Yule at Tuckborough

Pippin could never bear to leave anyone out at Yuletide. And so it was that Eglantine followed her tiny son’s muddy footsteps out of the Great Smials, into the cold December snow. There she saw Pippin, wrapped in a warm coat and knitted scarf and hat, holding his mittened hand out to a bird on a tree. The bird was eying him curiously.
“Here you go! It’s gingerbread. Everyone likes gingerbread,” Pippin said.
The red bird pecked at the tiny hand, stealing the crumbs and flying away quickly.
“Happy Yule!” Pippin bugled after it, grinning, and Eglantine’s heart was glad.

The dining hall at Rivendell is a wondrous place of exotic food and fine music. You sit between your cousin and Sam and eat as much as you can, cheerily stuffing your mouth full. Frodo sits to the right of Lord Elrond, Lady Arwen sits to the left. Strider sits on her other side; they whisper to each other like your elder sisters do with their lad-friends.

You watch as Strider eats the fresh, hot bread, wondering when he will take a drink. You know that the others are watching, too, eyes seemingly on their food, and you fight to keep your laughter in. Finally, he reaches for his fine wine. Your ears perk up, and your expression becomes wholly innocent. A sip of the wine, a cough and a splutter. The ranger is doubled up coughing, eyes streaming from the hot pepper you slipped into his wine. He glares over at you; you gaze back at him. It wasn’t me, Strider, I swear! Your eyes say. Strider takes the milk that Lord Elrond resignedly hands him. Beside him, Lady Arwen looks over at you and winks.

There were many dark days, when Frodo did not want to leave his bedchamber, when the world had really fallen to evil, and the peace was a lie. Then Sam had to draw back the curtains and stoke the fire, and leave him alone, for nothing would comfort Mr. Frodo on days like that. Fear and depression would wrap his mind and heart in darkness, and all would be ill until a salty se breeze drifted through the window, with a hint of song. Then Arwen’s pendant would feel warm in his hand, and Frodo would drift into peaceful slumber.

The hobbits are up to something. Why that surprises me, I’ll never know, for they are seemingly always up to something. But they have Legolas and Gandalf in on it. They dart about like sheepish children, dodging questions and telling me to go about my coronation feast. Frodo and Sam keep me company, and Gimli dogs my every step. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were plotting to overthrow me.
They come to dinner that night, smiling and smelling strangely of sulfur. I pretend not to notice as we eat, for to scold two hobbits, a wizard and an elf in front of all these people is to flirt with death. But then Gandalf stands up, and says that he has a gift to give. The hobbits are grinning, and Legolas looks fit to burst with glee. The skies light up.
This night, there are fireworks over Minas Tirith.

There are hobbits in the apple trees again. I couldn’t imagine what they were doing there, until I saw Aragorn sitting nearby. I sat in a patch of late autumn sunshine, and I debated with myself as to whether I should warn my love or not. Certainly it would be the right and noble thing to do. And yet, Merry and Pippin are so quiet in that tree, that I am loath to spoil their fun. And so I watch. After a few moments, they drop a woven crown of leave onto Estel’s head, and drop out of the tree after it.
“All hail the King!” they screech, then tear away laughing as he leaps up and runs for them.
We ought to have more hobbits in Rivendell.

It’s been said that the Bagginses are a mad lot. Full of oddities they are, Mr. Bilbo and his lad Frodo. Frodo is new to Hobbiton, and the lad doesn’t have many friends as yet. I seen him walking about by hisself, looking far off into the distance with those great odd eyes of his. And yet, it is just such a walk that he is on when my own Marigold slips and goes tumbling down the Hill. Mr. Frodo runs halfway up to meet her and breaks her fall, catching her up just like a real gentlehobbit.
“Are you alright, Marigold?” he asks, helping her up and drying her tears with his handkerchief. “This hill is a devil to fall down, isn’t it? Come on, let’s go up to Bag End; Bilbo’s making gingerbread lads.”
He takes Marigold’s little hand in his, and leads her up to the kitchen. I see them sitting at the table, Frodo telling her a tale to make my little lass laugh, woes forgotten, the way any other would likely never do with a working family like ours. They’re good folk, those Bagginses, for all their oddities. Always caring for others. Mad Bagginses, indeed.

Five pairs of wide brown eyes peer from various hiding places. The King, dressed in rich silks and velvets, stands with his face to the wall, hands over his eyes. “One, two, three,” he counts, slowly getting up to ten. Five tiny bodies press themselves further back into their hiding places, giggle softly. “Ten!” the King says loudly, and turns around. Silence. He looks around the great drawing room, and catches sight of a corner of bright blue linen. Silent as a cat, he creeps across the room and pounces, snatching Goldilocks Gamgee out of her hiding place under the sofa with a whoop. She squeals, and the rest of junior Gamgees spring from their hiding-places, for the rules are that when one is caught, the rest must run to base before the King catches them. The King dances about with the hobbit under his arm, reaching out to tag curly brown heads. They seek refuge on a table, and he joins them, laughing. The Gamgees giggle and riffle through his pockets, for the King always carries candy.
“I think that you’re an honorary hobbit, King Strider,” Merry-lad says, grinning.
Aragorn laughs and ruffles his hair. “That I am, my boy. That I am.”

I'm not sure how this turned out; it's very short, but too long to be a drabble.

The King, after a hard day, oft times used his palantir to look to his friends in the Shire, to see how they fared. So it was one summer’s eve, when he consulted the Stone, that he turned his eyes to Bag End, to look to the Gamgees.
There were many children lying around Bag End’s parlor, all apparently sated and sleeping. There were not only Gamgee children, but Tooks and Brandybucks as well, and many toys and the remains of a large picnic covered the floor. This gave Aragorn the feeling that Rosie, ever fastidious, must not be home. His eyes wandered the rest of the room, and soon fell upon those he had expected to see.
Merry, Pippin and Sam were also sound asleep, resting, it seemed, from a long day of playing with the children. They occupied an armchair, a cushion on the floor, and a sofa, respectively. Each looked exhausted. Aragorn shook his head in sympathy; there had to be sixteen children in that room.
“I must visit the Shire,” he muttered to himself, turning from that restful scene. “May it last forever unwithered.”
He came down from the tower singing that evening, and the pages knew that whatever the problem had been earlier, all was now well.

Author's Note: A bit of a change in tone tonight!

Flames.

They think that I do not know. My father went mad and burned himself to death on a pyre. They think that I do not remember lying there, burning with fever, knowing that he was going to kill me at last. Sometimes, late at night when I am alone, I look into the fire’s dancing flames and here his voice. “You will not take my son from me!” It is too late, though, isn’t it, Father? You yourself sent me away, years ago. The hobbit, Pippin, avoids talking about it, but I know it was he who saved my life, and for that, I am forever in his debt.
And yet, I cannot bear to look into the flames.

A/N: Almost triple drabble, written sometime last year.

Midnight Visitors

“Frodo! Gollum’s under my bed!”
Frodo groaned and opened his eyes. He had wondered whether or not the tale of Gollum was too scary for Pippin, who was, after all, only nine. Bilbo had told him anyway, and Pippin had been fascinated. That had been during the day. Now it was the middle of the night, and Pippin sounded absolutely terrified.
“Pippin, lad, Gollum is probably long dead by now,” Frodo replied, trying to sound soothing. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Pippin was silent for a moment, contemplating this. If Frodo said that there was nothing the matter, than that was probably true. Still…
“Can I sleep with you, please, Frodo?” he asked.
Frodo sighed, but nodded. “Yes, of course, Pip. But don’t steal all of the blankets, and don’t poke me with your elbows!”
Pippin paused from his work of burrowing under Frodo’s blankets. “When have I ever poked you with my elbows, Frodo?” he asked.
Frodo rolled his eyes and put his arm around his cousin. “Only every time you share a bed with me. Now go to sleep!” he commanded, smiling.
Pippin giggled a little and did as he was told. “G’night, Frodo,” he whispered. “Thanks for protecting me.”
“Any time, Pip,” Frodo replied.
Pippin drifted off, and Frodo allowed himself to drowse again. He was almost asleep when another soft voice, that of Merry, broke into his thoughts.
“Frodo! Gollum’s under my bed!”
The End.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, and I’ll put them back safely when I’m done.
Whispers in the Dark
By Elendiari

“Merry?”
Merry groaned and opened his eyes. Luminous green ones peered back at him, almost touching his face, and the young hobbit jumped before recognizing just whom they belonged to.
“Pippin!” he said, managing to moan and grumble at the same time. “What are you doing out of bed?”
Pippin, ignoring the sound of his older cousin’s annoyance, climbed up into Merry’s warm bed, and Merry, as always, moved over to make room for him.
“I’m worried about Frodo,” Pippin said. “Do you think he’ll get back to Hobbiton safely in all this rain?”
“Yes, Pip,” Merry said. “Most likely, he’s curled up nice and cozy in an inn somewhere, dreaming about elves and new books. You don’t have to worry. Go to sleep.”
Pippin nodded and curled up against his cousin. Outside, lightning flashed and thunder roared, but inside Brandy Hall, the two hobbits lay curled up, asleep and warm.
Not ten miles away, Frodo Baggins, only twenty eight years old, lay wrapped in a big blanket in the Merry Widow Inn, dreaming of summer and dancing on the banks of the Brandywine with his parents in the sunshine. A small, happy smile graced his face.

Rivendell Tales

“But what happened next? How did the prince escape?”
Elrond hesitated, at a loss as to how to appease Estel. “Well,” he said at last, “Why don’t you tell me?”
Estel’s little face lit up with a huge grin. “I think that he was a brave prince, who was just a little foolish, and he went and had all sorts of adventures!”
“What was his name?” Elrond temporized.
Estel frowned, one hand cupped on his cheek. “Well, he was a great man, and he did many fabulous things. He was good at everything, like you. I think…I’ll call him Lancelot.”

Estella leaned against the doorframe and rolled her eyes. Merry was telling the children a bedtime story, and as usual, it had turned into theatrics.
“And Lady Eowyn was what?”
“The greatest dragon slayer in history!” shrieked Rory, bouncing on the bed.
“Yes! And what did she eat to help her slay the dragons?”
“Vegetables!” screamed the children, and Merry waved the wooden sword around gleefully.
“Yes! And then she would sneak slowly and silently into the dragon’s lair, and as the dragon breathed fire at her, she ducked and stabbed him. Like this!”
Screams and laughter ensued as Merry pretended to be both the dragon and Lady Eowyn. Estella rolled her eyes and wondered what the lady would think if she knew she had become a dragon slayer.