swallowing. He coughed, choked and gasped then he felt a warmth start to replace the chill he had had inside. "Why not?" he said aloud to himself. "An ale is good for what ails you. This should do the job even better." He gulped down a huge mouthful. Then another. And another.

"I hate lasses!" he shouted skyward after several swigs of the hard liquor. "Hate them, hate them . . ." he belched and hiccoughed at the same time. "Hate them!"

Pippin started walking about the hill top stopping occasionally to take another swig of whisky from the bottle. Soon his walking turned to stumbling.

"I will kill Per . . . Perv . . . ma suster what's `er name, an' then I shall kill all (hic) all her widdle guggling fwiends. `Specially . . . `pecially . . ."

Pippin spat on the ground. "Ick! She tas'ed icky! Icky. No' like whisky. Icky no' like wicky!"

He began to sing "Icky no' like wicky!" while dancing disjointedly around on mushy legs that almost seemed to bend backwards at times. He wobbled about the hilltop as the sun sank and the mists rose and the stars burst out of the deep blue of the autumn night sky.

He tripped and fell on his rear, belched and said "Ouchy!" then fell over onto his side where he lay giggling and taking more sips out of the bottle.

Which brings us back to where we came in; Pippin heavily dressed, heavily cloaked and heavily drunk with a half empty bottle of whisky in his hand.

Pippin tried to get up, rolling up onto his hands and knees. But the ground spun to the right while he was spinning to the left. He vomited, then fell away from it to his right and knew no more.

He awoke on the hill top. A thin crescent moon put a silvery-blue edge on everything its light touched. Everything below him was covered with a shimmering mist that swirled and eddied around the hills. It was beautiful, yet strange and Pippin shivered from the feeling inside himself more than from the chill in the air.

Movement caught his eye. A dark line was snaking its way through the fog in the valley below his hill, following where he knew a road lay. Slowly, disappearing only to reappear in the moon-kissed vapors, the line approached until it became recognizable as it began to inch up a nearby hill.

It was a funeral procession heading up the hill where one of the larger Took cemeteries stood beneath ancient oaks and beeches. Pippin sat up to get a better look. The procession seemed unusually long, even for a Great Smials funeral. He counted the hearses as they slowly immerged from the fog on their laborious climb up Cemetery Hill. There were seven coffins on seven hearses drawn by seven teams of black ponies.

Seven.

Why did that number trouble him so? A chill shook Pippin to his bones as the wailing of the mourners found its way into his ears. Strangely, it also seemed to be coming from behind him as well. Feeling pulled against his will, he turned to look at the hilltop behind him.

Seven ladies circled in a slow dance upon the grey lawn of the treeless hill. They all were gowned in green robes that shimmered like silk in the pale moon light. Big People, they were, not hobbitesses. Worse yet, they seemed to pass through each other in their strange, stately dance. As they glided o'er the ground they moaned and wept, trailing filmy green scarves about them as they danced. A feeling of heaviness came upon Pippin, growing darker and weightier with each new pattern of the dance.

He looked back to the long funeral. The last of the mourners were nearly at the cemetery, yet something still trailed behind. A long black cloud flowed back down the hillside, atop the fog that lay in the valley, and rolled heavily up the hill upon which he sat and the dancers danced. It lay deep on the face of the earth so that the ladies appeared to be dancing in black water that reached halfway to their knees. And the blackness swirled like molasses stirred into batter, and the ladies wailed and wept.

One of the dancers broke from the dance, gliding to a stop before the trembling hobbit.

"You need not fear us, hobbit child. Sorrow shared is sorrow halved. It is our purpose to share in sorrow. We will cause you no harm. Mourn your dead."

"M-mourn m-my dead?"

She reached out a long white hand and rested it upon Pippin's head. He felt as though something inside him was being drawn out of him to meet her touch.

"Mourn your dead. You know them all. Six there be who you would call distant kin. One is your youngest sister."

Pippin jerked as a spasm of pain shot through him, upwards toward the lady's hand. His eyes met hers. They were filled with the cold depths of the heavens.

"You wished them dead, did you not?"

Pippin couldn't move. He felt cold and bloodless as a dead fish.

"These are my sisters," she said, her green scarf fluttering as she gestured at the dancers. "Our brothers fell trying to save us from the wrath of the worm that devoured all in its path. We sisters ran in terror from the worm that would kill us. We ran, until strength was gone, until feet were bloodied, until breath seemed no longer to fill our lungs. We ran and prayed to be spared. And the ground fell away, the worm despaired of tasting our flesh, and we were given a place of safety in the firmament."

She lifted her hand from Pippin's head and pointed a slender finger to the sky. His eyes followed and he gasped. Where the Swordsman stood ready for battle, where the Ox grazed, something was missing. Between them there should have been a small cluster of stars . . . but they were gone.

"We wept and mourned for of our kith and kin none of whom remained. It was given us to succor those who mourn upon Arda, for we have mourned greatly. Sorrow shared is sorrow halved."

Pippin's eyes were drawn once more to hers. They were dark as the space where the missing stars should have been shining.

"They were running after you." Her scarf gracefully swirled as she waved her hand toward the opposite hill top. "Your sister had risen to your defense and they were going to seek your forgiveness. A tunnel collapsed upon them all. Mourn your dead, hobbit child."

"I d-didn't really . . . not really. I-I didn't want them to be . . ." Pippin could not see through his tears. His heart pounded. His breath came in gasps. Panic raised gall into his throat. "They had been mean to me. Even Vinca, although, sometimes she and a couple of the others did l-look as though . . . as though they felt sorry for teasing me."

He turned toward Cemetery Hill. The coffins were being carried by the pall bearers toward where the graves must lie. The hobbits paused. He could not see from the distance he was, but he knew the movements. He had been to funerals before. The slow placing of the hands in just the right spots along the coffin's sides. The slow turning as the weight of the coffin is taken onto the hands and off of the shoulders. Now the pall bearers faced each other across the top of the coffin. Now they lowered it upon the ropes. They take up the ropes. They walk on either side of the grave. They stop.

The coffin is lowered into the grave.

Across the valley, Pippin could hear the clods of earth hitting the surfaces of the seven coffins.

The wailing upon the hilltop was his own.

Pippin woke up, the sound of his own screaming in his ears. It was late. The thin moon had set. The Ox touched the horizon. The Seven Sisters sparkled in their place in the heavens.

"Pippin! Pippin! Where are you?"

"Pip? Pippin!"

He heard the lasses long before he saw them. His older cousins Everard and Ferdi were with them as well.

"Here, I'm up . . . Ugh!" He tried to sit up but his head spun. He rolled onto his side and groaned. But relief was flooding through him. They weren't dead. He recognized all their voices. Even Delphinium's, and for once it didn't set his teeth on edge.

He braced his hand to attempt sitting up again. It touched something soft and cool. The light from Pervinca's lantern shone upon it as she crested the hill.

"Pippin! You're all right!" Vinca exclaimed, falling to her knees beside her little brother, setting down her lantern and then hugging him tightly.

"I'm all right, Vinca," he said as he wept. "Better yet, so are you."

Pippin hugged his sister as hard as he could, while clutching a green silk scarf tightly in his right hand.

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A/N: In this I used some of the various mythologies concerningThe Pleiades - or The Seven Sisters. It is the smallest constellation.and is seen in both hemispheres. In Celtic and some other traditions, they were associated with grief, mourning and funerals. The Sioux and the Kiowa tribes of American Indians believed they were sisters who were trying to escape a bear. They climbed a large rock and prayed to the spirit of the rock to save them. The rock began to grow upwards so the bear could not reach them. The seven sisters eventually reached the sky and were turned into the constellation. The rock is Devil's Tower in Wyoming.

Golden wanted a little story about what Merry was thinking when the Rohirrim arrive at Minas Tirith - movie version. Most all of the lines in quotes are taken from the movie “The Return of the King”.
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I’m hot, sweaty and strangely out of breath. It is easy at times to forget how much work it actually is to ride a horse, especially one that is going at a full gallop; especially when you aren’t seated in the saddle. But we’ve slowed now; slowed to a stealthy walk up a low rise. For some strange reason, I’m breathing harder now than I was before.

We have been able to see the city for a while now, growing ever bigger as we’ve drawn ever nearer, but the rise blocked our view of the plains that I’ve been told lie at the foot of the huge jutting mountain. The clouds have lightened behind us as we have come from the Northwest, and the reflected light of the rising sun now glows around us, but, before us and to the East, the clouds hang as thick and black as any thunder storm I have ever seen.

I am staring where the city seems to touch the heavy clouds when I realize we have come to a standstill and I hear my Lady Eowyn gasp sharply. I lower my gaze.

I feel my blood draining from my head to run like ice through my body. My eyes widen till it feels as though they shall drop from their sockets.

The noise and the stench of the battle waft up to us on a fetid breeze before the brisk wind behind us tries to force it back down into the valley.

My lady is gasping in shallow breaths; I’m not sure that I’m breathing at all. I feel her arm around me, just below my throat, and I clasp her wrist with my right hand. She leans forward as she tightens her grip on me, pulling me more tightly to her chest.

“Courage Merry!” I hear her say in a voice barely loud enough to be heard through the metal of my helmet. “Courage for our friends!”

We don’t know if Strider, Legolas and Gimli are even in the city or on that embattled field. They are my friends.

Gandalf is there . . . somewhere. He is my friend, as much as one can be friends with someone as mysterious as a wizard.

But Pippin is no friend. Pippin is my kin. More brother than cousin. Pippin is nearly half of me. My wide open eyes continue to stare at the seething mass of Orcs before me.

King Theoden is speaking. “Fear no darkness!” he shouts. He is trying to stir our hearts for what lies ahead.

“Whatever happens,” my Lady says to me as she still clutches me tightly, “stay with me. I’ll look after you.”

I weakly nod my head in response. Normally, I would have been angry with any Big Person saying they will look after me. Now, however, nothing is normal and I only hope she can.

The King begins to ride down the long line of riders, clanging his sword against their spears.

“Ride now!” he shouts. “Ride now! Ride! Ride to ruin . . . and the world’s ending!”

“Death!” I raise my sword high, my voice is one of the first to respond, close followed by my Lady’s.

Thank you to Golden for another from her seemingly endless supply of plot bunnies:

Pippin and Merry staying at Bag End with Frodo. Pippin can’t sleep; his feet are too cold then too hot, then he is hungry after which he is too full with too much energy. Write about his and his cousin’s frustrations over losing a night’s sleep.

“I almost feel like waking him,” Merry said irritably. “It would serve him right.”

“No!” Frodo exclaimed sotto voce. “No you don’t, Meriadoc. He’s finally asleep and with any luck we soon will be too. Leave him as he is; don’t touch a thing. Just back away quietly and let’s go to our own rooms.”

They stood a few moments more looking at the slumbering tweenager. He lay sprawled on his back on the sofa in the parlor. His mouth was open, Pippin’s mouth seemed always to be open except when he was chewing food, and the sound of his soft breathing could easily be heard. The top of him was uncovered by anything other than his nightshirt. A knitted blanket lay over his hips and down his left leg to completely cover his foot while his right leg was covered only by his night shirt, and that only down to his knee. His right leg dangled over the edge of the sofa from the knee down with his bare toes barely touching the ornate rug.

Merry moved his hand toward the blanket. “Perhaps I should cover his right le . . .”

“NO!” Frodo hissed, grabbing his cousin’s arm and jerking it away from the sleeper on the sofa. “No. He apparently is just right, at last. Leave him be.”

With one more glance at their young cousin, the two older cousins turned and walked out of the parlor, bid each other quiet good nights (even though it was nearly dawn) and shuffled off to their rooms.

It had all started shortly after they had called it a night and gone to their beds the evening before.

“Share the bed with you. May I share with you, Merry? I can’t seem to get warm in my bed.”

The two tweens, Pippin at twenty-two and Merry a ripe old thirty, were spending the first two weeks of Afteryule with their elder cousin Frodo at Bag End. It gave them all a little more time for a visit than the week they had together for Yule at Great Smials, and that without all the fuss and bother of everyday life at the huge smial.

When the younger lads had been even younger they regularly shared a bed, but now that they were tweens they preferred the room to sprawl out that separate beds in the same room afforded them.

“ACH!” he screamed seconds after Pippin entered the bed. “Feet! Get your freezing feet off of me!”

“Sorry!” came the quick reply as, even more quickly, the offending feet were snatched away. “Told you I couldn’t get warm.”

“I know. You’re too thin and too . . . too . . . you’re too thin. Now go to sleep and don’t touch me.”

But sleep eluded the youngster. His feet almost hurt, they were so cold. He tried thinking them warmer.

“Yes,” he thought. “I’m lying on the heath rug, my feet nearly on the hearth itself. There’s a nice roasty-toasty blaze in the grate and if I’m not careful I’ll singe my soles.”

Next he tried moving his feet back and forth beneath the blankets. He moved slowly at first, not wanting to disturb his slumbering cousin, but as that didn’t work, he moved them a little faster. A little faster. A little . . .

“Eh, no, Merry. I’m not dreaming at all. I’m moving my feet to get them warm.”

Pippin lay there a few moments then slipped out of the bed and padded over to the fireplace. He held out his hands. Yes, the coals were still giving off heat. As quietly as he could he stirred them up to shake the crust of ash off of them, then laid on two small logs.

“I dropped a log into the grate, Merry. All is well, it didn’t make a mess. Go back to sleep.”

“If I can,” muttered the lump in the bed which in a few moments was snoring.

Soon the logs caught and a small cozy fire glowed in the fireplace. Pippin grabbed a blanket off of his own bed to wrap around himself, then sat with his legs straight out before him with his feet as close to the fire as he dared to put them.

When he woke up he felt as though something wasn’t quite right. The next instant he jerked his feet away from the hearth with an expletive.

“What?” Merry sat bolt upright in the bed. The air in the room did smell a bit oddly.

Merry was at Pippin’s side in an instant. The skin on a hobbit’s feet was tough as tough could be, but it did have its limits. Pippin’s soles were hot to the touch and Merry was sure that in the light of day they would be quite pink looking.

“I don’t think you’ve burned them yet. Hopefully, they won’t even blister. Sit here, Pippin.”

“As though I feel like walking anywhere. Ohhh!” Pippin added painfully as Merry hurried from the room. “Do hurry Merry!”

“What is going on in here?” came Frodo’s sleepy voice from the doorway. He had stuck his head out of his bedroom door just in time to see Merry rushing down the tunnel to the bathing room.

Pippin turned around. “I’ve toasted my feet,” he said in a childlike voice. “Merry’s gone to get something for them.”

“Not in the fire, Frodo. I’m not that daft. I . . . oh, thank you Merry!” Pippin exclaimed with a large sigh of pleasure.

The middle cousin had returned with wrung out cloths in a bucket. He had just wrapped one around Pippin’s left foot.

“Not in the fire, Frodo, but too close upon the hearth for too long. I think I had finally fallen asleep.”

“Hmm.” was all the elder cousin said. Frodo left the room and returned with a large lamp. By it’s bright light, they could see that Pippin’s feet were not as injured as they had initially thought. After a short time of sitting with the cold wrappings upon his feet, they had Pippin try standing up. To everyone’s great relief, his feet hurt, but not unbearably so.

At Frodo’s suggestion, the lads got back into bed and Frodo wrapped Pippin’s feet with a small lap robe before he covered them with the bedclothes.

“Good night now, lads,” Frodo said from the door as he left for his own room.

Pippin wriggled about, seeking a more comfortable position. “Shush!” he whispered to his noisy tummy. “You’ll wake Merry!”

It rumbled and gurgled, the sound seeming louder than it really was in the quiet of the dwelling.

“Roll over Pip!” Merry muttered and shoved at his cousin’s shoulder. “You’re snoring.”

There was no sense in explaining to Merry, he wasn’t really awake, so Pippin again addressed his stomach.

It was no good. Pippin lay there another twenty minutes, as near as he could reckon, and his tummy just kept up singing its hunger songs. With a sigh, he got up, put on his dressing gown, lit a candle with a taper he lit from the coals in the hearth, then carefully tiptoed out of the room on his still tender feet.

The tiles of the kitchen floor felt better on his feet than had the rugs and wood floors of the rest of the hole. Pippin lit the large lamp in the center of the table, then he and his candle went to investigate the cupboards and the pantry. As quietly as he could, he fired up the range and soon he was happily mixing up the ingredients for griddle cakes. He whistled a tuneless tune as he cracked the eggs into the flour. He started to dance a little jig as her mixed the batter, but it soon hurt his tender feet, so he had to content himself with bouncing at the knees in time to his whistling.

“Those were some of the best . . . he paused to belch . . . griddle cakes I’ve ever made, and Peregrin Took makes excellent griddle cakes, I will have you know,” he said to the empty kitchen as he patted his full tummy.

“These will wait for morning,” Pippin sighed as he looked at the dirty griddle, mixing bowl, plate and fork he had used. He burped loudly again then blew out the lamp, took up his candle then headed back to the room he shared with Merry. Back into Merry’s bed he crawled, stifling another burp so as not to disturb his cousin.

“I can’t seem to lie still, Merry,” Pippin explained, following it with a belch.

“I think a dozen,” Pippin mumbled embarrassedly. “I sort of lost count.”

“Eh . . . half the bottle?” Pippin sounded like he was asking a question instead of giving an answer.

“Wonderful!” Merry groaned. “Get up!” He pushed his cousin toward the edge of the bed. “Get up and get out. You will not be able to sleep for at least an hour. Maybe two with all of that in you. Go!”

“Yes Merry,” came the dejected reply as Pippin got up, put on his dressing gown and left the room.

Peace reigned for about half an hour when a huge crash rattled the walls of Bag End. Frodo and Merry arrived at the kitchen together. The large hanging rack that normally held most of Frodo’s pots and pans was swinging back and forth.

All the pots and pans were on the floor with Pippin. Along with pieces of plates which had been on the table and that some of the pans had hit and broken to bits as they landed.

“I lost my balance,” Pippin squeaked like a mouse as his cousins now noticed that a tipped over step ladder was lying not far from their cousin. “I had decided to wash up after Merry kicked me out of the bed. I was trying to hang the griddle when . . .” he looked at the mess surrounding him on the cold tile floor. “. . . I lost my balance,” he meekly finished.

Frodo sighed and closed his eyes. Merry turned away so, hopefully, neither Frodo or Pippin would see he was laughing.

“No,” Frodo cut the lad off in mid offer. “No, Pip, that is quite all right. Merry and I will clean it up. You may go into the parlor and sit on the sofa and do nothing until we are done. I don’t know that I could handle anything else happening tonight.”

“Do you think you can manage to sit on the sofa and not hurt yourself nor break anything?”

Pippin went and it was there, on the sofa in the parlor, that his cousins later found him.

Frodo wondered, as he was drifting off to sleep, if he should say something to Pip when they all finally woke up later in the day about his inability to do as he was told. After all, he’d been told to sit on the sofa, not lie down and fall asleep. Frodo was chuckling in his mind as sleep over took him.

But when Frodo awoke and went into the parlor a few hours later it was clear the fire had been built up again at some point in time before once more dying down. Merry was wrapped in several blankets and asleep on the floor by the sofa on which Pippin still soundly slept. Frodo smiled and laughed softly to himself as he stoked the fire. He got another knitted blanket from the stand beside the fireplace and wrapped it about himself before sitting in the wing backed chair, putting his feet up on the foot stool and joining his cousins in blissful slumber.

I now know to dedicate this story to Holly. I hope you enjoy your special story.
HAPPY YULE!

This was written for the LOTR Community General Fanfiction Yule Exchange.
The request I was given was:

I'd love to see a story where a young one (man, elf, or Hobbit) is hoping that THIS will be the year they get their first pony for Yule. When Yule morning comes, the little one ends up getting assorted gifts and trys to act appreciative, all the while lamenting that there was no pony. They can't help themselves and their disappoint causes them to act out.....only later after they have apologized to have their father,/Ada/Da, ask them to come to the barn with them while they check on their horse, only for the young one to find a pony with a huge bow on it.

I had help with ideas and brain storming from Cathleen, Golden, and my husband. Many thanks to all of you.
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The little lad sat unhappily in a sunlit corner of his room. His mother had died not long before and he had been unhappy often since then, but this time was one of the worst times. It was Yule Tide.

Many special parts of the day that he could remember from his other Yule Tides had either been less special or had not happened at all. His older brother was still at his tutoring, it had not been suspended for the day. At six years of age, the younger lad only had lessons for two hours each day. He had finished his lessons that morning. His father was . . . well . . .

The lad squirmed a little as he tried to put words to what his father did all day and much of the evenings. Time that he wasn’t with the lad; which was most of the time.

Father was the Steward, so Faramir reckoned he stewarded. Whatever that meant. Mostly, from what the lad had ever seen of it, stewarding was sitting on a special chair in the Tower Hall and talking in very serious tones to all sorts of visitors and advisors. All young Faramir really knew about it was that now it seemed to be more important to his father than he was, and that it hadn’t been more important than he was when his mother . . .

It had all been so different when his mother had been there. Everything had been better when she was there. Even the Yule decorations in the Hall of Feasts looked duller than they had last year. He missed her, oh, how he missed her. But talking about her only made Father sadder. Boromir understood and they often talked about the things they remembered about their mother.

Far away, in a large but cozy farmhouse, in a land where it was much colder at Yule Tide than it was in Minas Tirith, things were very different. A large family sat about the lovingly decorated parlor with their farm hands and their families. They were all happy and smiling. Especially Mistress Eglantine and Mister Paladin.

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SIX YEARS PASS
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Faramir rolled his eyes as his manservant patted and brushed at his tunic. There were times that it was most annoying being fussed over so much. Boromir insisted that he always look his best, though Faramir wasn’t sure why. At least Rothari was a good sort. He knew funny stories and songs and he was often good at looking the other way when the brothers were having fun that bordered on being improper for young men of their station.

“Fair has everything to do with it. How often have I had to hear about when Boromir received his first horse that was all his own?”

The thin twelve year old drew himself up as tall as he could, assumed his father’s stance and, in as good an imitation as was possible for a lad whose voice had not yet changed, began the recitation.

“I gave Rochallor to Boromir when he was but a lad of ten because he was strong and already showing signs of becoming a superb soldier. I might consider a horse for you if you were to get your nose out of your books and improve your combative skills.”

“It is only the truth, young sir, and since you do prefer that to lies . . .” Rothari stood back and motioned for his charge to turn around in place. “I can only assume that the truth is what you wish me to speak.” The man dropped some of his formal bearing. “Boromir was half a head taller and half again as wide as you at your age and able to win over lads three years his senior in most competitions.”

“Yet *he* can see I’m a more than able horseman, why can’t father see it? Even Theodred says I ride well and surely he is a good judge of someone’s ability to ride?” Faramir pouted, a gesture that did not suit his age.

“Yes, yes. I’m certain the young Prince of the Horse Lords is a very good judge of a rider’s abilities. Alas, you live under your father’s rule, not his.” Rothari nodded. The lad looked perfect. “There you are, Master Faramir. As perfect a Steward’s son as can be. You need to hurry along now or you’ll be late to the Yule Feast, and you know what you’ll have to endure should you arrive late.”

“Do you know what Father’s gift to me is, Boromir?” were the first words out of the younger brother’s mouth.

“Good afternoon to you as well, brother. I am quite well, thank you for asking,” Boromir smirked.

“Good afternoon, brother,” Faramir sing-songed. “How are you this day, brother? Do you know what Father’s gift to me is, brother?”

The strapping seventeen year old roared with laughter as he slapped his younger brother on the back.

“Persistant!” Boromir said through his laughter. “If persistence can win a battle, you shall always be victorious, little brother.”

Faramir did not join in the jocularity. “Thank you. Let Father know of your opinion of me. Do you know?”

“No,” the elder sobered a little. “No, I do not know if you are getting a horse.”

“I won’t. I just know I won’t.” The youth’s lips tightened. “In a few years time I shall be ready to take my place among the soldiers while riding a wooden horse with yarn for it’s mane and tail.”

“That’s just perfect! I’ll have an old nag that is kept about for the wives of visiting dignitaries.”

“Or one of the swiftest horses in the realm. The message rider’s horses are kept there as well.”

The meal was grand. The decorations were extravagant. The gifts for the Steward and his sons were . . .

Various courtiers and relatives gave him nice enough gifts; books, maps, a potted plant of an unusual species, drawing supplies, but he wasn’t seeing any indication of his receiving his heart’s desire. Farmir tried to be gracious. Tried. He did not succeed.

“Perhaps,” his father intoned part way through the opening of gifts, “you would prefer to be sent to your chambers, Faramir. You seem to not be well, if one may adequately judge by your demeanor and expression.”

The lad started to give a cheeky reply, but caught sight of his older brother’s slight shake of his head.

At last, there were only two sets of gifts that remained to be opened by the two heirs to the Steward of Gondor; one from their father and one from their uncle, the Prince of Dol Amoroth. Tradition held that the Steward’s gift was presented last, but Imrahil stepped forward and spoke.

“Because I have brought two separate gifts for my younger nephew and which of those I present him with will depend upon what your gift to him is.”

Denethor considered the matter then waved to a servant to take his presents to his sons.

Boromir was given a fine new surcoat and a new scabbard. Faramir was given a matching surcoat . . . and a book.

Boromir watched his brother carefully. The color had risen in his face and the twelve year old was struggling with his emotions.

“Thank you Father,” the youngster said in a stiff, quiet voice, bowing equally stiffly. “I’m certain I will benefit greatly from this book on swordsmanship.”

“Thank you Father,” the elder said, bowing gracefully then draping an arm about his brother’s shoulders. He could feel the lad’s stiff muscles beneath his hand. “Now Faramir can give me pointers.” To his brother he whispered, “All is well, Faramir. You are doing well.”

“And now my gifts to my nephews,” Imrahil said, a bit loudly in his effort to break the tension that had settled upon the room. Everyone in the court knew the youngster desired a horse of his own.

Imrahil indicated one of the three gifts to be brought over to him as the other two were given to his nephews.

Boromir had to nudge his brother into opening his gift, even so, the lad seemed to barely have the strength to undo the ribbon that bound the wrapping. When the package was finally opened, a finely tooled leather halter lay in Faramir’s hands.

Slowly he looked at his uncle, but he addressed his father. “It seems I wasn’t the only one who erroneously thought I would finally be given a horse, Father.”

He let the halter fall to the floor as he turned and ran toward the door of the Hall.

“Faramir!” Denethor’s voice rang out in the stunned silence of the huge room.

“I think you will find there is something in that present which you over looked,” his uncle called out before the boy’s father could say anything further.

A servant ran over to Faramir with the halter and a piece of parchment in his hands. Faramir took them both, read the note, then ran from the building.

Imrahil calmly turned to his brother-in-law. “The notes says, ‘What fits into the halter is in the Steward’s stables.’”

“I did. I sent word of my intentions but did not receive a reply. I decided to take that as an affirmative response, brother.”

Denethor sat a moment. “She . . . she . . .” He drew a shuddering breath. “Your sister would have liked that you would consider such a gift for her son. I had . . . intended to say as much in a reply to you, but the matter was driven from my mind by some recent events near Cair Andros.”

Imrahil considered his brother-in-law. It was obvious that Denethor had truly meant to send such a reply for he only mentioned Finduilas in conjunction with matters he felt deeply about.

“Then I am happy my interpretation was correct. Shall we go and see your son’s joy at his gift?”

“Come, Father,” Boromir spoke up. “I want to see Faramir’s new steed.”

“Yes, let us go see what manner of beast Dol Amroth produces,” Denethor sounded stern, but he winked at his royal kinsman.

“He’s a fine gelding, Master Faramir,” the old stablemaster was saying as Boromir, Denethor and Imrahil entered through the large double doors.

“Look, Father! Look! Did you know? Isn’t he beautiful?” Faramir glowed with excitement as he stood proudly beside the large dapple grey horse whose braided mane and tail were adorned with blue, silver and sable ribbons to represent both Dol Amroth and Gondor. The large black, silver and blue bow that had originally been placed over his withers hung from the young horses’ mouth, mangled and chewed up. He kept tossing his head up and down, playing with the streamers that dangled from it.

At a slight nod from Imrahil, Denethor replied, “Yes, Faramir. I knew of your uncle’s plan and gave my approval. You are pleased then?”

“Extremely, Father!” The lad turned to the Prince. “Thank you more than I can ever say, Uncle.”

Denethor’s next words surprised everyone. “You will find his bridle and saddle in the tack room with a blank plate above them for his name, when you give him one.” Then the steward paused. Those in the stable could feel him sink inside himself. “Care for him well, Faramir,” he said then turned quickly away and left.

For a moment no one spoke and the lad’s head drooped. Softly he said, “He shall be called Sea Mist as he is a gift from my family who dwell by the sea and he is the color of the mists that lie upon it.”

His uncle smiled. His brother-in-law had indeed intended to allow the gift and had even thought to have tack made for his youngest son’s first horse. “A worthy name, Faramir,” Imrahil said, hugging his nephew about the shoulders.

“Come then!” Boromir exclaimed breaking the solemn moment. “Let us see you put him through his paces.”

In the distant Shire, a small six year old hobbit lad had joyfully greeted the morning of First Yule by jumping upon his sleeping cousin.

“Yule first breakfast Merry! Yule second breakfast and Yule ‘levenses and Yule luncheon and . . .”

“Yes, Pip.” Merry cut him off. “Special Yule meals all day long and all day tomorrow too.” He sniffed the air. “I think I can smell it. Can you?”

The little lad giggled. “Silly Merry! The dinin’ room is too far ‘way to smell the special breakfast.”

Pippin suddenly stopped and slid off the bed. He ran to the bedroom door. “Gotta go, Merry!”

Merry laughed a moment then hurried after the lad. He hoped Pip made it to the privy in time.

If young Peregrin Took was a handful for his family most of the year, it was altogether true that he was even more so at Fests, Feasts and Holidays. As soon as he had learned how to walk (or run as was more the case) the lad appeared to be everywhere at once. At Yule he would tease his sisters about what they may be getting for gifts (“You’ll be getting a toad, Nell!”). He would be asking all the older relations and guests what Yule was like when they were his age (“Was the snow really up to the window sills?”) And always, he was keeping his eyes on the gayly wrapped presents and his ears open for the announcement that it was time to open them.

Finally, after afternoon tea when the day would soon be darkening and the candles in the great hall at Brandy Hall would glimmer their best, the announcement was made. There was, however, no thundering rush of children. Although hobbits were generally easy with their young ones, anything which smacked of greed was not condoned, so the children would all proceed into the hall with their families in a reasonably quiet manner.

The number of gifts was not allowed to be extravagant and, as with birthday gifts, they were often mathoms.

It was his older sister Pearl who first noticed that much of Pippin’s joyous energy and fallen away.
“Mummy,” she said, nudging her mother’s shoulder. “Mummy.”

“Excuse me a moment,” Lanti said to her sister-in-law, Esme. “Yes, dear?”

“Mum, something is wrong with Pippin.” She pointed to the small lad who sat with a good many gifts strewn about him yet was frowning. “He has eaten a great deal today and I was thinking if his tummy is upset I should tell you so you can give him a tonic.”

Eglantine was a healer and her eldest child had shown signs of being similarly gifted.

Lanti nodded. “You may be right, dear. Thank you for noticing. Go back to your cousins and your gifts, dear, and I’ll see to Pippin.”

“What is wrong, my little lad?” Lanti asked as she put a caring arm around her son’s shoulders. He leaned into her comforting embrace.

“My lad sitting amongst his Yule gifts with a frown upon his dear face is something wrong.”

“Something that you had asked for, dear?” She felt his head shaking no against her side.

That was a surprise. A pony? And a “big pony” at that. Pippin knew that Merry had a pony of his own, as did his sister Nell. Pearl had shown no interest in having her own pony and Vinca was too young for a pony of her own.

Lanti’s thoughts jumped. Pervinca *had* been going on about wishing she might get a pony this Yule instead of having to wait until next year when she would be twelve. Perhaps . . .

Her son’s head popped up from where it had been tucked against her. He had a surprised look on his face.

“I’m not big ‘nough for a real pony, Ma. I’m still scared of them, ‘though Buttercup is nice,” he said naming the quiet old mare that drew the light pony trap and on whom Paladin would let the littlest children ride. “No Ma. I want the big pony that doesn’t go anywhere.”

Now his mother really was confused. What could Pippin possibly be talking about?

“Somewhere you weren’t allowed to be, Peregrin?” she asked, a touch of sternness coloring her tone.

“Big mafum room.” came the muffled, whispered reply, followed by the quick reappearance of her son’s now tear streaked face. “Didn’t go in alone, Ma.
M-Merry took me in. I w-was w-with Merry.”

This didn’t do much to appease his mother. The big mathom room was a huge place with items of every size and description piled precariously about; piles which had been known to topple from time to time. Not to mention that her lad could have easily been lost in there. Just two years ago she had become separated from Esmeralda in that room and it had taken them nearly fifteen minutes to find each other.

Eglantine sighed. She was just about to question Pippin further when Merry came rushing up to them out of breath. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped when he saw his little cousin’s teary face. His own expression turned to one of concern.

“I’m sorry Pippin!” Merry exclaimed. “I was busy with my own gifts and forgot yours wasn’t in here yet. I’m so sorry Pip!”

Pippin ran off toward the large double doors that were the main entrance to the great hall as Merry stood then helped his aunt up so they could follow after him.

“Merry,” his aunt said softly. “You took him into the big mathom room? You shouldn’t even be in there.”

Her nephew hung his head but was spared further discussion of the matter by Pippin’s voice ringing out.

“The big pony!” he shouted. “You knew Merry! You knew I wanted the big pony!”

Eglantine and Merry got to the door way in time to see Saradoc helping Pippin up onto the back of the biggest rocking pony Lanti had ever seen. It was as tall at its back as Pippin himself. There were bright ribbons braided into its mane and tail, a huge rosette with ribbons streaming down from it was tied to its bridle. Its wooden body gleamed in the candle light. Lanti was certain that Merry had worked hard at getting it clean and ready to give to his favorite little cousin. She smiled.

“The big pony that doesn’t go anywhere,” she softly said. Her eyes sparkled with joy as she watched her youngest happily rocking back and forth.

Paladin came up behind her, putting his arms about her waist. “Now, if only Vinca would be happy with a pony like that one,” he softly laughed.

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SIX YEARS PASS
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Pippin woke to the familiar chill of his bedroom on a midwinter’s morning. He pulled his arm under the blankets then covered his head for good measure. He really didn’t want to wake up nor even look to see if Merry was still in bed beside him or Frodo was still in the folding bed on the other side of his room. Pippin had been having the most wonderful dream and he wanted to see if he could go back to sleep and continue it. The lovely warmth surrounded him and he dosed off.

Pippin would have jumped and danced about with joy over his Yule present . . . but that would have startled the timid dapple grey pony.

“My very own pony!” he exclaimed as he walked as calmly as he was able to up to the animal’s head. Slowly he began to stroke its soft nose and the pony made a soft nickering sound in its throat as it pushed its nose into the gentle rubbing.

That voice that just said his name didn’t fit with who was in the stable with the pony so he ignored it.

“Maybe later she can have . . .” Pippin was saying to his father, when . . .

“Pippin!” cut in the other voice, accompanied this time by his shoulder being shaken.

“. . . foals,” Pippin finished saying to his father and the pony as they both slowly faded away.

“It’s first Yule morning you goose! Get up or I’ll set Merry on you and he’ll pull all your covers off and tickle you. He has been up for nearly half an hour. Aren’t you excited about Yule, Pippin?”

The lad pulled his blankets down enough for one green eye to peer at his sister.

How could he explain to Nell that he was not really wanting to be disappointed again? He had been asking for his very own pony for a Yule present for ages, ever since he was nine, and every year it had been the same.

When he was nine and again when he was eleven, he had reckoned it had been because that they were at Brandy Hall for Yule, but that didn’t excuse the year he was ten nor this year. This year it was once again the Brandybuck’s turn to come for Yule at Whitwell. Still, Pippin had a sinking feeling that it wouldn’t matter in regards to his most desired gift.

“I just am all warm and don’t want to get up and be all cold,” he said unconvincingly.

Nell’s mouth pulled to one side as the opposite eyebrow raised. “I see. Well, it is no colder this morning than it was yesterday morning or the morning before that and you were the first one up and at the breakfast table on those days just as you are most everyday.” She sighed and shook her head at him. “Get up or I’ll make sure we eat all of your favorites before you get to the table.”

Pippin passed Nell in the hallway as he ran to the privy. Somehow the dream of his pony had driven Yule First Breakfast clear out of his head. As he took care of his morning ablutions his thoughts were now filled with a mountain of scrambled eggs, heaps of sausages, a ham the size of a large mellon, a trough of herbed mushrooms, a bin of fried potatoes and his mother’s special honeybuns all served on the best porcelain dishes. He kept wondering how even the thought of his very own pony had managed to drive out thoughts of Yule first breakfast!

The meal was everything it was supposed to be, better because Aunt Esme had made the special griddle cakes.* These were normally served for afters following luncheon but Paladin and Esmeralda’s mother had always made them for afters following first breakfast on First Yule, and all of her children carried on the tradition.

He and his father, Merry and his father, and Cousin Frodo did the dishes after first breakfast and again after elevenses and after tea. His sisters did them after second breakfast and luncheon and would do them after dinner as well. Everyone would help after supper.

Pippin and his father cleaned all the cinders out from under the grates in the fireplaces then brought in a fresh supply of wood for all the fireplaces. It was an everyday chore, although usually one of the farmhands would help Paladin instead, but on the Yule days, their boss would cover most of the day’s work as a gift to his employees, so Pippin and the lasses did a few more chores than was usual for them. The farmhands did cover all the morning chores, however, so their boss could sleep in on the two Holiday mornings.

There were meals to eat and stories to listen to. Not that they weren’t wonderful things to do, they were. It was just they were part of the waiting; part of the waiting until after afternoon tea for it to be time to open presents. Even when the time arrived, there was more waiting to endure as everyone took a turn at opening their gifts, and with Merry and his family, Cousin Frodo and the farmhands and their families all comfortably squeezed into the parlor, the process took a goodly amount of time.

Around and round the circle of friends and family they went until there was only one gift left for each child to open. Pippin hesitated. It wasn’t that he expected to have his pony brought into the house; he knew better than that, but this box did not look big enough to hold anything to do with a pony.

Something of that sort with a note attached to it saying, “Happy Yule, Pippin! Your Pony is in the Stable!”

Slowly, as though he was afraid it would burst open like a cracker and something would fly out at him, Pippin opened his last box.

Pippin stared. Pippin gasped. His face twisted up as he quickly sucked in a sniffing, gasping breath.

“I didn’t get it!” he whispered sharply between clenching teeth. “Nell had hers when she was twelve and Vinca got her pony when she was twelve.” Pippin’s voice was growing louder, his face was turning red. “Don’t say I’m too young. Don’t even say I’m too small.”

“About what I expected from him,” his father quietly said as his eyes lingered on the doorway his son had just disappeared through.

Awhile later, Merry and Frodo entered the bedroom they were sharing with their youngest cousin. One look at the curled up lump on the bed made it clear that the lad had fallen asleep crying. There were tracks of dried tears and dried snot on his face along with a partially dried stain of wetness upon the pillow below his now peaceful face.

Merry shook his head. “Poor Pip,” he sighed. “And poor Uncle Paladin as well. He offered Old Farmer Adalbard a more than fair price for that mare and the old coot wouldn’t budge an inch!”

“Pippin would set his heart on someone else’s pony when there are plenty of lovely ones that his own father owns.” Frodo smiled as he shook his head, then his eyes took on a mischievous twinkle. “But she is a beauty. Pippin seems to have the Baggins eye for ponies. His great-grandmother Rosa used to be a judge at the fairs in Tookland.”

“Don’t let Uncle hear you say that, Frodo,” Merry chuckled as he nudged his cousin, then, turning to cover Pippin up with a blanket from the foot of his bed, he added, “Best to just let him sleep I think. I’m certain he’ll be in no better mood if we wake him.”

“Pippin, lad,” the voice said as his shoulder was shaken. “We’ve evening chores to do lad. I need you to help.”

“Aye,” the lad sighed without opening his eyes. “I’ll help take care of everyone else’s ponies. ‘Twill be the most fun I’ve had all day.”

“I’ve been thinking,” Paladin said as he sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m more than happy to let you have a pony, Pippin, only I knew you had your heart set on that dapple of Adalbard Took’s. I tried son, I truly did. Would you want to look over our three year olds tomorrow morning?”

“Yes,” Pippin said with no enthusiasm. “That will be good, Da. We’ll do that.”

“Up you get then lad,” Paladin replied with only a bit more cheer in his voice than his son’s hollow response. “I’ll meet you in the barn. The cows need milking before we head to the stable.”

The farm had a small herd of milk cows, enough to supply Mr. Paladin’s family and the families of his hired help. Merry and Frodo helped out as well and the milking was done in a short time.

Pippin had worked steadily but he had not hurried, and he did not rush through washing out his milk bucket and hanging it back on its hook. He took his time putting away his milking stool as well. Pippin was not eager to make his way to the stable. His father and cousins and not bothered him about hurrying along with his tasks, they understood how the youngster was feeling.

As Pippin approached, lamp light and voices poured out of doorway where the large sliding door of the stable had been pushed aside.

“My Pony!” Pippin’s voice interrupted the hobbit who stood holding the dapple grey’s reins. “You bought her for me after all! You . . .”

Pippin paused. His excitement had frightened the mare. Her head raised, her ears flattened and her eyes showed whites around their edges as she pranced lightly at the end of her reins. However, that was not the only reason Pippin had stopped in mid-sentence. His happy smile faded into fury.

“Why did you make me think you hadn’t got her for me, Da! Why? Couldn’t you see . . .”

“Peregrin Took!” Paladin bellowed. It was the first time that day he had raised his voice at his son. Pippin’s mouth shut with a soft pop. His father looked hurt, not angry.

“Do you really think I would do that to you? If I had known of this earlier in the day, I would have spoken up before you had managed to run from the parlor. You are hurting me worse now than how hurt I felt then, having to disappoint you.”

Pippin lowered his head, his anger drained from him like his foggy breath faded upon the chill night air in the stable.

His father continued in a softer, quieter voice as the hobbit holding the pony quieted the mare.

“I’m sure you recognize Isenbard Took, Pippin. Adalbard Took’s eldest son.”

Pippin looked up and nodded his head. “Hello Mr. Isenbard,” he said in a small voice.

“He has something to tell you, son.” Paladin looked to Isenbard. “Would you tell him, I think it will mean more coming from you.”

“Well,” Isenbard started, then cleared his throat. “Ya see, young master Pippin . . . eh . . .”

It was clear to Pippin that something was upsetting the older hobbit but he was surprised to see a tear start to roll down his right cheek. Isenbard wiped it away with the back of his free hand, and it was then Pippin noticed the black band of cloth tied around the hobbit’s arm. Isenbard cleared his throat then started again.

“Ma Pa passed this mornin’. And . . . and one of the last thin’s he talked about with me last evenin’ was this here mare. He said as he felt he’d been right stingy. That there had been naught but spite in his not lettin’ yer Pa buy her. It had galled him fer years that yer Grandpa and yer Pa had a bigger n’ more prosperous farm than ours. He . . . eh . . .”

“He said that lyin’ there on his . . . death bed, that he’d come to reckon it weren’t the proper way to have been an’ he said, ‘Give the wee mare to Paladin’s lad.’”

“Aye. He said as she would look at you same as you were lookin’ at her all this past year, and that ‘twas just a meanness to keep her from ya. He said as I’d bring a curse on m’self if I should take as much as a penny for her.”

“Done and done then,” Paladin said as he held out his hand for Isenbard to shake on the deal. “If you would, I’d like to buy her tack from you.”

“She’ll settle in better with her new rider if the tack is as she’s used to,” Paladin said calmly. “I’ll be back with the money for it in a moment, Isenbard. Pippin,” he patted his son’s shoulder as he went past him. “Show Mr. Isenbard that you’ll take good care of the lass by putting her up for the night in the end box.”

“Aye, Da.” Pippin said softly. As happy as he was to have the pony of his dreams, he was sad for Mr. Isenbard’s loss. He would hate to lose his Da, especially on a Yule Day. Pippin, Isenbard, Merry and Frodo all walked the mare to the box stall at the end of the row of stalls on the left. Isenbard watched with satisfaction as the young lad gently removed the tack from the mare, checked to see if she needed cooling down, then left the stall to quickly return with a bucket of fresh water and a basket with grooming tools in it. After she drank her fill, Merry held her head while Pippin started to give her a good, thorough, grooming.

Isenbard took it, then quickly tried to give it back. “No, Mr. Paladin! No! This is too much and more!”

“It is what I wish to pay you, Isenbard. It is not payment for the pony, so have no fear of any curse. It is for the tack, for your time and trouble bringing her over here on First Yule evening, and a bit to express our sympathy to you and your family in your time of loss.” He then handed the stunned hobbit one more thing. “A hamper for your family. Bread, preserves, several rashers of bacon, dried mushrooms and a few other dainties for your family’s first breakfast in the morning. Oh, and a wrapped jar of hot tea for you to warm yourself with on your way home.”

“Bless you and thank you, Mr. Paladin! Bless your missus too.” Isenbard started to walk out the door of the stable, but he paused. Softly he said to Paladin, “Your lad is a right good hand with ponies. He checked to see if she were too warm yet, which a lot o’ youngsters forget to do. She has a ticklish spot and he noticed it first time he brushed against it.” He sighed rather contentedly. “He’ll do just fine with the lass. Has he a name picked for her?”

“Stardust!,” came Pippin’s voice from the box stall. “Her name is Stardust because that’s what is sprinkled all over her grey coat.”

A look of pure amazement came to Isenbard’s face. He whispered softly, “That was what ma Pa said, that she had stardust on her coat.” He nodded to Paladin, mounted the pony he had brought to ride home on, and disappeared into the dim light of the rising moon.

“You’ve taken your sweet time getting here,” Faramir chided his older brother. “One might think you did not want to come home for Yule.”

“One would be wrong then, little brother of mine. I did want to come home for Yule, I just did not want to have your gift be less than presentable because of my hurrying.”

The eighteen year old tipped his head to one side, as though a slight change of angle would make what his brother said more comprehensible.

“How would hurrying make my gift less presentable? What, have you brought me? A tavern wench and she needed time to fix her hair?”

Boromir raised an eyebrow, then both brothers laughed. “You are not old enough for wenching, little brother,” the elder said. “And even if you were, you have your station in life to be concerned for. No. I have not brought you a tavern wench.”

“You have brought me an older brother! How very thoughtful of you Boromir. But, alas, I have one of those already and I find that to be taxing enough . . .”

“Not an older brother then. Good. I really like the one I have.” He grinned at his brother a moment, then again his look was one of concentration. “No,” he finally said. “I can’t think of a single other thing that your hurrying with it would sully its appearance.”

Boromir took a step away from his horse, then swept both hands toward it in a gesture of presentation.

“Yes . . .” his brother slowly said. “Your new war horse. Very nice, Boromir.”

Faramir’s eyebrows flew up as his jaw dropped down. “Mine?” he breathed. “But . . . but you . . . just six months ago you were so thoroughly excited with him. I . . . eh, is there something . . . eh, wrong with him?”

“No! In fact he is nearly the best horse I’ve ever sat astride, other than Nahar , who I will tell you has been most jealous these past six months. I was training him for you, dear little brother. How can you be a proper Captain of Gondor’s armies, when you come of age, without a war horse that makes men envy you and all the mares squeal with desire? Happy Yule, Faramir!”

Faramir stepped forward, gently taking the huge stallion’s chin in his hands to lift his head and blow into his nostrils.

********************************************************************************
SEVENTEEN YEARS PASS
********************************************************************************

Faramir and Pippin walked into the quiet warmth of the stables in the sixth circle of Minas Tirith, stopping before the stall which housed Shadowfax.

The proud horse lowered his head into the hobbit’s hands. Pippin touched his forehead to the velvet soft muzzle, then began to rub the boney spots along the sides of Shadowfax’s huge head.

“He likes this,” Pippin commented. smiling broadly. “If he could he would purr.”

At that, the horse nudged the hobbit in the chest, but then he nickered and once more held his head still for the rubbing to continue.

Pippin sighed. The occasions had not been pleasant ones, but the wonder of riding the White Wizard’s horse was not diminished by it.

“Yes. The entire way here from somewhere near Isengard. A three day ride. And again . . .” The hobbit tensed. It was a memory that was all to fresh. A memory that did not rest easy upon mind or heart.

Faramir laid a caring hand upon his friend’s shoulder. “Yes. And again on the night you helped to save my life.”

Faramir looked around them, seeking something to talk about to break the sombre mood.

Pippin perked up. “Really? I remember well getting my first pony. I was six and visiting Merry’s family for Yule at Brandy Hall.”

“You were six when you received your first pony! I had to wait until I was twelve.”

“Rocking pony, Faramir,” Pippin corrected in a mock offended tone, “and it was the largest rocking pony I had ever seen in my entire life. I couldn’t even get on it without being lifted up by an adult. We had to borrow a small wagon to take it home and it was so big that it was kept out in the stable. That surely should count for something.”

“I think my father sent it back to Brandy Hall when we left the farm to live at Great Smials. I hope it is still in some mathom room at the Hall,” Pippin sighed again as he looked off in the general direction of his homeland. “I should like to give it to my son, should I ever have one.”

Faramir had been thinking. “You were six, you say. Then that would be the same Yule Tide that I received my first horse, although mine was very much a real horse.”

“Yes,” Pippin exclaimed. “Yes it would be the same year that you were twelve. Interesting that we both got such similar gifts. And actually, I was twelve when I got my first real pony. She was a dapple grey.”

“Truly! My Sea Mist, my first horse, he was a dapple! And if you were twleve, then that year I was eighteen and received Hros, my first war horse, from Boromir.”

“It seems, my friend, that we had similar Yule gifts in the same years,” Pippin bubbled with enthusiasm. “Do you remember . . .”

They over-turned feed buckets, sat down upon them there in the warm, sunny stable, and talked the afternoon away about the horses and ponies they had been gifted with upon various Yule Tides. Shadowfax hung his head over the door of his stall, ears shifting to best hear each of the friends as he spoke. After all, he enjoyed good horse stories as well.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
*A/N: In Scotland and Ireland pancakes, locally known as drop scones, pancakes or griddle cakes, are more like the American type of pancake and are eaten for afters not at breakfast. Since these are Tookish treats, they are that sort of pancake.

Written for the Pairs Challenge, Marigold’s Challenge #47. I was paired with Pippinfan who gave me these elements:
gold locket, moonlight, a sledge, sick/injured Merry

Merry stretched a long luxurious stretch. It was the morning of Second Yule, a day for laying late abed as everyone was usually tired out from all the festivities of First Yule. He laid there, stretched out upon his back looking up at the ceiling which, for some reason he couldn’t put his finger on, didn’t look quite right.

“Let it pass, old lad,” Merry muttered to himself. “Just a ceiling, after all, and they all look pretty much the same.”

He eased his legs out from under the heavy bedclothes, not really wishing to leave their warmth, then he pattered over to the wardrobe to take his dressing gown off the hook on the inside of the door. He paused as he stuck his right arm through the sleeve.

It didn’t look quite right, much as the ceiling hadn’t looked quite right. Right . . . yet not.

Merry shook his head as he finished putting on the cuddly garment and padded off to the privy. Part way down the hall he realized that even the hall was different. Some of the paintings had been removed.

Back in his bedchamber, Merry went over to the wash stand. Steam rose as he filled the basin from the ewer and silent thanks to his hobbitservant rose with it as they did every morning. Then two things happened simultaneously that shattered his peace.

He looked into the mirror which hung above the wash stand just as someone behind him said:

A sound like someone being slowly strangled escaped his reflection’s open mouth.

“Really, Gormadoc my dear, I shan’t have you making such grotesque noises at me! Answer me properly or not . . . well . . . just answer me properly. Whatever are you staring at?”

Merry was staring at the not quite Merry in the glass. Its face had gone deathly white, matching well the touches of white in its hair. A hobbitess’s scowling face appeared beside the image in the mirror.

From the far recesses of his mind a name floated up. “Malva?” he wholly asked in a shaky whisper.

“It had best be me if she’s in our bedchamber! Perhaps we oughtn’t have gone out for that sledge ride in the moonlight last night,” she added, concern now replacing the haughty look in her eyes. “It was a full moon after all.”

“And you are acting rather moonstruck,” she added in the privacy of her own thoughts. Although she knew her exterior was prickly, she truly did love the dear old hobbit and she was becoming rather worried about him.

Aloud she said, “I’m so anxious to see my Yule gift, my love. I’ve heard rumors that you’ve been seen several times at Dinodas Brandybuck’s jewelry shop. Dare I hope you have ordered that gold locket I’ve been wanting so very badly? You do spoil me so.”

She warmly, moistly, kissed the back of Merry’s neck sending a shiver of revulsion down his spine, which she happily mistook as an excited response from her husband Gormadoc. She kissed him again, this time on the check. Another shiver and another kiss and she was nearly to his lips. He had to do something! She was his great-great-great-great Grandmother!

He made the sudden fit of coughing and choking that befell him much worse than it actually was.

“Oh my!” Malva exclaimed as she rushed to the bedside nearly forgetting to unstopper the crystal flask of water that always stood on the night stand before pouring him a drink. She pushed the small glass into his hand. “Here my dear! Here. Drink this. Oh my! I shall get Nob. Drink! Drink!” All this was said in a rush as she hurried out of the room.

He knew he only had a few moments at best. Merry drew a deep breath, glared at the mirror and firmly demanded, “Who are you and what have you done with me?”

The effect was diminished by the fact that he wasn’t sure if he or his great-great-great-great Grandfather was doing the asking.

“I’m Meriadoc Brandybuck. I’m Meriadoc Brandybuck,” he was repeating to the mirror as several times great Grandmother Malva, or his wife as might be the case, returned with a dignified looking servant.

“Get her out of here,” Gorbadoc, tensely whispered when Nob was close enough to hear him. “I’m . . . I’m not myself and I don’t want to distress the dear lass any more than she already is.”

Nob turned to his mistress. “Madam, the Master has asked for his healer to be sent for and he has asked that I remain with him as he is in need of being helped back into bed.”

Merry took his cue well, slightly slumping against Nob who immediately put an arm about him, stuffing his hand under Gorbadoc’s arm to better support him.

“Oh my!” Malva exclaimed, though she muttered, “How rude to send me off to fetch the healer. He’s the servant for goodness sake!” as she once again scurried out of the room.

“I fear, sir, that you’ll be answering for that later,” Nob sighed while leading his master over to the bed. “Her family got called “Headstrong” for a reason, you know. She will want an explanation.”

“Just don’t let her back in, Nob, until I’m asleep or the healer arrives.” Merry heard Gorbadoc say as he shivered again. All Merry could think of was how his mother would behave when his father was ill, and there was no way in all of Buckland or The Shire that he could go through his great four times over grandmother doing that to him. He suddenly felt weary and gladly allowed Nob to help him off with his dressing gown and tuck him into bed.

Merry fell asleep wondering how he was going to explain this to the healer even as he chuckled to himself at they way the old couple showed their affection for each other.

Merry woke up and stretched. It felt so wonderful to stretch. He looked about then sighed with relief. There was no sign of either Malva Brandybuck nor a healer. Just a dream then. He stretched again, starting to let out another contented sigh, when his breath caught in his throat.

His bed room was looking strange again. Things were missing or out of place. And why did he feel so fat?

After a few minutes of lying frozen in place, Merry slowly and awkwardly began to move toward the edge of the bed. Moving seemed to need a great deal more effort than usual. He would just have to force himself to take a look in the mirror over the wash stand.

It was a male voice calling through the darkness, but as Merry began to waken his mind pulled away from wakefulness in terror. He had felt oddly fat. He had thrown back the bedclothes and had a momentary view of what were obviously a pair of sizable breasts and a profoundly pregnant belly, both covered by a flowery flannel nightgown.

No. He really did not want to wake up, just in case it was all still there. A pain grew and faded in his stomach. He chose to ignore it. He would lie there and fain unconsciousness until the cows came home if need be.

“Calm down, Gorby. For goodness sake. The healer has checked her over and there doesn’t seem to be anything amiss. She and the babe are fine.”

“Shows how much that healer knows,” Merry wryly thought, nearly smirking to go with it but he caught himself in time. No good would come of his great-Grandfather or his great-great uncle wondering why he . . . er, well she, was smirking.

“Nothing is wrong. She most likely had a nightmare and swooned after waking.”

Merry, or Bella, wanted badly to move. He was lying on his back and her bladder was begging to be emptied.

A groan escaped his lips as a sudden pain seized her abdomen. Merry’s mind flooded with terror.

“There is no way in Middle-earth I’m going to give birth!” his thoughts shouted.

How could she say she felt as though there was someone else inside her? Someone other than their child that is. Worse; somehow she was certain it was a male someone.

“Yes,” she said wearily as she closed her eyes again. “I want to have our baby more than you can ever know.”

In her mind a voice kept screaming “NO! I’m not going to give birth! NO!” Bella’s thoughts kept telling it to shut up.

“Of course she does. It is why you took her out in the sledge last night, old lad,” Gully was saying. “This little one is two weeks over due, and though I do think it may have been wiser to do it tonight when Yule would be all over with, a nice bumpy ride o’er the snow in the First Yule moonlight to help bring on labor apparently was just what was needed.”

Bella reached for the gold locket that rested between her breasts. She clutched it hard as another contraction built.

“NO! NO! NO!” Merry screamed out loud. “You bloody ass! You did this to her! To me! Somehow this is all your fault!”

Gully blanched. “She’s moving along rather fast I think. I’ll fetch the healer, brother,” he shouted as he ran from the room wondering why Bella had referred to herself as ‘her’.

Merry lay panting. He was already feeling exhausted and something told him there was a long way yet to go.

Later, Mirabella Brandybuck swooned as the healer cried out, “It’s coming!”

Merry woke up, but he did not stretch. He peered anxiously around at the room he was in. It looked right, or nearly so. What demanded more attention than what his sight revealed was what his sense of smell revealed.

A chill ran through Merry, though it lingered around his heart, as he saw himself walk up to the bedside. Yet the chill was not from seeing himself, it was because he knew where he was; when he was; who he was.

He didn’t need a mirror nor someone calling out a name this time. He knew he was the hobbit who was lying on his death bed and he knew that hobbit was his own father.

Merry looked at himself, remembering every thought and feeling he had had this dreadful day. Yule was supposed to be a joyous time, not a time of dying. Everyone had been caught by surprise when the Master had collapsed in the midst of the First Yule Feast last night.

He saw himself look down at him; at the old hobbit lying in the bed. His father looked so fragile that he was afraid to embrace him. His father’s eyes stared blankly so what use was there in looking lovingly at him. His father was not conscious so what good could there be in speaking to him. The Merry who was somehow Saradoc looked up at his other self, his real self he felt, as he just stood there, misery scratched into his face with every crease worry and sorrow placed there.

“Talk to him - me!” Merry and Saradoc shouted in unison. The dying hobbit heard himself shouting, but it was obvious that his son standing beside the bed did not. Somehow Saradoc was seeing everything; hearing everything . . . wanting desperately to feel a loving embrace.

But Merry’s heart sank as he saw the Merry standing at the bedside holding himself back.

The body on the bed twitched feebly as the Merry inside talked to the Saradoc who could somehow see, hear and feel.

“It’s so much worse than any other . . . any other passing that I’d ever faced. Worse than Frodo leaving. Worse than King Theoden dying on the field of battle.” A small sob tugged at Merry’s voice. “They both said good bye.”

“I meant to, Merry. I somehow knew my time was nearly gone, but I wasn’t sure you would understand. You don’t like it when I say I’m feeling my death drawing nigh. You tell me to not speak of such things, that I have a lot of time.” There was a long, slow, whispery sigh. “Time has run out, Merry my son, and now I can’t say what you long to hear.”

“But I can hear you. By some strange twist, I can hear you and you can hear me.”

“I love you, Meriadoc. You will do well. You are loved by . . . the hobbits of Buckland. Loved. I’m proud of you. Hold . . . tightly to . . . Estella. Share your . . . heart with Peregrin.”

Merry felt a sudden lightness rise in his father’s heart. His father chuckled weakly then sighed.

“I learned how to do that from the best hobbit in all of Buckland and The Shire, Da. I learned it from you,” Merry said as he felt his father and himself fading away.

Merry heard Estella’s voice saying. “No,” he thought to himself. “I just left with my father.”

“The great daft hobbit went and put us all off breakfast, elevenses, luncheon and tea. Nice of him to at least have the decency to not ruin dinner as well.”

“Merry love, wake up. Please wake up,” Estella gently said as she kissed him before, between, and at the end of each small sentence.

“Merry, old lad. Wake up. I’m hungry,” Pippin said as he gently boxed his shoulder, though he kissed his forehead after mentioning that he was hungry.

That was Diamond, using her angry but not really angry voice that she used to rebuke her husband when his behaviour was improper but she knew he was teasing.

The room most likely looked as it should, as the right people were in it with him, but it was spinning, making it difficult to tell. Merry let his eyes close. He didn’t feel pregnant, nor . . . he paused in his thoughts . . . nor did the room smell of impending death.

“I . . . You wouldn’t believe me. Come here.” Merry pulled his wife to his chest, squeezing her tightly. It was then he noticed his right hand was clenched. So tightly clenched that it had gone numb.

“What is wrong with my hand?” he asked, looking around Estella, who he continued to hug firmly with his left arm and hand, seeking an answer from the others. He feared it was the numbness that came when the Old Shadow drew over him, yet, neither his hand nor his arm felt cold.

Merry looked at his hand. He could see a golden chain feeding up between his thumb and his knuckle then draping itself over the back of his hand.

Merry looked over at his younger cousin, one eyebrow quizzically raised. “Help me sit up, Pippin, then you can explain that to me.”

Once Merry was propped up nicely with several soft pillows, Pippin began his explanation.

“You lost Estella’s new gold locket sometime last night. You told me afterwards that you reckoned it was when you helped her up into the sledge.” Pippin was grinning merrily. It wasn’t often that he got to lord it over Merry. “I had told you to put it in an inside pocket, but you would have none of it. ‘Too hard to get at, Pip.’ You said. ‘I want to make it appear as though Gandalf himself had conjured it out of the air.’ That was how you described it.”

Pippin’s grin turned to his brightest smile. “You conjured it all right. Conjured it right out of existence!”

“It was a lovely ride in the moonlight anyway, Merry. Just like the First Yule night when you proposed,” Estella said in her sweet shy way. *

Merry sighed. “That was to be the point of it. I thought it would be a lovely tenth anniversary present. Well, an early one since it was on the proposal day not our wedding day.”

Merry looked at his hand a few moments then sighed, shut his eyes and shook his head.

“We weren’t sure we should try getting it out of your hand,” Diamond said. “We didn’t wish to hurt your fingers.”

“Make yourself useful and pry them loose, will you Pippin, instead of just standing there basking in the fact the you were right and I was wrong.”

He gritted his teeth as Pippin obliged him. Finally, Estella’s gift lay visible on her husband’s open palm.

“The last thing I remember was seeing it glinting at me from where the morning sun was shining under the sledge,” Merry said quietly as they all looked at the gold locket. “I had stopped it right where it been when we left. I’m surprised I didn’t run the locket into the snow with the runner.”

“You crawled under the sledge after it,” Pippin answered him. The younger cousin was no longer jesting. “It’s a wonder you both made it home last night. The one runner had dry rot and really ought to have broken while you were out and about. ‘Tis a good thing it didn’t go while you were well away from the Hall.” Pippin’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “As cold and damp as it was, that would not have been good.”

The cousins looked at each other silently remembering other times they had thought they were losing one another.

Pippin shook off the moment. “Yes, if it was going to break, it was a good thing it did it when you were here. The stable lad who had charge over the care of the ponies this morning found you. You were cold but not frozen; knocked completely unconscious though.”

Merry stared at the locket a few moments thinking of the odd dreams he had had whilst unconscious. Life and love and birth and death.

“Hold tightly to Estella. Share your heart with Peregrin. Love your children.”

His father had said those words, yet, had it really been his father? Saradoc Brandybuck had died this day six years ago.

Merry spoke while still staring at the gift in his palm. “Pippin, Diamond. If you would please tell the kitchen staff that I will be there for dinner. And to make ready to serve the Second Yule Feast this evening.” He looked up at his best friend. “I’ll spend time with you tonight Pip. I . . . I’ve not spent much time alone with you this visit and I’ve missed it more than I realized. But for right now,” Merry looked at his wife and smiled. “Right now I need some time with the light of my life.”

“We’re on our way then!” Pip said brightly, taking Diamond’s hand and pulling her along with him towards the door. “I’ll tell them dinner is in an hour.” He paused in the door way, looking back at the couple with his eyes twinkling. “Will that be enough time, Merry? Although you really shouldn’t do anything too strenuous. You were unconscious much of the day.”

Merry threw a pillow at him, which Pippin easily ducked. “An hour will be fine. And send Theo and Wynda here in forty-five minutes. I want to see them and I’m sure they’ve been worried about me. Now go away!” he said grinning broadly.**

As the door shut he turned to Estella. “I need to propose again to the most wonderful hobbitess in all of Buckland and The Shire.”

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** In my universe, Merry and Estella (at least thus far) have two children; Theodoc and Eowynda.

Pearl's Pearls by Pearl Took